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The Ardick Campaign - Chapter One: Repentance
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<blockquote data-quote="Angel of Adventure" data-source="post: 2241185" data-attributes="member: 19165"><p><strong>The Wilted Lands of Zackef, Pt. I - Harris</strong></p><p></p><p>Hey everyone. Thanks for reading so far and hope you are finding things interesting. This post here ends the first game of our campaign. I didn't think it would take so long to write it out, but I'm glad its done and we can get into some good action soon. We are scheduled to take a break while Mhoram's PC runs his game for a bit. I'm looking forward to taking a break, playin' instead of DMin', and (just maybe) catching up on the story hour. </p><p></p><p>Later,</p><p></p><p>AoA</p><p></p><p>***********************************</p><p></p><p>The Travelers looked at the wretched man before them, taking in his withering form and broken psyche.</p><p></p><p>“Heeeeeeeeeellllllssss Weeeed!,” he whispered forcefully, poking Mhoram with his cupped hand.</p><p></p><p>“We do not have any,” replied Mhoram as he gently moved the hand away. He lifted his head in haste and he gazed all around. Someone was watching them. He could feel their eyes upon him.</p><p></p><p>“We are being watched,” Mhoram alerted them. “Be ready!”</p><p></p><p>“Over there!,” shouted Gherrick, pointing his finger to a small, burnt structure a hundred yards ahead. There was a man, halfway out the door, who noticed them immediately. He retreated immediately, slamming the door behind him.</p><p></p><p>They flew into motion, reciting incantations and drawing their weapons. Again, Darsint charged ahead with Simon, then Mhoram and H.A.L., followed by Gherrick drawing up the rear. A single blow from Darsint’s metal fist busted the door into a thousand pieces.</p><p></p><p>Inside the squalid room was the man they saw, hurriedly slamming a trap door in the far corner. Darsint reduced this one into many splintered shards and grabbed his quarry in a tight grip. One pull from his arm sent him flying through the air, hitting the ceiling and collapsing at their feet. Below, Darsint saw two small forms scurrying away from him.</p><p></p><p>“Please! Do not hurt us! We are innocent prisoners of Zacknef. We do not do anything that would harm him or his minions!”</p><p></p><p>Darsint looked over his shoulder and saw the man slowly rising to his knees. He was nearly as gaunt as the gentleman they encountered earlier, but his speech was clear and his chiseled face looked completely sober. </p><p></p><p>“Do not fear us, my child,” whispered Simon, “for I can feel the Good in you. We are not minions of this Zacknef and you will not feel his reprisals so long as we are with you. Tell me, are there others with you? If so, have them come out and join us. We would not want to be strangers to them in their own home.”</p><p></p><p>Darsint and Mhoram’s eyes met in a look of mutual disdain at Simon’s words. He had not only given away their identities, but also made promises on their behalf. Important leverage was lost.</p><p></p><p>Mhoram helped the man stand and gazed upon him. Though not in great health, he did have a bit more fat on him than the other one. He stood before them now, pushing his dirty-blond hair out of his face, and gazing uneasily upon them. He appeared as though he should be in the prime of his life, if not for the uncompromising conditions of the land. “My name is Mhoram, and the Angel before you is Saint Simon. These others here are Darsint, Gherrick, and H.A.L..”</p><p></p><p>“I . . . my name is Harris, and my daughters are below. Julia is the older, and Mylee is the younger. Girls, please come up! Our . . . visitors mean us no ill-will.” He gazed nervously around at ushered them to a small, fractured table with three teetering chairs. Mhoram and Gherrick sat down, as did Harris after his daughters joined them.</p><p></p><p>“It is a great honor to have you in our house, fair Angel and friends. I wish I could offer you something to soothe you, as you have the look of ones who have been traveling for many days.”</p><p></p><p>“Your hospitality is appreciated,” replied Mhoram. “Indeed, it has taken us several days to reach you, and the path was grim. Please, tell us of yourself, and this misery that surrounds us. We are strangers here, as you may have guessed.”</p><p></p><p>“Oh . . . where to begin? Yes, this is a miserable land, full of suffering and addiction. I saw you speaking to Jerome before you broke down my door. He, like all the others, save myself and my daughters, is hopelessly addicted to Hell’s Weed; a product of Zacknef’s cruel machinations. It keeps them docile, though for what purpose I do not know.”</p><p></p><p>“Why are you not addicted?,” interrupted Darsint. “Why are you and your kin unaffected by this stupor?” He could not remember ever being intoxicated since his transformation and found it hard to relate to such a weakness.</p><p></p><p>“I don’t know . . . I just am. It is more of curse for me, if you can believe that. When I was around Mylee’s age I developed a reaction to it. For some reason, I could no longer properly digest it. I would eat it and, shortly thereafter, I became violently ill. I say this is a curse because I cannot sustain myself on the horrible vegetation around us without aid. It seems as though Hell’s Weed alters your digestion so that one can exist on such wilted plants.”</p><p></p><p>“Is there food nearby?,” asked Simon. “You must get sustenance from something else besides the vegetation around us.”</p><p></p><p>“Well, yes . . . and no. I will show you how we survive after the sun fully sets.”</p><p></p><p>***************</p><p></p><p>Gherrick paced back and forth within the small distillery, anxious to talk with his companions, but hesitant to interrupt Harris. Gherrick’s head was spinning with the knowledge of Harris’ life on Ardick, in what he had termed “The Wilted Lands of Zacknef”, and when their lives would eroded into a similarly squalid existence. </p><p></p><p>Harris scratched and clawed his way through each day since becoming allergic to Hell’s Weed during puberty. Every day, day after day, he would be approached by Zacknef’s followers to take it, and every day he would do so in order to avoid their suspicions. He suspected others were ‘afflicted’ like him, but could only confirm this incidentally, until Julia and Mylee came along. Their mother died at Mylee’s birth, and both daughters gained their resistance shortly after learning to walk. </p><p></p><p>Harris found the underground lab, where they currently rested, during a desperate search to leave Zacknef’s lands. It was several miles from his encampment and finding it was a stroke of luck beyond his highest hopes. The equipment therein was basic in nature and easily discernable in function. Someone else had left a vial of reduced, molded plant matter in a beaker that Harris ate it in desperation. He survived and returned every night to cook again, only to submit himself and his daughters to the sickening tortures of the Hell’s Weed and Zacknef’s minions.</p><p></p><p>“It is a miserably life that we lead here,” Harris told them. “There is so much despair that I sometimes wish my daughters and I were afflicted like the others. We would just melt the days away and never know our prison. Yet, after I found this place, I made a promise to myself and those around me that I would find a way to rid us of Zacknef’s grip and free us to our own destiny. This is why I continue, as well as for the safety of my two daughters. I would have them know freedom one day, even if it when they are old and grey. Surely, you all can see our pain. Will you not aid us?”</p><p></p><p>“We will help you,” answered Simon. “You need not fear any longer, my son, and your daughters shall have their freedom well before the winter of their lives.”</p><p></p><p>“You do not speak for all of us, Simon,” growled Darsint. He did not want to upset the balance of things, no matter how good the reason, until he knew the consequences of their actions. “We shall discuss this amongst ourselves, not including you and Harris.”</p><p></p><p>“Very well, but you do have mine,” rebuked Saint Simon. “I shall help you even if these others won’t.”</p><p></p><p>Mhoram touched the foreheads of Darsint, Gherrick, and H.A.L. with his metal hands and utterred the incantation that linked their minds together.</p><p></p><p>[Darsint]: This Angel bothers me, Mhoram. He speaks for us when he should not and I want to know more about this Zacknef before we make any decisions.</p><p>[Mhoram]: Yes, I agree, but let’s not be too hasty as to simply turn away from them. The suffering inflicted upon these people is truly evil and must be ended. Yet, I feel that we are being pushed into this confrontation . . . as if it were looming before us ever since our arrival here. I don’t like being pushed and prodded anymore than you two.</p><p>[Darsint]: What if Zacknef knows about us? We will want him alive to ask him our questions.</p><p>[Gherrick]: I don’t think an evil entity such as Zacknef is likely to surrender such information. We will probably have to take it by force and get our questions answered later. </p><p>[Darsint]: Let’s be clear! I am for whatever course of action yields us answers, but we need to do so cautiously. We do not owe these people anything, or vice versa.</p><p>[Mhoram]: We cannot allow Simon to go by himself. He is our only means of being brought back from total destruction and surely he will go off on his own if we let him. He seems very rigid in his thinking.</p><p>[Darsint]: I see your point in that. Very well, we shall tell Harris that we will aid him, though it is none of our concern what happens after this Zacknef is cast down.</p><p></p><p>“Why are you all staring at each other?,” asked Harris.</p><p></p><p>“Never you mind,” replied Darsint. “Now, tell us Harris, what type of creature is Zacknef?”</p><p></p><p>“I do not know. He’s never appeared before us. His minions come everyday, when the sun is at its highest point, and they appear as humans to us. Once, though, as they were leaving, I thought I saw one turn into a bird-man. He was covered in black feathers, but he disappeared quickly behind a building.”</p><p></p><p>“Where does Zacknef dwell? Can you take us to him?”</p><p></p><p>“Yes, I can show you where his tower is. I have never been there . . . I’ve only seen it from afar. Oh, and one more thing, if you are sure you will go. I’ve tried to find a cure for us but I am missing the correct components. Everything around here has been tried. Perhaps, and I don’t know why I feel this, I need something from Zacknef’s realm. Maybe one of Zacknef’s followers is the key to all of this. I don’t know . . . but try to bring one his more powerful minions to me, dead of course, and I will do everything I can to find us a cure.”</p><p></p><p>*********</p><p></p><p>They journeyed to just outside Zacknef’s tower in the early morning. Harris pointed them in the right direction and off they went. Their search did not take long.</p><p></p><p>Zacknef’s tower loomed above the flattened, cracked, and wilted surroundings like a giant weed. The tower rose before them, nearly beyond the edge of their vision, crafted out of a black stone, or metal, that was deeply set with light blue veins. Its base was surrounded by large walls that were shaped into an octagon and top was covered by a small, black dome. The tower was larger at the base than at its top, significantly so, and the dome was supported by large pillars that allowed for some room for enterance. The tower, as far as they could see, was windowless.</p><p></p><p>The Travelers sat in silence, unsure of what to discuss terms of strategy or technique. The sun would rise, hopefully emptying Zacknef’s tower, and they would assault it. Mhoram gave Saint Simon his greatsword, leaving only his staff as his telekinetic weapon. The staff would do, but Mhoram preferred sharper instruments to complement his delicate touch.</p><p></p><p>This is not right, thought Mhoram. We chose this conflict, yet it seemingly chose us. I do not like the reciprocity here! It makes me feel as though Zacknef is waiting for us, as though he wants us to come. We have poor intelligence, little to no plans or time to prepare, and we have barely fought together in this new realm. We risk so much, and for what? Yes, we will help Harris and his brood, but will we help ourselves? How many of us will be left to help once this is over with?</p><p></p><p>Mhoram wouldn’t have minded more time to think and reflect on the past few days. Surely, with his keen intellect, more could be discerned if he had enough time. Yet, before their very eyes, the sun streaked from the horizon behind them to the very top of the sky.</p><p></p><p>“It is time,” stated Saint Simon. “Time for Zacknef to taste the pure might of our righteousness.” He drew his sword and ascended whilst casting his protective spells.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Angel of Adventure, post: 2241185, member: 19165"] [b]The Wilted Lands of Zackef, Pt. I - Harris[/b] Hey everyone. Thanks for reading so far and hope you are finding things interesting. This post here ends the first game of our campaign. I didn't think it would take so long to write it out, but I'm glad its done and we can get into some good action soon. We are scheduled to take a break while Mhoram's PC runs his game for a bit. I'm looking forward to taking a break, playin' instead of DMin', and (just maybe) catching up on the story hour. Later, AoA *********************************** The Travelers looked at the wretched man before them, taking in his withering form and broken psyche. “Heeeeeeeeeellllllssss Weeeed!,” he whispered forcefully, poking Mhoram with his cupped hand. “We do not have any,” replied Mhoram as he gently moved the hand away. He lifted his head in haste and he gazed all around. Someone was watching them. He could feel their eyes upon him. “We are being watched,” Mhoram alerted them. “Be ready!” “Over there!,” shouted Gherrick, pointing his finger to a small, burnt structure a hundred yards ahead. There was a man, halfway out the door, who noticed them immediately. He retreated immediately, slamming the door behind him. They flew into motion, reciting incantations and drawing their weapons. Again, Darsint charged ahead with Simon, then Mhoram and H.A.L., followed by Gherrick drawing up the rear. A single blow from Darsint’s metal fist busted the door into a thousand pieces. Inside the squalid room was the man they saw, hurriedly slamming a trap door in the far corner. Darsint reduced this one into many splintered shards and grabbed his quarry in a tight grip. One pull from his arm sent him flying through the air, hitting the ceiling and collapsing at their feet. Below, Darsint saw two small forms scurrying away from him. “Please! Do not hurt us! We are innocent prisoners of Zacknef. We do not do anything that would harm him or his minions!” Darsint looked over his shoulder and saw the man slowly rising to his knees. He was nearly as gaunt as the gentleman they encountered earlier, but his speech was clear and his chiseled face looked completely sober. “Do not fear us, my child,” whispered Simon, “for I can feel the Good in you. We are not minions of this Zacknef and you will not feel his reprisals so long as we are with you. Tell me, are there others with you? If so, have them come out and join us. We would not want to be strangers to them in their own home.” Darsint and Mhoram’s eyes met in a look of mutual disdain at Simon’s words. He had not only given away their identities, but also made promises on their behalf. Important leverage was lost. Mhoram helped the man stand and gazed upon him. Though not in great health, he did have a bit more fat on him than the other one. He stood before them now, pushing his dirty-blond hair out of his face, and gazing uneasily upon them. He appeared as though he should be in the prime of his life, if not for the uncompromising conditions of the land. “My name is Mhoram, and the Angel before you is Saint Simon. These others here are Darsint, Gherrick, and H.A.L..” “I . . . my name is Harris, and my daughters are below. Julia is the older, and Mylee is the younger. Girls, please come up! Our . . . visitors mean us no ill-will.” He gazed nervously around at ushered them to a small, fractured table with three teetering chairs. Mhoram and Gherrick sat down, as did Harris after his daughters joined them. “It is a great honor to have you in our house, fair Angel and friends. I wish I could offer you something to soothe you, as you have the look of ones who have been traveling for many days.” “Your hospitality is appreciated,” replied Mhoram. “Indeed, it has taken us several days to reach you, and the path was grim. Please, tell us of yourself, and this misery that surrounds us. We are strangers here, as you may have guessed.” “Oh . . . where to begin? Yes, this is a miserable land, full of suffering and addiction. I saw you speaking to Jerome before you broke down my door. He, like all the others, save myself and my daughters, is hopelessly addicted to Hell’s Weed; a product of Zacknef’s cruel machinations. It keeps them docile, though for what purpose I do not know.” “Why are you not addicted?,” interrupted Darsint. “Why are you and your kin unaffected by this stupor?” He could not remember ever being intoxicated since his transformation and found it hard to relate to such a weakness. “I don’t know . . . I just am. It is more of curse for me, if you can believe that. When I was around Mylee’s age I developed a reaction to it. For some reason, I could no longer properly digest it. I would eat it and, shortly thereafter, I became violently ill. I say this is a curse because I cannot sustain myself on the horrible vegetation around us without aid. It seems as though Hell’s Weed alters your digestion so that one can exist on such wilted plants.” “Is there food nearby?,” asked Simon. “You must get sustenance from something else besides the vegetation around us.” “Well, yes . . . and no. I will show you how we survive after the sun fully sets.” *************** Gherrick paced back and forth within the small distillery, anxious to talk with his companions, but hesitant to interrupt Harris. Gherrick’s head was spinning with the knowledge of Harris’ life on Ardick, in what he had termed “The Wilted Lands of Zacknef”, and when their lives would eroded into a similarly squalid existence. Harris scratched and clawed his way through each day since becoming allergic to Hell’s Weed during puberty. Every day, day after day, he would be approached by Zacknef’s followers to take it, and every day he would do so in order to avoid their suspicions. He suspected others were ‘afflicted’ like him, but could only confirm this incidentally, until Julia and Mylee came along. Their mother died at Mylee’s birth, and both daughters gained their resistance shortly after learning to walk. Harris found the underground lab, where they currently rested, during a desperate search to leave Zacknef’s lands. It was several miles from his encampment and finding it was a stroke of luck beyond his highest hopes. The equipment therein was basic in nature and easily discernable in function. Someone else had left a vial of reduced, molded plant matter in a beaker that Harris ate it in desperation. He survived and returned every night to cook again, only to submit himself and his daughters to the sickening tortures of the Hell’s Weed and Zacknef’s minions. “It is a miserably life that we lead here,” Harris told them. “There is so much despair that I sometimes wish my daughters and I were afflicted like the others. We would just melt the days away and never know our prison. Yet, after I found this place, I made a promise to myself and those around me that I would find a way to rid us of Zacknef’s grip and free us to our own destiny. This is why I continue, as well as for the safety of my two daughters. I would have them know freedom one day, even if it when they are old and grey. Surely, you all can see our pain. Will you not aid us?” “We will help you,” answered Simon. “You need not fear any longer, my son, and your daughters shall have their freedom well before the winter of their lives.” “You do not speak for all of us, Simon,” growled Darsint. He did not want to upset the balance of things, no matter how good the reason, until he knew the consequences of their actions. “We shall discuss this amongst ourselves, not including you and Harris.” “Very well, but you do have mine,” rebuked Saint Simon. “I shall help you even if these others won’t.” Mhoram touched the foreheads of Darsint, Gherrick, and H.A.L. with his metal hands and utterred the incantation that linked their minds together. [Darsint]: This Angel bothers me, Mhoram. He speaks for us when he should not and I want to know more about this Zacknef before we make any decisions. [Mhoram]: Yes, I agree, but let’s not be too hasty as to simply turn away from them. The suffering inflicted upon these people is truly evil and must be ended. Yet, I feel that we are being pushed into this confrontation . . . as if it were looming before us ever since our arrival here. I don’t like being pushed and prodded anymore than you two. [Darsint]: What if Zacknef knows about us? We will want him alive to ask him our questions. [Gherrick]: I don’t think an evil entity such as Zacknef is likely to surrender such information. We will probably have to take it by force and get our questions answered later. [Darsint]: Let’s be clear! I am for whatever course of action yields us answers, but we need to do so cautiously. We do not owe these people anything, or vice versa. [Mhoram]: We cannot allow Simon to go by himself. He is our only means of being brought back from total destruction and surely he will go off on his own if we let him. He seems very rigid in his thinking. [Darsint]: I see your point in that. Very well, we shall tell Harris that we will aid him, though it is none of our concern what happens after this Zacknef is cast down. “Why are you all staring at each other?,” asked Harris. “Never you mind,” replied Darsint. “Now, tell us Harris, what type of creature is Zacknef?” “I do not know. He’s never appeared before us. His minions come everyday, when the sun is at its highest point, and they appear as humans to us. Once, though, as they were leaving, I thought I saw one turn into a bird-man. He was covered in black feathers, but he disappeared quickly behind a building.” “Where does Zacknef dwell? Can you take us to him?” “Yes, I can show you where his tower is. I have never been there . . . I’ve only seen it from afar. Oh, and one more thing, if you are sure you will go. I’ve tried to find a cure for us but I am missing the correct components. Everything around here has been tried. Perhaps, and I don’t know why I feel this, I need something from Zacknef’s realm. Maybe one of Zacknef’s followers is the key to all of this. I don’t know . . . but try to bring one his more powerful minions to me, dead of course, and I will do everything I can to find us a cure.” ********* They journeyed to just outside Zacknef’s tower in the early morning. Harris pointed them in the right direction and off they went. Their search did not take long. Zacknef’s tower loomed above the flattened, cracked, and wilted surroundings like a giant weed. The tower rose before them, nearly beyond the edge of their vision, crafted out of a black stone, or metal, that was deeply set with light blue veins. Its base was surrounded by large walls that were shaped into an octagon and top was covered by a small, black dome. The tower was larger at the base than at its top, significantly so, and the dome was supported by large pillars that allowed for some room for enterance. The tower, as far as they could see, was windowless. The Travelers sat in silence, unsure of what to discuss terms of strategy or technique. The sun would rise, hopefully emptying Zacknef’s tower, and they would assault it. Mhoram gave Saint Simon his greatsword, leaving only his staff as his telekinetic weapon. The staff would do, but Mhoram preferred sharper instruments to complement his delicate touch. This is not right, thought Mhoram. We chose this conflict, yet it seemingly chose us. I do not like the reciprocity here! It makes me feel as though Zacknef is waiting for us, as though he wants us to come. We have poor intelligence, little to no plans or time to prepare, and we have barely fought together in this new realm. We risk so much, and for what? Yes, we will help Harris and his brood, but will we help ourselves? How many of us will be left to help once this is over with? Mhoram wouldn’t have minded more time to think and reflect on the past few days. Surely, with his keen intellect, more could be discerned if he had enough time. Yet, before their very eyes, the sun streaked from the horizon behind them to the very top of the sky. “It is time,” stated Saint Simon. “Time for Zacknef to taste the pure might of our righteousness.” He drew his sword and ascended whilst casting his protective spells. [/QUOTE]
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