The Talismans of Aerdrim

[Ladybird]

Thanks! I'm also looking forward to reaching the bit where you joined the party -- sorry it's taking so long, but I wanted to add enough detail to give people who weren't in the campaign a sense of the characters' development. Ladybird, we'll get to you sometime before 2011, I promise.

It's OK! I, like Ori, am having a wonderful time seeing what happened before I joined up, and seeing what all the PCs and NPCs were like before I met them.

And I'm looking forward to seeing how everyone out there EN-World reacts to some of the stuff that happens between now and then

 

[havenstone]

Everything Falls Apart

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, a cheerful Atrix invites Carwyn along to his regular sparring match with Lucian. Carwyn, never averse to watching attractive men hit each other with sticks, accepts at once. They head out to a remote field at the edge of the Guardwatch valley, just out of sight of the main camp. The sky is heavily overcast, but Atrix is pretty sure the main rain will hold off until after they’ve had a good practice.

Chatting to each other, neither Atrix nor Carwyn notice the men shadowing them through the long grass. Only when they arrive at the empty practice ground does the hair rise on the back of Atrix’s neck – and he barely has time to draw his saber and dagger before a tall, pale figure strides over the brow of the rise. “Atrix d’Loriad,” Shect greets him coldly.

“Run, Carwyn!” Atrix breathes, and Carwyn sprints away, dodging and tumbling past the four swordsmen who have sprung up from the grass around them. She takes a wound in her side, but it hardly slows her down as she dashes back toward the camp.

“Let her go!” Shect calls to his men, who return to their circle around Atrix. The livid scars on the Swordsmark's cheeks crease as he smiles. “It’s been a long chase, boy, but it was always going to end like this. Did you really think you could throw me off by orchestrating your death?”

“That had nothing to do with you, actually,” Atrix says, keeping his voice casual. “Why do you need all these men, Swordsmark? Afraid to take me on yourself?”

“If I were here to kill you, I would have come alone,” Shect states emotionlessly. “You and your friends have started down the road to Scarth, boy. There are two ways that road can end for you. I can see the same potential in you that the traitor Kemeras saw. With the training you’ll get in Scarth Tower, you could rise to be my equal with a sword. But we can not allow any who are not of the Tower to carry our secrets. So. Either you come with us willingly, or we take you against your will... or you can die here, with what little training you got from Kemeras.”

Atrix pauses thoughtfully, then says, “No, I think I’ll just kill you instead,” as his sword flickers toward Shect’s throat. Shect ducks away, his own blades flying up to block Atrix’s, and their duel is on.

RUNNING FASTER THAN she has in her life, Carwyn reaches the camp and discovers Ontaya, who was riding out to a practice bout with her squires. Carwyn screams, “Shect!” and points frantically back the way she’s come. Ontaya nods without speaking and spurs Dorma into a gallop. Several tents away, Darren also hears Carwyn’s voice and runs over to where Cannedun has just finished re-shoeing a horse. “I need to borrow this,” he says urgently. Leaping onto the horse, trying not to betray his wobbling inexperience as a rider, he charges off in the direction of the alarm cry.

Meanwhile, Nina and Agerain are returning from a ride through the grasslands, and see from a distance Dorma racing westward. Agerain peers at the dust cloud, intrigued. “Isn’t that Ontaya of the d’Orbis?”

Nina pauses for as long as he plausibly can before saying, “No – no, it’s just one of the d’Orbis knights.”

“You’re blind, Anseron,” Agerain says with savage good cheer. “Don’t you recognize that grand white plow-horse of hers? Let’s see where she’s off to in such a hurry.” Nina protests, desperate to keep Agerain away from his friends, but the young d’Aramant ignores him and charges after Ontaya.

Back at the practice field, Atrix is fighting defensively but losing ground. He has managed to graze Shect a few times, but the scar-faced Enforcer of Scarth is hitting back with ease and precision, clearly intending to bleed Atrix to the point of collapse. In desperation, Atrix lunges in and succeeds in stabbing Shect between the ribs. He over-extends himself, however, and the pale swordmaster counters with a devastatingly powerful blow that breaks Atrix’s sword. An ashen-faced Atrix fails to parry Shect’s next attack, which drops him to his knees, barely clinging to consciousness.

“It’s over, boy,” the Swordsmark growls. “Don’t make us kill you.”

Atrix spends his last strength lurching forward, thrusting his parrying dagger into Shect’s gut, and springing the hidden prongs. An enraged, agonized Shect runs his sword into Atrix’s heart. The young d’Loriad slides limply to the ground.

A MINUTE LATER, Shect and his men hear the rumble of Dorma’s approaching hooves. The swordsmen nervously turn toward the source of the sound, while Shect begins sprinting toward his own horse, tethered behind the rise. Ontaya thunders into view, recognizes the fleeing Swordsmark, and grimly spurs Dorma into direct pursuit. Howling, Shect attempts to dodge the oncoming warhorse and strike out at her rider, but his wounds have slowed him down too much, and Dorma tramples the Enforcer of Scarth into the mud.

Agerain and Nina ride into the vale seconds afterward and are attacked by Shect’s desperate henchmen. The d’Aramants make quick work of them, with Darren riding into view just in time to brain the last escaping swordsman with his club. Agerain canters up to the body of the dead mercenary in the middle of the melee and gives it a quick glance – then looks again, confusion and realization warring on his face. “Wha... Atrix? Atrix d’Loriad?”

Darren’s face collapses as he recognizes his fallen friend; from a distance, he can’t tell whether Atrix is dead or just unconscious. Fifty yards away, Ontaya looks up in shock from her inspection of Shect’s broken body. All the little details surrounding Atrix’s duel in Lynar that have been troubling her now fall into place. Anger bubbles up inside Ontaya at the thought that most of her friends helped to manipulate her into a situation where she unknowingly gave false witness. Glowering, she leaps back into Dorma’s saddle. Nina sees this and desperately calls, “Agerain, there might be more of them – let’s get back and report this.”

Still ignoring Nina, Agerain jumps down to the ground, teeth bared. “This... this d’Loriad cretin faked his death? To humiliate my Family?” Cursing, he draws his sword and vehemently, repeatedly stabs Atrix’s corpse. Nina can feel the whole web of deception starting to unravel around them. Ontaya angrily spurs Dorma back toward the field, prepared to seize Agerain and denounce him before their Families for desecrating the body of a Senalline noble.

Unfortunately, Darren has also been riding in, hoping to save Atrix, and he’s horrified to see Agerain snuff out whatever life might have remained in his friend. Overwhelmed by grief, the dwarrow-trained tinker gallops in and smashes his club into Agerain’s skull. It is, of course, a high crime for a commoner to assault a member of the Five Families in this fashion. Agerain’s head snaps forward and he slumps to the ground. Believing he’s killed the young d’Aramant, Darren gallops away.

Nina leaps from the saddle, his horror already turning to resignation as he mentally flips through all the possible outcomes from this catastrophe. He can think of almost none that don’t involve Darren being executed, serious consequences for everyone involved in Atrix’s ‘death,’ and a high likelihood of his own exposure. Checking Agerain’s pulse, he finds him still alive. With only a second to decide, Nina goes for what he sees as the sole remaining possibility of keeping the whole sordid story from coming out. Coolly, deliberately, he slits Agerain’s throat. With his friend’s lifeblood covering his hands, he remounts and bolts off in the opposite direction to Darren.

Ontaya reins Dorma in sharply, aghast at having just witnessed her two fleeing friends inexcusably commit treason and murder. “Ain blast you both, I can’t lie about this!” she roars after them. “I won’t lie for you!” They vanish over the horizon. Still stunned, Ontaya dismounts and confirms that Agerain is dead. After a moment’s consideration, she leaves both Agerain and Atrix where they have fallen. Then she dully mounts Dorma and rides back to camp, returning just before the evening cordon goes up, to report the debacle.

 

[Orichalcum]

Well, that could have gone better...did Lucian ever show up?

Poor Ontaya...it really isn't her fault things got so messy.

And yeah - no worries, I'm loving hearing more about this section of the game. I do think you're right that you figured out how to give the PCs more agency over time, though. Most of the plot stuff here seems to be in reaction to GM stimuli...although, to be fair, whenever the PCs (cough Atrix cough) try to be proactive, it just seems to get them in trouble!

 

[havenstone]

Hiding Atrix

DARREN RIDES STRAIGHT for the merchant camp. Along the way he passes Lucian, who is heading to his planned sparring practice with Atrix. Darren waves him frantically away, not pausing to explain. Minutes later, he dismounts at the Perigords’ tent, his legs shaking. Kay sees the dirt and blood and tears on his face, and immediately brings him inside. “Darren – have some water, sit down. What’s happened?”

“Kay...” Darren falters, despair cracking his voice. “It’s Atrix. They’ve killed him, Kay. This time, it’s real.”

All the blood drains from Kay’s face, but her voice remains steady. “Who did this?”

“The Swordsmark who’s been following us, and Agerain d’Aramant. Ontaya got there and killed the Swordsmark, but not before Agerain showed up. He recognized Atrix and stabbed him over and over.” Darren shudders. “I couldn’t help myself, I attacked Agerain. I think I killed him. And we can’t keep any of it a secret, Ontaya was witness.”

“Where is Atrix’s body now?” Kay asks sharply.

“Still there, as far as I know.”

Kay looks up at the sky, where a feeble sunset is barely visible through the massive thunderheads. “We need to get him back before the d’Aramants investigate the area. Can you lead me back there?”

The two of them creep past the cordon of guards and return to the afternoon’s battlefield. The only sound is the flapping and cawing of scores of crows, almost invisible in the evening dark, who have arrived to feed on the bodies. Darren sees two faintly shining lines course down Kay’s cheeks when they discover Atrix’s abused form, but she makes no sound as they chase away the indignant crows and struggle to carry the body away. They leave his broken saber where it fell. Minutes after they steal away, they see and hear a string of torch-bearing figures marching through the grasslands toward the scene of the crime; the investigation of Agerain’s murder is clearly underway. Tears are still streaming silently down Kay’s face an hour later, when they smuggle Atrix’s corpse back through the cordon. “Where can we hide him?” she whispers. “My father and uncle have nowhere that’s truly safe from search.”

“Inside Guardwatch,” Darren offers desperately, recalling his brief excursion into the castle with Cannedun to attend to the knights’ gear (and find out roughly where Calla’s quarters were). “There should be other new bodies there, in the headsman’s court – thieves and killers from the camp, executed yesterday when the Senalline commanders arrived. When the time is right, we can get Atrix back for burial.”

“Yes – for burial,” Kay says, voice numb and trembling. The dim, dappled glow of the moons behind the thick clouds vanishes as the rains finally break. Darren and Kay are thoroughly drenched by the time they get Atrix’s remains to the foot of the great fortress wall. During a thunderclap, Darren hurls a grapple to an unguarded battlement, then looks back at Kay. “Tie him to this rope. I’ll climb up and rig some sort of pulley so I can haul him up after me. Then you need to get back to your father’s tent and let him and Porphyry know what’s happened. I’ll hide the body and find my own way out.”

Kay throws her arms around him, and he can feel the pent-up sobs shuddering through her whole body. “Darren... I don’t know what to do.”

“We’re doing all we can,” Darren breathes. “Kay, we have to hurry.”

She shakes her head, whispers, “Be safe,” and lets go of him. Darren scrambles up the wet stone and manages slowly to drag Atrix’s limp form up the wall. He can hear shouts and clashing steel inside the fortress, and can imagine the clashes between d’Loriads and d’Aramants that must be underway; the guards who might normally have been on the walls are down dealing with the fracas. Arms and back aching, Darren lowers Atrix to the headman’s court. As he slides down the line after his dead friend, he hears loud voices approaching. With no time for hesitation, Darren hits the ground, cuts the rope, grabs Atrix’s body, and rolls for the stinking lime-pit where the beheaded men were tossed. He pushes Atrix’s head under one of the corpses, then valiantly forces himself to follow suit.

Half-smothered and fighting the urge to vomit or howl, Darren hears the rapid footfalls and shouts of a gang of d’Aramants. “There’s a rope there – has someone gone up the wall?” The young lords run around the lime-pit, sparing the headless criminals at the bottom only a cursory glance. They shake the rope and call for someone to head up to the battlements. Then they dash off in search of more d’Loriad prey. Darren shudders in silence for endless minutes until he’s sure they’re gone, then clambers frantically up out of the caustic pit. He tears off his shirt and tries to scrub himself clean in the downpour, casting an anxious eye up at the wall. Even if his arms could support him for another climb up the battlements, it’s too dangerous now. The only way out he can see is to sneak to the d’Loriad wing of the castle and hope that one of his friends there will protect him.

He makes it halfway through the d’Aramant wing before another rampaging band of nobles charges around a corner and spies him in the shadows. His feeble protests fall on deaf ears. “For Agerain!” they howl as they pummel him with their boots and the flats of their swords.

“I’m just a tinker,” Darren shouts. His leather jerkin provides only meager protection from the beating. “M’lords, have mercy, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

They squint at him. “You look familiar,” says one dubiously – Darren recognizes him with a sinking feeling as one of Calla’s cousins, who carried her away after the battle with the bandits.

“I’ve been in here repairing saddle tack and armor, m’lords,” Darren pleads. “You likely saw me then.”

The lordlings confer and decide to tie him up to await judgment from a family elder. Darren meekly offers them his wrists – managing by sleight of hand to conceal the small needle-shooter under his right sleeve. As he still smells terrible from his roll in the lime-pit, his captors aren’t inclined to search him too closely. As soon the d’Aramant gang runs off to fetch General Mercon, Darren twists down to retrieve a specially sharpened coin from his boot and saws painstakingly through his bonds. Battered to the point where another attack or fall will likely render him unconscious or dead, he scrambles out onto the rain-soaked rooftops and heads for the nearest place of refuge: the cluster of rooms where Calla and the other d’Aramant families have been housed.

As he climbs past a narrow stairwell window, Darren freezes when he hears General Athriam d’Aramant’s growl: “I didn’t just bring you here to hide in a box, sage. We need the power you’ve promised us. My young cousin is dead.”

His heart pounding, Darren sees the General walk past, followed by a gray-haired man who fits Ash’s description of Aleander the Sage. The old man says flatly, “What you ask is far beyond my abilities. You will need to speak to Astacius.” Then they disappear and Darren can hear no more.

TO HIS UNSPEAKABLE relief, Darren eventually spies Calla behind a casement, listening anxiously to the clamor outside her door. He makes his way onto a narrow ledge, shivering, and taps on her window; her face is ashen and drawn as she lets him in. “Shipboy – you’re hurt!”

“Lock the door,” he whispers, slumping against the wall. She does so, then hurries back with sweet-smelling balm and several of her scarves to tend to his wounds. “Did my cousins do this to you?” she murmurs, and begins crying when he nods. “Darren, what’s happening?”

“I’ve got to get away, Calla,” Darren says weakly, the words tumbling out of him. “I’m the reason for the fighting out there. I... I killed Agerain. I hit him in the head with my club. I had to stop him – he was murdering my friend. I’m so sorry. If they find out, they’ll kill me.”

“Ssssh,” Calla says, pressing a finger to his lips, her eyes wide and alarmed. “I... there’s a room where they won’t find you. I’ll see if the way is clear.” She unlocks the door and vanishes for several minutes. Darren drags himself limply into the shadows, hoping that no one will see him if they stick their heads into Calla’s room.

Calla returns and closes the door, smiling bravely. “It’s ready. Just rest here a moment longer.” She sits down beside him, her pulse pounding visibly in her throat. “Darren... you know that most of my Family thinks me odd and doesn’t pay much attention to what I do, except to mock me.”

Darren grips her arm. “If they only took the trouble to know you...”

Calla looks down at him, with tears welling in her eyes again. “But Cousin Agerain was different. He... he protected me from the others ever since I was a little girl. He always showed me affection. When I heard he was dead today...” Her anguished voice breaks. “Darren, he was the closest thing to a brother I’ve ever had.”

“Calla,” Darren breathes, heart-stricken. “Calla – I’m so sorry.”

She stands up. The door opens, and General Mercon walks in, with six other d’Aramants lining the corridor behind him.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned, boy,” Mercon says bleakly. “Throw him into an oubliette. We’ll bring him out if the others don’t tell us everything we need to know.”

“Calla!” Darren yells in disbelief as the young nobles drag him out of the room. The last thing he sees before the door swings closed is Calla falling onto her guardian’s shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

 

[havenstone]

I do think you're right that you figured out how to give the PCs more agency over time, though. Most of the plot stuff here seems to be in reaction to GM stimuli...although, to be fair, whenever the PCs (cough Atrix cough) try to be proactive, it just seems to get them in trouble!

Well, most of my favorite parts of the first season of the game emerged out of PC pro-activity, which woke me up a bit.

 

[havenstone]

Interrogations

ON HER RETURN to camp, Ontaya rides straight to Morgant, the knight to whom she is a squire, and asks him for an urgent audience with High General Sarquin d’Loriad. (They enter Guardwatch keep at about the same time that Kay and Darren set off to reclaim Atrix’s body). To Ontaya’s dismay, she finds Sarquin in conference with Mercon d’Aramant over a map of the plains. The two Generals look up as she enters. “Yes, squire Ontaya?” Sarquin greets her politely.

“I had hoped to speak privately with you, m’lord,” Ontaya says, standing at attention.

Sarquin looks likely to agree, but Mercon cuts in sharply, sensing Ontaya’s discomfort. “We are finalizing our battle plans against the Arawai. Can this not wait?”

“General, I believe it can not.” Ontaya is disconcerted to feel a strong twinge of her paladin sensitivity to evil, which makes her aware of cruelty, malice, selfishness, and murderousness like a stench or shadow. She is used to rather higher than normal levels among the self-seeking nobility of Senallin, but Mercon’s has surged disturbingly since the last time she saw him. More than before, she hopes she can get Sarquin away from him.

“What does it concern?” Mercon demands.

Inwardly, Ontaya groans. “A crime, General.” Seeing the question coming, she adds, “A murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“Your cousin, General – Agerain d’Aramant.”

Sarquin straightens in shock, and Mercon stalks over to Ontaya, his eyes ablaze but his voice level. “Explain at once.”

“This afternoon, just over the rise on the western fringes of the camp, Agerain was murdered by one of his young companions.”

“Who?”

Ontaya hesitates. “I was never close with your cousin and his retinue, General. I have heard others refer to the young man who killed him as Anseron d’Aramant.”

“Anseron?” Mercon’s face is grim. He points to Morgant. “Knight: find General Athriam. Tell him to send a party to retrieve Agerain’s body. Then request him to join us here with Astacius of the Sistecherns, the captain of Guardwatch, and two of the d’Aramant squires. Squire: continue.”

“A Swordsmark of Scarth and several of his henchmen had arrived on the outskirts of the camp and attacked one of our mercenaries there.” Ontaya thinks desperately of which facts she can honestly omit. “They had just killed the mercenary when I found them and fought with them. Agerain and his companion must have also seen me riding to the fight, and they came to my assistance. When we had killed the Scarthmen, however, the companion turned on Agerain and cut his throat.”

“Just like that, with you standing there?” Mercon snaps. “What were you doing – and what was Agerain doing, that he was killed so easily?”

“I was some distance away, General, having just killed the Swordsmark. And Agerain was... he had dismounted to stab the body of the mercenary.” Ontaya strives to keep Darren’s crime out of the story.

“Why in Ain’s name was he doing that?”

Ontaya wishes her conscience would let her answer with I don’t know, butthe reason is far too transparent. “The mercenary was Atrix d’Loriad, m’lords.” Both Sarquin and Mercon are momentarily at a loss for words. “It is now clear that he did not die in Lynar, as we all believed, but secretly joined the army as a mercenary. Agerain has long held a grudge against Atrix, General, which I believe explains his desecration of Atrix’s remains when he discovered this deception.”

Disconcertingly, while Mercon’s face is rigid with anger, Ontaya sees his eyes gleaming with a strange triumph. The sandy-bearded General presses mordantly for full details of how Ontaya came to find out about the fight, and nods when Carwyn’s name comes out. When two d’Aramant squires arrive, along with High General Athriam. the Sistechern priest, and the guard captain, Mercon interrogates the squires about when and how “Anseron d’Aramant” joined their company. Finally, Mercon addresses the room in tones of damning fervor.

“The treachery runs deep here, m’lords. This Anseron was no true d’Aramant, but a brazen fraud taking another man’s name in order to get close to Agerain. He was plainly in league with the disguised Atrix d’Loriad. When the d’Loriad’s identity was exposed to Agerain, his partner panicked and murdered our cousin to prevent his own disguise from being penetrated. It is a matter of utmost urgency to find out how far this conspiracy extends, and whether Agerain was its only target. Are any of Atrix d’Loriad’s immediate family present at Guardwatch?”

“His brother. Jonathan,” Sarquin d’Loriad says reluctantly.

“What are we waiting for? Seize him! At onc...” bellows Athriam, before a curt gesture from Mercon leaves him stammering into a foolish-looking silence. Ontaya notes that this seems an odd way for the supposedly junior Mercon to treat his Family’s High General.

“You agree, of course, that we must put him to the question.” Mercon directs his question to Sarquin, while glancing over to Astacius, who smiles humorlessly.

Sarquin grimaces. “Under the circumstances, the law requires it.”

Mercon turns to the guard captain. “Find Jonathan d’Loriad and hand him over to the Sistecherns. This commoner Carwyn runs a well-known gambling den outside the camp. Arrest her immediately for questioning. Ensure that the bodies of Atrix d’Loriad and these supposed Swordsmarks are retrieved from the murder site, along with my cousin’s. And above all: find this vile impersonator who called himself Anseron, wherever he may have fled.” He then turns back to Ontaya, his eyes narrowing. “As for you...”

“There is no need for a Sistechern to interrogate a Sword-Priest of Ain,” General Sarquin cuts in. “She can not lie, Mercon. Nor did she need to bring us this news as promptly as she did. I’ll take her into my custody. She and her seven squires will be under my direct and constant supervision in the battle to come.”

Mercon’s lips tighten. “Keep her close, Sarquin. We may yet hear from another witness who can confirm her involvement or innocence.” He rolls up the map of Arawai and stalks out of the room, followed by the others.

“Thank you, General,” Ontaya says quietly as they head toward the d’Loriad wing of Guardwatch. “For what it may be worth, I do not believe that Atrix or his friends conspired to kill Agerain.”

“Nor do I, but they’ve done a damned fine job of making it look like they did,” Sarquin d’Loriad growls. “I can’t save them from the consequences now, not with the d’Aramant Patriarch’s nephew murdered. There’s not enough time to sort this mess before we ride to Arawai. But you stay close to me, girl –you and your little band of squirely efficiency – and we’ll finish our own investigation when the grand battle’s won.” He sighs and presses his hand to his head. “Now if you’ll forgive me, I need to look in on my wife. She’s great with our first child, who seems intent on arriving in time to join the battle. The priests say the birth may not be an easy one.”

SHORTLY AFTERWARD, CARWYN is arrested and dragged from her tent by six guards. They knock out Lune for protesting her arrest. The rain begins gusting down from the sky as they trudge toward Guardwatch. When they enter the castle, a band of armed d’Aramants charges up to the guards, demanding to know whether their prisoner is connected to the d’Loriads. “I don’t know,” the head guard barks. “All I know is that General Mercon wanted her delivered to the Sistecherns, and if there’s any delay in getting her to the dungeon, the person responsible will answer to him.”

Carwyn’s throat constricts and her head goes light at the mention of the inquisitorial Order. “No,” she tries to protest as the young d’Aramants fall meekly back, but no sound emerges from her dry mouth. The guards carry her past the headman’s court (from which, unbeknownst to her, Darren has just fled) and down to the dungeons. She is shackled to a cold table and left there, shivering, in her wet clothes in the dark. Very faintly, she thinks she can hear screams through the thick stone walls.

After straining against her iron bonds for hours, Carwyn flinches violently when she finally hears footsteps and sees a dim light illumine the room. The severe figure of Astacius the Sistechern appears above her, his close-cropped white hair and beard radiant in the light of the candle in his left hand. “It is late, and I have already had to deal with Death himself this night, girl,” he says, his voice sounding impossibly weary. “I do not have patience for any lack of cooperation on your part.”

“I’ll answer your questions,” Carwyn says desperately. “Please, your reverence, I don’t know why I’m here.”

Astacius looses the iron needle from his neck and contemplates it with detachment. “You are a conspirator in the infiltration of House d’Aramant and the murder of Agerain d’Aramant.”

“No, your reverence!” Carwyn is shocked.

“In his confession, Jonathan d’Loriad has already confirmed your complicity.”

Tears begin leaking from Carwyn’s eyes. She couldn’t think of any way that Jon would have known about Nina. “I don’t know... I don’t know what he means.”

“Perhaps you can add more clarity on the question of General Sarquin’s involvement?”

Carwyn is thrown into terrified confusion. “What?”

“Sarquin d’Loriad. The High General.” Astacius’ voice is reasonable, almost warm, in contrast to his wintry eyes. “Only tell us what his part was in the plot, and we won’t need to ask any more questions.”

“I don’t know anything about General Sarquin!” Carwyn cries.

“A shame,” says Astacius emotionlessly, setting the candle down and rolling up his sleeves.

 

[doghead]

A great story hour - thanks for taking the time to share. I am really looking forward to seeing how things play out.

doghead
aka thotd

 

[havenstone]

A great story hour - thanks for taking the time to share. I am really looking forward to seeing how things play out.

Thanks, doghead! It's been fun to write it up in more detail than we had before.

 

[havenstone]

Revenge of the d’Aramants

ASH AND MEESHAK spend the stormy night trying to get a clear story about what has become of their other friends. It soon becomes clear that Agerain is dead, and there are rumors flying about a disguised Atrix d’Loriad and someone else infiltrating the d’Aramants. However, Meeshak and Ash can’t find Carwyn, Darren, or Atrix anywhere in the camp, and Kyla and Ontaya are unreachable inside the besieged d’Loriad wing of Guardwatch. The dwarrow don’t know what’s become of Darren; the merchant wagons of Porphyry and Kendall are shuttered and apparently deserted.

Before dawn, Ash is summoned to join several hundred other scouts in the muddy courtyard of Guardwatch. The rain has stopped, and the castle has been brought under control after the night’s outburst of d’Aramant rage. A tired-looking Sarquin d’Loriad addresses the assembled trackers. “Scouts of the North. You are about to be sent out ahead of all the other forces to clear the land of Arawai eyes from the east to the west. They will have their own trackers watching for our approach. The barbarians will think nothing of killing you if they see you, so use your bows well! None of their spies can remain alive to carry news of our movements back to the rest of their horde.”

Ash notes that Ontaya is standing next to Sarquin, looking similarly exhausted and unhappy. Ontaya spots Ash as well, but they have no chance to communicate before the squires are dispatched to the field.

Back in camp, Meeshak wakes up to the hissed sound of his name. An unfamiliar Chramic mercenary with long hair and black leather armor is crouched at the entrance to his tent. Meeshak takes only a moment to recognize the voice. “Nina?”

“Not any more. Nor Anseron, either,” Nina says bitterly. He fills in Meeshak on everything that just happened. “Carwyn was taken by guards early in the evening. I’m going to try breaking into the dungeons to get her out.”

“We can’t leave her to the Sistecherns,” Meeshak agrees in fervent tones. Pragmatic to the core, he doesn’t spend any time delving into the rights and wrongs of Nina’s murder of Agerain, but gets down to planning the rescue.

MEANWHILE, ONTAYA AND General Sarquin head up to a dawn council with the d’Aramant generals and Astacius of the Sistecherns. “We have a confession from Atrix d’Loriad’s brother,” the inquisitor informs them with evident satisfaction. “He admits to having conspired to kill Agerain d’Aramant, and his answers hint at a deeper conspiracy. However, he has not yet told us where his brother’s body was hidden last night, or who concealed it. We have so far only had time to briefly begin the interrogation of the woman Carwyn, so she has not yet contributed any useful information.”

“Has Jonathan’ d’Loriad’s confession been confirmed by a priest who can Detect Lies?” Ontaya demands hotly. She feels cruelty permeating Astacius like a rot, and finds it hard to believe that the priest has not yet lost the blessing of Ain. “One who is not of your Order?”

Astacius fixes Ontaya with a stare of loathing. “Do you dare to imply that my priests would let a lie escape them?” They argue fiercely for several minutes while the Generals from both Families look on without intervening.

“In a matter of such gravity,” General Sarquin finally interjects, “the d’Loriads would prefer to have the boy’s confession repeated before Ambar, High Priest of the Dethasian Order.”

Astacius falls poisonously silent. The d’Aramant Generals consent to Ambar as a neutral figure and the highest-ranking non-Sistechern priest in the castle. However, messengers sent to find the High Priest report that he is not in his quarters and can not be found. Most of the morning is spent futilely looking for him. After several hours, one of Astacius’ subordinate priests hurries into the tower to whisper into his ear. “I regret to inform you that it would now be fruitless to trouble the Dethasian,” announces the Sistechern in a frosty voice. “Jonathan d’Loriad just committed suicide. He opened his wrists when alone in his cell, and my brethren did not find him in time.”

Ontaya’s outrage is too great to allow words. Sarquin turns to Mercon, blood suffusing his cheeks and neck. “Halt the interrogations, d’Aramant. At once. You’ve claimed one victim; let that, and last night’s violence, slake your thirst for now. We’ll continue this when we get back, under the eyes of proper Senalline priests, not these Caragond butchers. And when we do, I’ll have questions of my own about what’s just happened.”

General Athriam begins to bluster, but Mercon once again cuts him off. He inclines his head to Sarquin. “As you insist, d’Loriad. Guard captain: move the surviving prisoners to secure cells, and cease the questioning until we return.”

ONTAYA STALKS OFF to the quarters of Ambar the Dethasian. When she knocks on the door, a quavery but still strident voice calls back, “Enough wasting of my time!” Ontaya eventually convinces the aged High Priest to let her in. It emerges that the affronted cleric was called out urgently in the morning to carry out a healing deep in the d’Aramant wing of Guardwatch. He was kept waiting for hours without seeing the supposedly urgent injury; when he tried to leave, he found the door securely locked. Eventually a d’Aramant informed him that due to a misunderstanding, the injured person had already been taken to a different cleric for healing. When Ontaya explains the background to this charade, the High Priest looks fit to explode.

“Your holiness,” Ontaya says grimly, “with your permission I’ll send some of my cousins who aren’t joining the main army in Arawai to protect you for the next few days. The evidence strongly suggests that the Sistecherns and d’Aramants are capable of murder in this affair, and to be candid, my sense of evil around the whole lot of them is growing strongly. After we defeat the Arawai, we are going to need to investigate what has transpired here. Your aid would be invaluable. I’m afraid the d’Aramants know this.”

The kindly Ambar’s face is dark with anger. “By Ain, they don’t frighten me. Anything I can do to help, I will do.”

Ontaya bows and takes her leave, only to find Atrix’s cousin Kay waiting outside the door. “M’lady Kay,” Ontaya greets her in surprise. “My condolences for your family’s loss.”

Kay’s expression is blank, almost lifeless. “Thank you, Ontaya.”

“Forgive me, but were you looking for me?” Ontaya says, still slightly confused.

“No, I’ve come to find the High Priest.” Kay cranes her neck to see around the door while speaking in an undertone. “Is he... does he know what has been happening?”

“He knows,” Ontaya says bleakly. “The d’Aramants all but abducted him this morning to keep him from clarifying the circumstances of Jonathan d’Loriad’s murder.” When Kay looks up in shock, fresh tears starting to her eyes, Ontaya realizes with horror that she hadn’t yet heard about her young cousin’s death. “Oh, I’m so sorry – the Sistecherns... I’m so very sorry. Kay, when the war is finished, we will get to the bottom of all of this. The High Priest has said he’ll help however he can.” The promise sounds feeble even to Ontaya’s own ears.

“Good,” whispers Kay blindly and pushes past Ontaya, closing the door behind her.

THOUGH CARWYN IS moved to a solitary cell and spared further torment, Nina and Meeshak’s effort to rescue her fails dismally. They manage to slip into Guardwatch and immobilize the guards outside the dungeon entrance with Meeshak’s charms and Nina’s potions. Unfortunately, once inside the dungeon area, their efforts at stealth fail, and they rouse more guards than they can possibly overcome. Both are overwhelmed, knocked out, stripped of all weapons, and dragged into cells of their own. Meeshak is securely gagged and his hands bound to prevent him invoking the power of Ain.

As evening falls in the d’Loriad wing of Guardwatch, Kyla is frantic to do something to defend her outlawed friends. However, Gareth and Adgar refuse to let her leave. “Kyla – all three of us are now prime suspects for our involvement in Atrix’s scheme,” Gareth repeats heatedly. “It’s all Sarquin can do to keep us from being handed over to the Sistecherns as well. We won’t even be able to ride tomorrow with the army. There is nothing we can do that won’t make matters worse.”

Kyla pounds her numb fists against the wall. “This can’t be how it ends.” She’s never been closer to despair. With Atrix dead, Carwyn captive, Darren, Meeshak, and Nina missing, and Ash and Ontaya bound for the Arawai battlefield, her little group of friends has been scattered seemingly beyond recovery. “Damn the Five Families and their schemes,” Kyla says inaudibly, shaking off Gareth’s attempts at consolation. “We should never have left the Rim.”

 

[doghead]

Kyla pounds her numb fists against the wall. “This can’t be how it ends.”

I certainly hope not.

“We should never have left the Rim.”

I wonder if the players were thinking something along the same lines. Everything was going so well then it all went very bad very fast.

doghead
aka thotd