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NOW LIVE! Into the Woods--new character species, eerie monsters, and haunting villains to populate the woodlands of your D&D games.
AERUNEDAR and Beyond
- Thread starter Mahiro Satsu
- Start date
Mahiro Satsu
First Post
Bump
Sorry, there has been confusion as to who was writing it up. I think its been fixed....
Sorry, there has been confusion as to who was writing it up. I think its been fixed....
Tom Cashel
First Post
JOURNEY to the SILVER MARCHES
Characters: Dalabrac Bramblefoot (halfling Rog7/Shd1), Artemus Thornwind (human Drd8), Kaemris Tencoin (human Clr6/Aus2), Lenet cor Tarak (fire genasi Ftr4/Sor3), Van Dyksun (human Rgr3/Rog2/Clr3), Lucius Foxhound (Wiz8).
PROLOGUE:
The night is broken with the jagged sobs of women and Runold Rolf’s hoarse call to arms. It went wrong so fast, they hardly knew what to do.
With a chilly Tarsakh wind blowing down from the Storm Horns, Our Heroes set out toward Tilverton escorting the dozen caravans of the Rolf-Lenumbrar Expedition. The trek into the hills and through the low eastern verges of the Horns was fraught with peril; Our Heroes tracked down a slithering noise in the dawn mist and Lenet cor Tarak ended up petrified, and a few days later they learned that the Yrthak was indeed hungry. But they arrived at the Black Crater of Tilverton five days later, missing only a single heifer, and Lord Hawklin of the Purple Dragons greeted them. Before long, and with the aid of a War Wizard, Lenet was restored. They set out across the Stonelands and traveled for two days.
In the night Darabrac prevented a petty theft, but orcs were skulking about in the darkness. Their attack was repulsed with relative ease, but the foul orcs of the Blackbones Tribe managed to slip through the ring of wagons and abduct three children, ranging from ages 12-15. The Rolf son, the Lenumbrar son, and the Seveniss son are missing--the mothers are inconsolable and the entire caravan is up in arms.
Characters: Dalabrac Bramblefoot (halfling Rog7/Shd1), Artemus Thornwind (human Drd8), Kaemris Tencoin (human Clr6/Aus2), Lenet cor Tarak (fire genasi Ftr4/Sor3), Van Dyksun (human Rgr3/Rog2/Clr3), Lucius Foxhound (Wiz8).
PROLOGUE:
The night is broken with the jagged sobs of women and Runold Rolf’s hoarse call to arms. It went wrong so fast, they hardly knew what to do.
With a chilly Tarsakh wind blowing down from the Storm Horns, Our Heroes set out toward Tilverton escorting the dozen caravans of the Rolf-Lenumbrar Expedition. The trek into the hills and through the low eastern verges of the Horns was fraught with peril; Our Heroes tracked down a slithering noise in the dawn mist and Lenet cor Tarak ended up petrified, and a few days later they learned that the Yrthak was indeed hungry. But they arrived at the Black Crater of Tilverton five days later, missing only a single heifer, and Lord Hawklin of the Purple Dragons greeted them. Before long, and with the aid of a War Wizard, Lenet was restored. They set out across the Stonelands and traveled for two days.
In the night Darabrac prevented a petty theft, but orcs were skulking about in the darkness. Their attack was repulsed with relative ease, but the foul orcs of the Blackbones Tribe managed to slip through the ring of wagons and abduct three children, ranging from ages 12-15. The Rolf son, the Lenumbrar son, and the Seveniss son are missing--the mothers are inconsolable and the entire caravan is up in arms.
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Tom Cashel
First Post
The First Leg
Kaemris Tencoin cuts a dashing image in his embroidered blue travel cloak. His black hair is pulled back and his laughing green eyes flash glyptically. He is never without his luckstaff—a stout oak quarterstaff topped with the symbol of Tymora—or his three golden shurikens tucked discreetly into a waist pocket. He sports several platinum rings and a pair of well-worn lace-up boots.
from the Journal of Kaemris Tencoin
Tarsakh 7, 1373 DR
Just as I thought my travels would be coming to a close after the events in Hullack—at least for the time being—we are off again. Our band has bid farewell to Aoth Sepret (that esteemed purveyor of magic, and master of stealth, has returned to his homeland of Mulhorand), but we have gained the acquaintance of one Dalabrac Bramblefoot, a stoutheart halfling of fine demeanor and prodigious tolerance where alcohol is concerned, and a flamboyant illusionist by the name of Lucius Foxhound, of good spirits and impeccable manners. We spent a fine night carousing at the Fortunate Minotaur ere Lenet Cor Tarak returned to us, restored to life by the good folk of the Lady’s House.
Van Dyksun and Artemus Thornwind remain, however, and I am glad for their companionship.
Ah! yes, I mentioned that we would be off soon. It seems we have agreed to escort a caravan—the Rolf-Lenumbrar Expedition—to the Silver Marches from Cormyr. Now that civil war has broken out in the eastern portion of the Forest Kingdom’s northlands, it seems a well-advised time to be off for greener pastures. This caravan of settlers is a large and diverse group, but we are confident that we can keep them safe. They seem ready for the difficult road ahead.
We are agreed that we must travel north to the Black Crater (formerly Tilverton), and then west across the barren Stonelands. After that we are divided. So far our debates have revolved around whether to take the shorter, more dangerous route north along the verges of the Anauroch, or the longer, safer Trade Way to Waterdeep, and then northeast to the Silver Marches. The only agreement we could reach was that we would make the decision when necessary. The woodsmen—Van Dyksun and Artemus Thornwind—favor the rugged trails through the wilderness, while the others (myself included) favor the Trade Way. Time and Tymora shall tell.
The first night brought a good omen: Selune's disk full and bright upon the sky.
The second night of travel brought a strange and unsettling omen. In the middle of the night Dalabrac detected a shadowy figure observing the caravan. When he approached, the mysterious individual fled into the night. My prayers to the Lady are renewed in fervor and intensity…
Lucius Foxhound is a tall, handsome man with wet blond hair, blue eyes, and a distinctive handlebar moustache that appears to be meticulously groomed. He wears a set of flashy, perhaps even gaudy, clothes usually reserved for entertainers. His deep blue cloak, leather gloves, and headband seem a motley makeup, but he wears them all strangely well. His broad smile always fills people with comfort and ease.
from the Journal of Lucius Foxhound
Tarsakh 7, 1373 DR
Our caravan moves along at a snail’s pace. But I’m glad to be back on the open road again! Getting out of Cormyr was a good idea, I think. I was beginning to overstay my welcome. And this caravan is not without its, ah, advantages. I’ve made great headway with that Lenumbrar sister. Well, another day, another –
Well, that was a challenge. Our party was just attacked by a vicious beast with the head of a woman and the body of a snake (reminded me a bit of that angry headmistress from that inn in Suzail). It hid itself in the fog of early morning. Sadly, I had no way of getting rid of the fog (serves me right for telling Gustav to use his Gust of Wind spell to rid himself of his wife’s foul odor), so we all rushed blindly in to battle the unknown. When I arrived, Mstr. Bramblefoot was doing vicious damage to the thing, but poor Lenet had turned to stone! I was forced to gaze into its visage before scaring the beast to death with a spell (I wonder what it saw as its phantasmal killer?)
I rode with the statuesque Lenet as we made our way to Tilverton. Poor Lenet! Not that she was turned to stone, but that she’s obviously fallen in love with me. But have no fear, I shall not get involved with another party member again! I can still hear the voice of Janis Sweetharp as we adventured in the High Forest. I suppose I should have known that when I suggested that she cool off for a while she might find herself jumping into that lake. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me.
Dalabrac Bramblefoot looks like a contradiction in terms to those not familiar with the ways of stongheart halflings. His dark hair is well groomed and tied back in a ponytail that hangs down to the base of his neck. His dark eyes seem to penetrate the shadows around him, ever vigilante. He is tall for a halfling, standing almost three and one quarter feet tall. Underneath his gray cloak, with its metallic black clasp in the shape of a halfling’s foot, is a dark gray sleeveless tunic, which is cut to show off his well-muscled arms. When it gets cold he wears a tight fitting red woolen shirt under the tunic. His loose fitting pants are black and dark gray ribbons hold it close to his calves preventing entanglement. From his belt hangs a strange sword without a sheath whose blade seems to be fashioned from obsidian. On his left middle finger is a simple silver band engraved with the symbol of the halfling goddess of harvest, Sheela Peryroyl. Over his shoulder is typically slung a dirty travel worn sack that seems to defy any attempt to clean it.
Recently he has been seen scurrying around with a scowl on his face holding a stiff piece of parchment and muttering under his breath about the weight to load ratio of cargo.
from the journal of Dalabrac Bramblefoot
Tarsakh 12, 1373 DR
Night in the Stonelands is cold. I wrap my cloak around me against the chill. The land around me is dead, it is dry, and it is dangerous. People I have met since coming to Cormyr have had little of comfort to say about this desert. All around me is devastation – broken jagged rocks, stunted dwarf trees, and not a living creature.
It is nothing like the lush jungles of my homeland, Lurien.
I guard a caravan. There are humans, elves, dwarves, and even some of my lightfoot cousins depending on me to keep them safe. I am on guard. I am the sentry between the cold night and warmth of the fire. I have responsibility. I am Hin.
Between the shadows of desert little life moves. A quiet has descended upon our company. In their sleeping rolls and quilted winter blankets are my friends and charges. Nothing should be making noise, but a sound comes to my ears. I scan the dark in search of the noise, and at first I fear we have drawn the notice of an unruly band of goblins or orcs. The ugly brutes would be drawn to us like a dwarf to stonework if they saw such a large and lightly guarded caravan.
But the sound isn’t coming from the outside of the perimeter I walk this night. It is coming from one of the wagons. I approach the sound, tracking it through the darkness, my ally. Someone is rummaging through the dwarves’ wagon. I draw Cloud Ripper from my belt and approach the wagon. A light thrown from a single candle lights a scene I have been dreading. One of the Lightfoot is busy making a bad name for halflings. It is the pig whisperer, what a ridiculous occupation, Welby Otz.
“What are you doing in here Welby? This isn’t your wagon!”
“These Dwarves have been lying to us, cousin. They pretend to be poor settlers, yet they have an entire chest full of mithril nuggets. Mithril! Do you know the worth of this?”
Indeed I do. The fine shirt of chain mail I wear is crafted from mithril. I finger the shirt, and though no one can see through the illusion of a travel-stained tunic, I feel the tiny rings. It had cost me a pretty penny at that, and almost gotten me killed in Westgate.
“That doesn’t matter.,” I say. “These dwarves are fleeing the same trouble as you are. In the morning we can address all grievances.”
He looks at me pitifully. “Maybe we can split it. Half for me and my brother, and you can have the other half. Think of the profits. Mithril!”
Profits. A word I love. The gravity of the situation grips me. I can make lots of money, if I could sell it. But what of my noble companions? There would be questions. Many of those questions would be difficult to answer. Why can you not fit more in your magic bag, Dalabrac? You were on duty last night, how could you not have seen the thieves? No, I decided. It would not work out for the best. I can only hope to bring the potential thief in.
I drag the protesting Lightfoot around the perimeter to the guard wagons that form the entrance to the circle of wagons. I reach up into the front wagon and pull out a pair of manacles.
The tall person on guard suddenly calls out that there is movement on a hill. Right as I reach a position they attack. My companions rouse themselves and form a defensive line. The creatures have gray-brown skin, tusks, and apelike foreheads. Orcs! I summersault into there midst. Flanking one. Stab. Roll. Stab. Roll. My blade is quick. Tendrils of blackness reach up from the ground grabbing half of the creatures. Van’s bow twangs in the night, dropping several. Stab. Lenet wades in swinging her sword. Roll. I hear Kaemris calling to Tymora, and the Illusionist’s strange chantings. I roll. I strike. Orcs fall before me.
Above the sound of steel on steel, and cries of pain, I hear more feet and a scream. It is not close. I call to Kaemris to check the back of the camp. I roll. My cloak changes, becoming the wings of a great hunting bird. I leap to the sky, my magical wings carry me higher. Kaemris and I reach the back of the caravan only to see orcs with children in seized bundles rolling under the wagons, escaping. I strike the ground in frustration. I have failed my employers.
Tall, thin and topped with dark black hair that reaches half way to his shoulders, Artemus Thornwind cuts a rather subdued image. His tanned hide armor is hidden beneath a plain, rough-textured, olive-green tunic. He has a shortspear strapped to his back along with a small pack and various pouches, pockets and straps across his chest. His only decoration is a small, round medallian with the symbol of Sylvanus on a necklace around his neck and a thin, ornate ring on one finger. Altogether he looks well-kept, uncluttered and perfectly comfortable in the wildlands, as comfortable as most people would look sitting in front of their hearth.
from the journal of Kaemris Tencoin
Tarsakh 12, 1373 DR
The orc corpses (11 of them) bore the symbol of a crudely-painted red eye over crossed lightning bolts—Van knew this as the device of the Blackbones Tribe, a particularly vicious clan of orcs that participated in the siege of Arabel [I bristled with anger] and named for their chieftain. They are known for kidnapping young humans to act as slaves...and young elves for sacrifice to Gruumsh. Here's the strange part: after the Ghazneth War they were known to have fled east, through Hullack Forest into the foothills of the Thunder Peaks. We were far, far north of their last known territory.
The Rolf, Lenumbrar and Seveniss families are each missing a son. The Sevenisses were quite worried, as their son is half-elven...
Runold Rolf mustered a band of willing defenders to keep safe the caravan: himself, his two sons, Torg and Einil Gallowglar (the dwarves), Gerbo Aruvor (the gnome adept of Baervan Wildwanderer), and even Quario Seveniss the elf (with tears of rage upon his cheeks), along with four other strong men and women.
"I'll remain here with the caravan," I told them, glancing out into the darkness and suppressing a shudder. But Lenet cor Tarak suggested that perhaps I should go, and she stay, and though this idea filled me with unease, I agreed.
Van Dyksun has reverted these days back to the solemnity of his youth, when he was known by his friends as Mr. Moody, among other epithets. The shockingly white hair has dulled somewhat to a rather grey tint, but this just may mean that he needs to wash it more. What can't be hidden is the newly confidant walk, one of a man who's seen death and returned. The scars of battle are missing, though--likely due to a miracle or two. The other things that can't be ignored is the shiny metal shirt of chain that just might be mithral, and the huge compound bow swung across his shoulder that looks as if it was crafted from stone joined by the same metal bands as those of his armor. From around his neck you can catch a glimpse every now and then of a metallic disk that he brings out into full view when the moon rises, the picture is of disembodied eyes surrounded by seven stars. And, every once and awhile you can seem him stop to twirl the silver ring on his left hand, which he kisses before moving on.
To the caravan, Van said, "Do not worry--your children are safe, at least for awhile. These," he spit at the orc corpses, "trash simply want them for their labor, not for their sacrifice. Do guard yourselves under the fiery eyes of Lenet cor Tarak until we return, which will not be long."
To the party, Van said, "The tracks are fresh and these creatures are stupid. I can follow them on the ground, I believe. If Lucius is flying above, he can warn those of us on the ground if we get near an ambush."
To be continued…
Kaemris Tencoin cuts a dashing image in his embroidered blue travel cloak. His black hair is pulled back and his laughing green eyes flash glyptically. He is never without his luckstaff—a stout oak quarterstaff topped with the symbol of Tymora—or his three golden shurikens tucked discreetly into a waist pocket. He sports several platinum rings and a pair of well-worn lace-up boots.
from the Journal of Kaemris Tencoin
Tarsakh 7, 1373 DR
Just as I thought my travels would be coming to a close after the events in Hullack—at least for the time being—we are off again. Our band has bid farewell to Aoth Sepret (that esteemed purveyor of magic, and master of stealth, has returned to his homeland of Mulhorand), but we have gained the acquaintance of one Dalabrac Bramblefoot, a stoutheart halfling of fine demeanor and prodigious tolerance where alcohol is concerned, and a flamboyant illusionist by the name of Lucius Foxhound, of good spirits and impeccable manners. We spent a fine night carousing at the Fortunate Minotaur ere Lenet Cor Tarak returned to us, restored to life by the good folk of the Lady’s House.
Van Dyksun and Artemus Thornwind remain, however, and I am glad for their companionship.
Ah! yes, I mentioned that we would be off soon. It seems we have agreed to escort a caravan—the Rolf-Lenumbrar Expedition—to the Silver Marches from Cormyr. Now that civil war has broken out in the eastern portion of the Forest Kingdom’s northlands, it seems a well-advised time to be off for greener pastures. This caravan of settlers is a large and diverse group, but we are confident that we can keep them safe. They seem ready for the difficult road ahead.
We are agreed that we must travel north to the Black Crater (formerly Tilverton), and then west across the barren Stonelands. After that we are divided. So far our debates have revolved around whether to take the shorter, more dangerous route north along the verges of the Anauroch, or the longer, safer Trade Way to Waterdeep, and then northeast to the Silver Marches. The only agreement we could reach was that we would make the decision when necessary. The woodsmen—Van Dyksun and Artemus Thornwind—favor the rugged trails through the wilderness, while the others (myself included) favor the Trade Way. Time and Tymora shall tell.
The first night brought a good omen: Selune's disk full and bright upon the sky.
The second night of travel brought a strange and unsettling omen. In the middle of the night Dalabrac detected a shadowy figure observing the caravan. When he approached, the mysterious individual fled into the night. My prayers to the Lady are renewed in fervor and intensity…
Lucius Foxhound is a tall, handsome man with wet blond hair, blue eyes, and a distinctive handlebar moustache that appears to be meticulously groomed. He wears a set of flashy, perhaps even gaudy, clothes usually reserved for entertainers. His deep blue cloak, leather gloves, and headband seem a motley makeup, but he wears them all strangely well. His broad smile always fills people with comfort and ease.
from the Journal of Lucius Foxhound
Tarsakh 7, 1373 DR
Our caravan moves along at a snail’s pace. But I’m glad to be back on the open road again! Getting out of Cormyr was a good idea, I think. I was beginning to overstay my welcome. And this caravan is not without its, ah, advantages. I’ve made great headway with that Lenumbrar sister. Well, another day, another –
Well, that was a challenge. Our party was just attacked by a vicious beast with the head of a woman and the body of a snake (reminded me a bit of that angry headmistress from that inn in Suzail). It hid itself in the fog of early morning. Sadly, I had no way of getting rid of the fog (serves me right for telling Gustav to use his Gust of Wind spell to rid himself of his wife’s foul odor), so we all rushed blindly in to battle the unknown. When I arrived, Mstr. Bramblefoot was doing vicious damage to the thing, but poor Lenet had turned to stone! I was forced to gaze into its visage before scaring the beast to death with a spell (I wonder what it saw as its phantasmal killer?)
I rode with the statuesque Lenet as we made our way to Tilverton. Poor Lenet! Not that she was turned to stone, but that she’s obviously fallen in love with me. But have no fear, I shall not get involved with another party member again! I can still hear the voice of Janis Sweetharp as we adventured in the High Forest. I suppose I should have known that when I suggested that she cool off for a while she might find herself jumping into that lake. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me.
Dalabrac Bramblefoot looks like a contradiction in terms to those not familiar with the ways of stongheart halflings. His dark hair is well groomed and tied back in a ponytail that hangs down to the base of his neck. His dark eyes seem to penetrate the shadows around him, ever vigilante. He is tall for a halfling, standing almost three and one quarter feet tall. Underneath his gray cloak, with its metallic black clasp in the shape of a halfling’s foot, is a dark gray sleeveless tunic, which is cut to show off his well-muscled arms. When it gets cold he wears a tight fitting red woolen shirt under the tunic. His loose fitting pants are black and dark gray ribbons hold it close to his calves preventing entanglement. From his belt hangs a strange sword without a sheath whose blade seems to be fashioned from obsidian. On his left middle finger is a simple silver band engraved with the symbol of the halfling goddess of harvest, Sheela Peryroyl. Over his shoulder is typically slung a dirty travel worn sack that seems to defy any attempt to clean it.
Recently he has been seen scurrying around with a scowl on his face holding a stiff piece of parchment and muttering under his breath about the weight to load ratio of cargo.
from the journal of Dalabrac Bramblefoot
Tarsakh 12, 1373 DR
Night in the Stonelands is cold. I wrap my cloak around me against the chill. The land around me is dead, it is dry, and it is dangerous. People I have met since coming to Cormyr have had little of comfort to say about this desert. All around me is devastation – broken jagged rocks, stunted dwarf trees, and not a living creature.
It is nothing like the lush jungles of my homeland, Lurien.
I guard a caravan. There are humans, elves, dwarves, and even some of my lightfoot cousins depending on me to keep them safe. I am on guard. I am the sentry between the cold night and warmth of the fire. I have responsibility. I am Hin.
Between the shadows of desert little life moves. A quiet has descended upon our company. In their sleeping rolls and quilted winter blankets are my friends and charges. Nothing should be making noise, but a sound comes to my ears. I scan the dark in search of the noise, and at first I fear we have drawn the notice of an unruly band of goblins or orcs. The ugly brutes would be drawn to us like a dwarf to stonework if they saw such a large and lightly guarded caravan.
But the sound isn’t coming from the outside of the perimeter I walk this night. It is coming from one of the wagons. I approach the sound, tracking it through the darkness, my ally. Someone is rummaging through the dwarves’ wagon. I draw Cloud Ripper from my belt and approach the wagon. A light thrown from a single candle lights a scene I have been dreading. One of the Lightfoot is busy making a bad name for halflings. It is the pig whisperer, what a ridiculous occupation, Welby Otz.
“What are you doing in here Welby? This isn’t your wagon!”
“These Dwarves have been lying to us, cousin. They pretend to be poor settlers, yet they have an entire chest full of mithril nuggets. Mithril! Do you know the worth of this?”
Indeed I do. The fine shirt of chain mail I wear is crafted from mithril. I finger the shirt, and though no one can see through the illusion of a travel-stained tunic, I feel the tiny rings. It had cost me a pretty penny at that, and almost gotten me killed in Westgate.
“That doesn’t matter.,” I say. “These dwarves are fleeing the same trouble as you are. In the morning we can address all grievances.”
He looks at me pitifully. “Maybe we can split it. Half for me and my brother, and you can have the other half. Think of the profits. Mithril!”
Profits. A word I love. The gravity of the situation grips me. I can make lots of money, if I could sell it. But what of my noble companions? There would be questions. Many of those questions would be difficult to answer. Why can you not fit more in your magic bag, Dalabrac? You were on duty last night, how could you not have seen the thieves? No, I decided. It would not work out for the best. I can only hope to bring the potential thief in.
I drag the protesting Lightfoot around the perimeter to the guard wagons that form the entrance to the circle of wagons. I reach up into the front wagon and pull out a pair of manacles.
The tall person on guard suddenly calls out that there is movement on a hill. Right as I reach a position they attack. My companions rouse themselves and form a defensive line. The creatures have gray-brown skin, tusks, and apelike foreheads. Orcs! I summersault into there midst. Flanking one. Stab. Roll. Stab. Roll. My blade is quick. Tendrils of blackness reach up from the ground grabbing half of the creatures. Van’s bow twangs in the night, dropping several. Stab. Lenet wades in swinging her sword. Roll. I hear Kaemris calling to Tymora, and the Illusionist’s strange chantings. I roll. I strike. Orcs fall before me.
Above the sound of steel on steel, and cries of pain, I hear more feet and a scream. It is not close. I call to Kaemris to check the back of the camp. I roll. My cloak changes, becoming the wings of a great hunting bird. I leap to the sky, my magical wings carry me higher. Kaemris and I reach the back of the caravan only to see orcs with children in seized bundles rolling under the wagons, escaping. I strike the ground in frustration. I have failed my employers.
Tall, thin and topped with dark black hair that reaches half way to his shoulders, Artemus Thornwind cuts a rather subdued image. His tanned hide armor is hidden beneath a plain, rough-textured, olive-green tunic. He has a shortspear strapped to his back along with a small pack and various pouches, pockets and straps across his chest. His only decoration is a small, round medallian with the symbol of Sylvanus on a necklace around his neck and a thin, ornate ring on one finger. Altogether he looks well-kept, uncluttered and perfectly comfortable in the wildlands, as comfortable as most people would look sitting in front of their hearth.
from the journal of Kaemris Tencoin
Tarsakh 12, 1373 DR
The orc corpses (11 of them) bore the symbol of a crudely-painted red eye over crossed lightning bolts—Van knew this as the device of the Blackbones Tribe, a particularly vicious clan of orcs that participated in the siege of Arabel [I bristled with anger] and named for their chieftain. They are known for kidnapping young humans to act as slaves...and young elves for sacrifice to Gruumsh. Here's the strange part: after the Ghazneth War they were known to have fled east, through Hullack Forest into the foothills of the Thunder Peaks. We were far, far north of their last known territory.
The Rolf, Lenumbrar and Seveniss families are each missing a son. The Sevenisses were quite worried, as their son is half-elven...
Runold Rolf mustered a band of willing defenders to keep safe the caravan: himself, his two sons, Torg and Einil Gallowglar (the dwarves), Gerbo Aruvor (the gnome adept of Baervan Wildwanderer), and even Quario Seveniss the elf (with tears of rage upon his cheeks), along with four other strong men and women.
"I'll remain here with the caravan," I told them, glancing out into the darkness and suppressing a shudder. But Lenet cor Tarak suggested that perhaps I should go, and she stay, and though this idea filled me with unease, I agreed.
Van Dyksun has reverted these days back to the solemnity of his youth, when he was known by his friends as Mr. Moody, among other epithets. The shockingly white hair has dulled somewhat to a rather grey tint, but this just may mean that he needs to wash it more. What can't be hidden is the newly confidant walk, one of a man who's seen death and returned. The scars of battle are missing, though--likely due to a miracle or two. The other things that can't be ignored is the shiny metal shirt of chain that just might be mithral, and the huge compound bow swung across his shoulder that looks as if it was crafted from stone joined by the same metal bands as those of his armor. From around his neck you can catch a glimpse every now and then of a metallic disk that he brings out into full view when the moon rises, the picture is of disembodied eyes surrounded by seven stars. And, every once and awhile you can seem him stop to twirl the silver ring on his left hand, which he kisses before moving on.
To the caravan, Van said, "Do not worry--your children are safe, at least for awhile. These," he spit at the orc corpses, "trash simply want them for their labor, not for their sacrifice. Do guard yourselves under the fiery eyes of Lenet cor Tarak until we return, which will not be long."
To the party, Van said, "The tracks are fresh and these creatures are stupid. I can follow them on the ground, I believe. If Lucius is flying above, he can warn those of us on the ground if we get near an ambush."
To be continued…
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Broccli_Head
Explorer
they're back!
Glad to see you and your companions back in writing. I love the perspectives from the different characters.
Civil War in Cormyr? I am interested in finding out what you have done to the Forest Kingdom.
Glad to see you and your companions back in writing. I love the perspectives from the different characters.
Civil War in Cormyr? I am interested in finding out what you have done to the Forest Kingdom.
Tom Cashel
First Post
Hmm...I don't think I really clarified the Collective Fiction aspect of all this, which is a big shame on me!
For this portion of the saga, each player wrote their own character's journal entries and description, and I edited and assembled them all (and I wrote the Kaemris pieces). So Mike wrote the Dalabrac parts, Dave wrote the Lucius sections, and Glen and Keith each wrote up a description of their character.
Thanks for reading, you guys. More posts are coming next week!
Civil War in Cormyr: In this timeline it's Tarsakh of 1373 DR, two years after the Ghazneth War. The civil war has broken out in the northwest of Cormyr, roughly in the lands between Eveningstar and High Horn, led by renegade nobles and their mercenary followers. It could have been a lead-in to Into the Dragon's Lair, but the PCs decided to escort a caravan to the Silver Marches instead. When you read the next installment, you'll probably agree that they should have gone after the treasure!
For this portion of the saga, each player wrote their own character's journal entries and description, and I edited and assembled them all (and I wrote the Kaemris pieces). So Mike wrote the Dalabrac parts, Dave wrote the Lucius sections, and Glen and Keith each wrote up a description of their character.
Thanks for reading, you guys. More posts are coming next week!
Civil War in Cormyr: In this timeline it's Tarsakh of 1373 DR, two years after the Ghazneth War. The civil war has broken out in the northwest of Cormyr, roughly in the lands between Eveningstar and High Horn, led by renegade nobles and their mercenary followers. It could have been a lead-in to Into the Dragon's Lair, but the PCs decided to escort a caravan to the Silver Marches instead. When you read the next installment, you'll probably agree that they should have gone after the treasure!
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