Against the Shadows VII - A Faded Glory Story Hour (Re-Updated - 5/17)
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Session 23 (Part Three)
Old Friend Become New Enemies
“Like spearing fish in a barrel,” fumed Rowan.
Quintus nodded and glanced at the far wall of the chamber where Cragen, assisted by Bato, Drusilla and Sextus, had just finished arranging the stiff bodies of the militiamen for more dignified repose. The Junior Tribune sat on an unsteady crate, looking a bit green and holding a perfumed kerchief under his nose. The sorcerer closed his eyes for a few grains, concentrating.
“Nothing but ruins, according to Severus…and dusk must be approaching, since he wants badly to hunt.”
The elder Scipio mentally released his familiar to gorge himself on field mice and hares and scanned their temporary prison again. The portcullis had resisted their best combined efforts and a wall-mounted trigger lever was just a pace or two out of reach. He grinned tightly at Rowan. “Looks like up and over.”
The ranger nodded and began fashioning a makeshift grapnel from discard weapons while Quintus looked around yet again, frowning. Half the militia had been felled by crossbow bolts and magic had taken most of the balance. Only a few showed marks expected from skeletal claws or punishing zombie fists. The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed, ‘Something doesn’t fit here.’
His thoughts continued to race. ‘No Kyndalyn, no Röse, no Josephus…at least half-a-dozen bodies were missing. They are necromancers…why leave the bodies?’
His concentration was broken by a series of audible grunts as Rowan used his makeshift implement to carefully scale up to the balcony. The lean woodsman dropped over the parapet, drew his gladius and disappeared through a shadowy door way. A soft, guttural chant filled the chamber as Cragen sought Moradin’s blessing over the fallen.
Quintus tried to shut it all out. ‘Think, damn you, think!’
His mind recalled fragments and pieces of their strange journey over the previous moons…his missing cousins, the laboratory in the mines, the minor mage Luc, the cryptic “R” and her notes and journals, the Greenstrake formula, the detour into the cesspool of Oar politics, the seizing of the children of Glynden and the looming menace of Ashai…the thoughts swirled, crashing together, breaking apart and reforming in his mind. Suddenly, he recalled an obscure reference they had uncovered in the creased pages of a moldering tome in the Cathedral of Oar.
The rise shall follow innocents lost…
The passage hadn’t made any sense at the time and Sextus had thought it a misspelling…probably an apocryphal reference to declining virtues in the world, his brother had opined. But in light of the latest happenings, innocents was correct! His face slowly assumed the color of day-old fireplace ash. Quintus jumped nearly a pace in the air as a small, firm hand snaked inside his, entwining his fingers. Regaining his composure, but still shaken by his thoughts, he glanced down to see Drusilla gazing up at him, her brow creased with unspoken worry. He opened his mouth to speak, but was pre-empted by a high-pitched metallic screech.
“The way is clear,” Rowan called from the now-raised portcullis.
Quintus looked down at Drusilla’s beautiful face, gave her wane smile and a quick squeeze of the hand and then disengaged. “Alright…let’s get moving…we MUST find those kids.”
An undecipherable look flitted across the face of the only surviving Cassuvius daughter as she watched Quintus’s retreating back before she hitched up her weapon belt and followed.
Rowan waited until there were all gathered by the portcullis.
“The steps lead up to some sort of merchant house. Two rooms to the right is an exit onto a large colonnaded portico. This structure commands the center of a ruined hamlet. A spur of the Dragontail range rises to our east and a broad valley chases the setting sun to the west. Unless I miss my guess, we stand in the ruins of Bremerton.”
They reconvened on the portico several turns of the minute glass later. Quintus forced a complaining Severus to abandon his fifth field mouse of the last hour and take wing against the failing light. He concentrated as the osprey spiraled skyward on an unseen updraft.
“I think there are some mine openings in the hills to the east…and roads run out the north and south gate of town…the north road disappears into some woods half a league from the gate. Which way now?”
Rowan had descended the broad, shallow steps from the portico and was examining the overgrown cobblestones of dead Bremerton’s avenues. He rose and turned, eyes glittering darkly in the last rays of the sun. The ranger silently pointed north. They fell into line silently and trooped out of town.
Rowan asked for a magical light as they passed through the shattered gates of Bremerton, sagging on rusted hinges. He carefully examined the ground for a turn of the minute glass and grunted before following the badly-worn road. They traveled silently, aware of the gathering darkness and a vague, growing fear.
A throaty horn-call floated down from the ruins of Bremerton just as Rowan reached the eaves of the wood north of town. The companions shivered a collective shiver as the notes hung in the air far longer than normal. The notes were heavy with menace and they tried to bore into each person’s brain, carrying fear and despair. A light flashed momentarily from the general location of the large central building with the fancy portico, but was swallowed by the darkness.
A sharp, brief debate erupted. Rowan and Quintus wanted to press on, but the others were nervous about an unknown enemy (or potential enemy) to their rear. Sextus’s arguments for caution carried the day, so they soon retraced their steps. Rowan felt a worm of doubt wiggling down his spine as they approached the crouching building. They paused at the foot of the steps and listened. Nothing stirred. Not even the wind dared to breathe.
Rowan, Bato and Cragen slowly climbed the shallow steps. The priest of Moradin halted, whispered a terse syllable and enchanted a denarius. He flipped the coin into the building, but its progress was arrested a pace or two inside the threshold.
The weak light revealed rank after serried rank of fresh, silent undead, eyes glittering with ebony malevolence. At their fore stood the tattered body of the erstwhile Constable of Glynden, Kyndalyn the Younger. The companions exploded into action as the mob of zombies charged with an inarticulate howl!
To Be Continued…
Next: The Long Race
Enjoy!
~ Old One
Old Friend Become New Enemies
“Like spearing fish in a barrel,” fumed Rowan.
Quintus nodded and glanced at the far wall of the chamber where Cragen, assisted by Bato, Drusilla and Sextus, had just finished arranging the stiff bodies of the militiamen for more dignified repose. The Junior Tribune sat on an unsteady crate, looking a bit green and holding a perfumed kerchief under his nose. The sorcerer closed his eyes for a few grains, concentrating.
“Nothing but ruins, according to Severus…and dusk must be approaching, since he wants badly to hunt.”
The elder Scipio mentally released his familiar to gorge himself on field mice and hares and scanned their temporary prison again. The portcullis had resisted their best combined efforts and a wall-mounted trigger lever was just a pace or two out of reach. He grinned tightly at Rowan. “Looks like up and over.”
The ranger nodded and began fashioning a makeshift grapnel from discard weapons while Quintus looked around yet again, frowning. Half the militia had been felled by crossbow bolts and magic had taken most of the balance. Only a few showed marks expected from skeletal claws or punishing zombie fists. The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed, ‘Something doesn’t fit here.’
His thoughts continued to race. ‘No Kyndalyn, no Röse, no Josephus…at least half-a-dozen bodies were missing. They are necromancers…why leave the bodies?’
His concentration was broken by a series of audible grunts as Rowan used his makeshift implement to carefully scale up to the balcony. The lean woodsman dropped over the parapet, drew his gladius and disappeared through a shadowy door way. A soft, guttural chant filled the chamber as Cragen sought Moradin’s blessing over the fallen.
Quintus tried to shut it all out. ‘Think, damn you, think!’
His mind recalled fragments and pieces of their strange journey over the previous moons…his missing cousins, the laboratory in the mines, the minor mage Luc, the cryptic “R” and her notes and journals, the Greenstrake formula, the detour into the cesspool of Oar politics, the seizing of the children of Glynden and the looming menace of Ashai…the thoughts swirled, crashing together, breaking apart and reforming in his mind. Suddenly, he recalled an obscure reference they had uncovered in the creased pages of a moldering tome in the Cathedral of Oar.
The rise shall follow innocents lost…
The passage hadn’t made any sense at the time and Sextus had thought it a misspelling…probably an apocryphal reference to declining virtues in the world, his brother had opined. But in light of the latest happenings, innocents was correct! His face slowly assumed the color of day-old fireplace ash. Quintus jumped nearly a pace in the air as a small, firm hand snaked inside his, entwining his fingers. Regaining his composure, but still shaken by his thoughts, he glanced down to see Drusilla gazing up at him, her brow creased with unspoken worry. He opened his mouth to speak, but was pre-empted by a high-pitched metallic screech.
“The way is clear,” Rowan called from the now-raised portcullis.
Quintus looked down at Drusilla’s beautiful face, gave her wane smile and a quick squeeze of the hand and then disengaged. “Alright…let’s get moving…we MUST find those kids.”
An undecipherable look flitted across the face of the only surviving Cassuvius daughter as she watched Quintus’s retreating back before she hitched up her weapon belt and followed.
Rowan waited until there were all gathered by the portcullis.
“The steps lead up to some sort of merchant house. Two rooms to the right is an exit onto a large colonnaded portico. This structure commands the center of a ruined hamlet. A spur of the Dragontail range rises to our east and a broad valley chases the setting sun to the west. Unless I miss my guess, we stand in the ruins of Bremerton.”
They reconvened on the portico several turns of the minute glass later. Quintus forced a complaining Severus to abandon his fifth field mouse of the last hour and take wing against the failing light. He concentrated as the osprey spiraled skyward on an unseen updraft.
“I think there are some mine openings in the hills to the east…and roads run out the north and south gate of town…the north road disappears into some woods half a league from the gate. Which way now?”
Rowan had descended the broad, shallow steps from the portico and was examining the overgrown cobblestones of dead Bremerton’s avenues. He rose and turned, eyes glittering darkly in the last rays of the sun. The ranger silently pointed north. They fell into line silently and trooped out of town.
Rowan asked for a magical light as they passed through the shattered gates of Bremerton, sagging on rusted hinges. He carefully examined the ground for a turn of the minute glass and grunted before following the badly-worn road. They traveled silently, aware of the gathering darkness and a vague, growing fear.
A throaty horn-call floated down from the ruins of Bremerton just as Rowan reached the eaves of the wood north of town. The companions shivered a collective shiver as the notes hung in the air far longer than normal. The notes were heavy with menace and they tried to bore into each person’s brain, carrying fear and despair. A light flashed momentarily from the general location of the large central building with the fancy portico, but was swallowed by the darkness.
A sharp, brief debate erupted. Rowan and Quintus wanted to press on, but the others were nervous about an unknown enemy (or potential enemy) to their rear. Sextus’s arguments for caution carried the day, so they soon retraced their steps. Rowan felt a worm of doubt wiggling down his spine as they approached the crouching building. They paused at the foot of the steps and listened. Nothing stirred. Not even the wind dared to breathe.
Rowan, Bato and Cragen slowly climbed the shallow steps. The priest of Moradin halted, whispered a terse syllable and enchanted a denarius. He flipped the coin into the building, but its progress was arrested a pace or two inside the threshold.
The weak light revealed rank after serried rank of fresh, silent undead, eyes glittering with ebony malevolence. At their fore stood the tattered body of the erstwhile Constable of Glynden, Kyndalyn the Younger. The companions exploded into action as the mob of zombies charged with an inarticulate howl!
To Be Continued…
Next: The Long Race
Enjoy!
~ Old One
Rel said:
This is an especially shocking moment for me. DMing my own Faded Glory game put me in the position of running Kyndalyn as an NPC and I grew rather attached to him.
Ah well, "kill your pretties" and all that.
For Old One to "kill his pretties" he'd have to some up with some way to slay pits!
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