Carnifex's Story Hour (Updated January 20th, "The Union")

[Carnifex]

I think I'm going to return to writing this story hour as a mix of summary and chosen pieces of the actual text, rather than a total text reformat - I think it'll just be a bit easier for me to write it all up

Volunteers, Anyone?

Latorath listened attentively to Kale's ideas, nodding as he did so. "I can indeed use my magic to protect from fire, though the individual in question might well still be scorched - I can't guarantee full shielding from the firebombs. They'd need to carry... five, maybe six vials, detonate them all at once, if they hoped to drive off or kill any werewolves close enough to lunge at them."

The inquisitor then listened carefully to the words of Burl as he too outlined some measures to combat the lycanthropes. "Your plan with the bandages, although somewhat gruesome, is well thought - I'm just not sure whether these werewolves would be crazed enough to take the lure of a few bloodied rags. As for tossing the body out to the pack,"the man's voice hardened, "I refuse to allow the corpse to be desecrated in such a vile way, especially a follower of Solanthar. Your priestess companion speaks well - that was once a man and as such I will not see him used as bait nor fodder for ravening fiends such as those outside. As a priest of Solanthar I cannot stand by and allow such a thing to happen." He snorted. "If perhaps we had some werewolf corpses, then the foul things could be used for such a purpose, but all we possess in that vein is our captive lycanthrope chained up in the priest's quarters, and I want her kept alive."

It was obvious from the reactions of the others that they agreed with the Inquisitor on the matter of using corpses as bait. The necromancer's idea had been expedient, certainly, but at a fundamental level too gruesome a concept for most of them to stomach, and certainly not something they would undertake if they could avoid it. Burl was just beginning to realize that there was a fundamental difference of opinion between most people and those who chose his field of study. To Burl, the human body was just a vessel for the soul, no difference from an old ale or wine barrel that had outlived it’s usefulness. However, since he seemed to be in the minority, he would have to keep his ideas to himself from now on or continue to draw unwanted attention to himself.

[/color]"Now, we need to organise both a party to sally out to the forge, and who is to undertake the distraction. The sallying party will take a number of weapons and bolts with them for silvering in the forge; the blacksmith assures me he possesses a few silver bars anyway, normally for use for ornamenting, and adding a few iron bars to increase the total amount we can make shouldn't decrease the effectiveness of the silver in any sizeable way."[/color] As he spoke, the parish priest headed into the back rooms and returned with a small chest of silver coins; offering the tithes he had accrued for times of emergency as further material for silvering weapons.

Kale took the moment to look around the temple, seeing the shafts of light illuminating the knots of weary villagers clustered within the sanctuary. How much would be lost here, if our little plans fail? Kale pondered, shifting his weight on his heals as he sized up the situation. Squaring himself against the increasing burdens of reality, the young mercenary set his jaw, and listened determinedly.

"We couldn't free her, mustn't kill her, but what if the woman was to plead the lives of her family from the back gate? While the crew runs out the front to the smithy- we could have our first distraction." Kale thought aloud, his first real low-risk idea the entire day. Latorath regarded the four mercs with exceeding patience, but as Kale looked to the Inquisitor, he hoped that his simple suggestion would help smooth out any ruffled feathers and dinged confidence as a result of their earlier reckless ideas.

But to gets the smithy crew back? That still left the question of "who is to undertake this distraction." Kale clenched his jaw at the mention, conscious now more than ever of his environment. Great warriors before him, hopeful villagers- how much did they hear?- and crew companions who knew he was certainly no god...
The promise of quick healing regardless, the concept of baiting wolves and immolating oneself was wholly unreal. His eyes ran over the temple once more- their condition hadn't changed: a huddled mass, counting the moments. What he did here would be reflected in so many eyes: villagers who through necessity endured the unbearable, veteran warriors who had seen all this and more, and a young trio who hoped to see some more. Images in those eyes, all he could be, all he wasn't, what little he was... for what little it mattered. Different ways to see the same man, amounting to what?

Failure and death- close partners today. If I just make it to tomorrow, then whatever I am... it'll be enough.

Kale stood straight and relaxed. To occupy his hands, he eased them behind to a casual parade rest. These warriors before him- to speak up to the task felt an inexcusable act of ego. Kale would run, and he would burn, and he could very likely die... but it wouldn't be for merit, it wouldn't be for ego, it wouldn't be for 'honor.' And the gods know it wouldn't be for The Cause.

A little task, for Kale alone. He could prepare when the others had left to the forge, hiding his emotions then from the Sun God's Champions who remained. He could do all this, or die. It was a world of small choices, but Kale stood ready to walk out the few before him.

"I'll do it."

 

[Carnifex]

Wyshira and Burl volunteered themselves to accompany the smithy party; a decision on Burl's part that was partially based on his desire to keep away from the Inquisitor. It was obvious that they had their differences of opinion on certain matters, so the best course of action open to him seemed to be to keep a low profile and do what he could to help that wouldn't upset anyone else.

Latorath gazed at Kale, the Inquisitor's features locked in impasive calm, but the young mercenary thought he could detect a litlle... admiration? in the man's eyes. "You are brave, young man. I respect that." Kale looked quizically to the Inquisitor, unsure what to think. The effects of such a declaration, Kale couldn't know, but it was a compliment from a good man: Kale shook himself from his indecision and nodded respectfully.

Let's just hope this bravery gets me back alive...

"Nonetheless, our captive werewolf is of no use in creating a distraction for us. She is, to be blunt, a raving madwoman; all she does is mutter and speak what is more or less gibberish at the moment. I believe her mind has broken - shattered, like a mirror."

"So we have yourself, young man, to provide our last distraction. You, young priestess, and your wizard companion here, perhaps accompanied by the smith and two more warriors? Yet we need the preliminary bait still."

"Nothing I can't deal with," Wolf said in his quiet tone, locking gazes with Evant; and the knight strode over to stand by the mercenary, gleaming armour catching the rays of sun and sending them dazzling off in all directions.

"It'll only be a short distraction before they realise that there'll be no point attacking us," the Templar said enigmatically, "but I'm pretty sure we can catch their attention for a little while, enough to get the smithy party out of the back of the building and over to their destination."

The Inquisitor nodded. "I trust you two to have a good plan, then." He smiled suddenly. "Evant always does seem to in situations like this. Very well, are you all ready? Any last suggestions before we embark upon this?"

There were no more suggestions.

The merc team equipped themselves liberally with firebombs, though Wyshira found a certain repulsion at the thought of horrible, consuming fire, her water genasi nature coming to the fore. Kale dumped most of his gear within the temple; if he was going to effectively immolate himself there was no point incarrying any gear with him that might be damaged in the chase and subsequent flames. His quiver of arrows was passed to Burl with instructions to silver the tips while they were at work. He also borrowed some boots of an unsuspecting villager, having no real wish to burn his own footwear. He just hoped he wouldn't end up like these temporary boots...

"Wolf, tell me something about these werewolves." Wyshira asked the older mercenary before he walked away with the Templar to plan their diversion. "I've only heard folk tales, which I never really more than half believed." It was certainly true that, even if she did believe that werewolves existed, she had never imagined being faced with such creatures herself, outside of a nightmare. "What do they want? Is it our blood they are after? Or is it death alone that they feed on? And what about what the legends say? Is it true that those who are bitten by werewolves are cursed and become one of them?" Wyshira spoke quietly, just loud enough for Wolf and any of the crew to hear. No need to give the hapless villagers any more reason to be afraid, after all.

Wolf shrugged at Wyshira's questions. "I think these werewolves want their packmate back. I don't think they feed on death or blood any more than any other carnivorous creature, either. As for whether others can be turned into werewolves by a lycanthropes bite, I doubt it. I've never seen it happen myself."

"Right, form up," Latorath commanded loudly, suddenly falling into the persona of field sergeant with apparent ease as he marshalled the militiamen into action. "You two - crossbows and spears, yes, that's right, take some scale mail too, you might need the protection. Grab one of the crates of crossbow bolts. You two," he gestured to Wyshira and Burl, "take another container of weapons between you." They then ran into problems of course, because there was still the matter of carrying a few more weapons to be silvered, and the silver itself, so Latorath quickly assigned an additional militiaman to what he had originally planned to aid the blacksmith, a big burly man, in carrying such objects. "Four men, covering the rear exit with crossbows, fire on any werewolves that attempt to block the sallying party. Another four, cover Evant and the mercenary out front, same orders. Others, keep up same perimeter positions, fire on any sign of werewolf activity - we'll need to keep them cowering. Don't use any firebombs unless they suddenly try and mass an attack."

As the Inquisitor dispersed orders, the small band of six headed through into the back of the temple, entering the kitchen. The small room had a door opening out back - currently barricaded, along with windows from which militia soldiers scanned the open ground around the priests herb garden, a small area lined with a low hedge. The fire was on, a pot boiling up food for the refugees in the main hall, and the elderly priest carefully doled it out into bowls to be dispersed amongst them.

With the guards having pulled on scale mail, they were ready to go; the blacksmith had grabbed a hefty wood-chopping axe for himself but the merceneries knew it was unlikely to prove much use against the lycanthropes.

At the front entrance, the throng within watched the Templar and the mercenary curiously, the two men apparently rather jovial for people about to run the gauntlet of a rabid lycanthrope coven.

"Time for some wolf-baiting," Wolf said quietly, suddenly grinning in uncharacteristic fashion.

The Solar Templar drew his blade, the weapon glinting in the light, and nodded. "Certainly. Let's see how long it takes for the message to get through their thick skulls, shall we?"

* * *

The two men rushed out of the front double doors down the street, a good many feet covered before they came to a halt and began yelling, taunting and generally making a racket. It wasn't long before trouble showed.

Shapes suddenly moving amidst the nearby shadows revealed that the werewolves stationed to watch the temple were closing in with interest, a certain wariness visible as they slunk out of cover to approach. All in hybrid form - scrawny, mangy wolfmen of haggard but wiry appearance, they circled in towards the men and snarled with slobbering jaws, feral visages twisted in malice.

Wolf simply made a rude gesture at them.

Snarling, they all loped in.

* * *

"Go!" commanded one of the militia crossbowmen, and the party of six began to run down the street towards the blacksmiths, the sound of conflict coming from over the other side of the temple. Hopefully the diversion was working, but it didn't make the run any less nervewracking; hearts skipped a beat at the slightest movement within shadows, that might herald the appearance of a slavering killer.

They were nearly there when the zip and zing of crossbows heralded pursuit. A lone wolfman had come running from a sidestreet to intercept them but the militia bolts sent him scuttling back for cover, and they made the last few feet to the smithy.

* * *

The militia crossbowmen at the front of the temple opened fire, their precious few silvered bolts arcing at the closing wolfmen. Few hit, and there was fear of striking the two men.

But this sudden sting, as one werewolf staggered with a bolt in its thigh and an other ran yelping in pain from a hit to its buttock, caused some faltering from the oncoming pack, and it was only compounded when Wolf raised his hands, and simply clapped three times, muttering something under his voice. It was odd, maybe a prayer or something, but the rather launguid stance of the two men combined with this nonchalant gesture confused the werewolves momentarily. Then they just charged in anyway, four werewolves against two men.

Wolf and Evant stood there with faintly bored expressions on their faces as the lycanthropes tried to claw them to pieces but with merely the effect as if they were hitting a brick wall. Latorath watched fascinatedly from the temple, saying to himself quielty but loud enough for Kale to hear, "Fascinating. I can feel Fenris at work..."

The werewolves stopped, puzzled, then Evant ran one through with his sword.

* * *

In the smithy, the party could hear the sounds of fighting had died down - they could only pray that the diversion had made it through alive, for from here, with the limited vision supplied by the building, they could not see for themselves. The lay of the building meant that the people in the temple couldn't get a clear view of them, either.

A squat, low building off of the blacksmiths actual home, the square single room was walled with stone and rooved with thick timbers and slate. One single window looked out onto a sidestreet, while the broad door opened up onto the adjoining side. With the forge taking up much of one corner of the place, the other walls were lined with tools and objects, and fuel and boxes of materials were scattered around.

The three militiamen quickly closed the wooden door and barricaded it solidly, though through cracks they could keep a view into the street beyond. Likewise, the window had its shutters bolted closed. Dumping their baggage on the ground, they set to work aiding the blacksmith to fire up the forge, and the smith then searched out to find his own bars of silver, along with iron chunks to add to the quantity. Laying the massive axe down by it, he began work.

"It'll be a while before we have enough heat to melt up the silver - sorry 'bout that. We'll just have to sit it out 'till then."

* * *

Wolf and Evant strode back into the temple, the werewolves having fled. "Did they make it?"

* * *

There was a crunch as something slammed itself against the barricaded smithy door, and the militiamen sprang to grab their weapons. On the other side, a werewolf rabidly began to claw its way through the timbers.

Suddenly the bolted shutters splintered inwards as the upper torso of a werewolf appeared through it, this second interloper pulling its way in with a crazed and feral look on its muzzled features.

 

[Carnifex]

The entire smithy band had been incredibly jumpy after the desperate run for the relative safety of the building; now the sudden werewolf assault kicked them into a frenzy of activity. Wyshira surged with the might of the Storm Lady, power flowing into her voice as she cast a cause fear spell with a shout of "Run away in fear! For I serve Ishrak and the Storm will take you!"

* * *

Wolf gave a mostly humourless grin as he set down his weapons on one of the pews, Evant sitting himself down to clean his bloodied blade. The villagers just watched the duo cautiously, unsure as to exactly what had just happened, and Latorath peered at the pair with narrowed eyes from his position by one of the windows.

"Well, as long as they made it, now all we can do is wait..."

* * *

The rabid lycathrope at the door continued to try and smash its way in, but the one at the window was nearly entirely in, scrawny arms pushing against the stone walls to force itself into the building.

"Alchemists fire wont speed up the forge, lad," growled the blacksmith in response to Burl's frantic ideas for speeding up the process of melting the silver, hefting his greataxe and looking from door to window. "It'd just burn itself out in moments, won't help the heat much."

The three militiamen moved to head off the window-wolf with their spears, jabbing at the creature, but Wyshira's spell filled the beast with unnatural fear, and in terror it fled back out through the window it had entered by, disappearing from sight as it howled in panic. Even as that attacker fled, the one assaulting the door apparently thought better of a solo strike and it too let up on smashing at the door.

Eerie quiet settled over the village again, not a sound from outside betraying the presence of the werewolves in the settlement. Only the forge gave noise, fire crackling away as the heat began to build up.

* * *

The blacksith was working away over the forge, sweat dripping down off his forehead as he made preparations for the silvering. It wouldn't be long now before they could do it, he had said, and then be done with this place and back to the temple.

The silence outside was broken by a pitiful moaning, that of someone in terrible, terrible pain. Looking out of the window showed a horrible sight.

Crawling slowly through the dirt, hands clawing into the earth to drag himself along, a dishevelled and bloodied man in peasant garb was slowly dragging himself towards the door of the smithy. His other hand clutched at his belly; it looked like he had been severly injured in the abdomen, for as he dragged himself along he was leaving a long smear of blood in his wake.
His voice, pitifully weak, could just be heard. "Help me, please," he called out towards the barricaded building some thirty feet away.

* * *

Wolf's mirthless expression was mirrored in Kale, as the return of the ranger and Templar marked the beginning of what could be a very long struggle.

The young mercenary clasped his hands behind him, as he itched in nervousness to do something, anything. Instead, he just stood beside Latorath, trying to affect the schooled patience that the Templar of Solanthar and the follower of Fenris wore like familiar battle mail.

Shadows lengthened in the temple, villagers milling about and trying their best to go about the necessities of life, to pretend that a tangible curtain of death didn't hang over them all. The militia went about their own routine, knotting together, talking softly about things other than wolves and battle. Wolf, Evant, and Latorath, they all seemed deep in thought, but confident.

Kale beathed in a musty breath- the very air held tension, so many agitated people in one place. The Sun God Temple, with high ceilings, and large, well-placed windows was well-made to let in the light, setting off the simple but expert craftsmanship. Ironically, the open plan, the inviting spaces, the lighted areas served only as a painful reminder of the clearance and freedom that were denied those held hostage inside.

Moment by moment, they waited.

* * *

As Wyshira watched the terrified werewolf retreat back out the window in response to her spell, she hoped that she hadn't just used power that she would need later on. Being able to do something though, had helped to steady her nerves, and surprisingly, she felt a little calmer after the brief assault on the smithy by the fiendish creatures.

At first, she didn't hear the low moans coming from the street outside. One of the militia men whose hearing was keen picked up on it, even over the sound of the smith's preparations, and alerted the rest of them. She stood at the window peering out at the deserted town and saw him: a man who seemed to be barely alive, dragging himself toward the safety of the smith, leaving a bloody trail behind him.

"Quickly! Open the door!" she called to Burl urgently. She unslung her pack from her shoulder and pulled out her basket of healing supplies. She hoped that the man wouldn't die before she could get to him.

Burl looked, knowing Wyshira couldn’t resist helping the wounded man, but he had his suspicions. “Wyshira, I know that you want to help him, but please wait until the militiamen are ready to give you some cover before you run out. Also, maybe it would be wise to see if any of them recognize the man.” Burl yelled to the militiamen to take positions, one by the window and the others by the doors for when we open them. Then Burl started to open one of the doors only enough for Wyshira to slip through.

He paused to mentally communicate some safeguard measures to his familiar. Spike, we are going to bring this man inside. I am going to let you loose. If you smell or see something wrong about this man, let me know.

In the background the sounds of the blacksmith resounded through the forge, pumping the bellows into the hot coals to bring the furance into roaring ruddy-lit life. The burly man sweated and muttered as he went about his work.

The militiamen shrugged at Burl's questioning; they did not know the man, butt hen they themselves were not locals - none of the militia were. They were just a militia detachment attached to the Inquisitor for his use.

Spike, having been put down on the floor, didn't seem to have noticed anything wrong about the injured man, instead quietly snuffling after woodlice in the dark corners of the forge.

The door, opened slightly for Wyshira to slip through, spilled sunlight into the red-lit room. Stepping outside, the priestess could see that in all directions the lanes seemed clear of any threats. Some twenty feet ahead of her, the injured man seemde to be weakening, his clawing through the earth dragging him shorter and shorter distances. He didn't seem to be entirely aware of his surroundings, eyes not focusing on the woman ahead. In the back of her mind, she questioned how this man could still be alive, echoing some of Burl's caution - Why haven't the werewolves finished him off, and where are they now? But the way seemed clear, and the man looked to be very near death. If she didn't get to him quickly, he would not survive much longer.

With one last glance around for sign of any creatures lurking in the shadows, she quickly moved the 20 feet to reach the man as he continued to try to drag himself to safety. She knelt down beside him and focused completely on saving his life.

"I'm here to help you now... Be at ease." She spoke soothingly as she gently examined his wounds and tried to ascertain his condition.

* * *

Against Burl’s better wishes, he watched as Wyshira slipped through the doors and went to the aid of the wounded man. He watched to see if any of the werewolves would try to take advantage of her while out in the open. Turning to the militiamen, he checked, making sure each had silvered weapons to assist Wyshira if the need arose. “Smithy, how much longer before we have the weapons ready for our flight back to the temple.” Burl waited by the doors for Wyshira to drag the man back to the relative safety of the blacksmith’s shop. Spotting his familiar chasing dinner, Burl sent a mental request that the little hedgehog return to the safety of his case.

Spike scuttled back to Burl as the blacksmith threw the necromancer a glance. "Give us half an hour before we can start silvering the weapons."

Spike was sniffing the air as he scurried over. Through the empathetic link with his familiar, Burl could tell that the little creature was somewhat dismayed by the scent of rotting offal on the air. Suddenly alert, the necromancer turned around just in time to save Wyshira's life.

* * *

With a snarl the man rose up before the priestess. One hand had been clutching to his belly a mass of foul offal, bloodied innards that were now thrown to slap disgustingly against the previously pristine robes of Wyshira. There was a gristly crunch as the man shapeshifted into a foully disfigured wolfman, snarling as it lunged at her.

Wyshira was almost incapable of reacting to the situation, so surprised was she by the sudden change in the man she took to be injured and in need of her aid. Already on her knees, she fell back from the shifting wolf-creature, instinctively holding her healer's kit out in front of her like a shield and turning her face away. She tried to scramble to her feet, backing slowly away and toward the smithy. The wolfman savagely lunged out and bit deeply into her, tearing out a chunk of flesh and eliciting gouts of her blue-tinted blood from the gaping wound. Even with her desperate defence as she backed off, it followed snarling and lashing out in primeval fury, her own gore splattered over its muzzle and teeth to give it a fearful appearance as it bore down on her.

The thing's fury was cut short as a knife-like shard of ice stabbed forth from Burl's hand, biting right into the things chest. Blood that spouted forth immediately froze into crimson frost, and with a pained spasm the werewolf collapsed to the ground having been chilled to death.
Injured and in pain, Wyshira was able to stagger the last few feet back into the smithy without any further incident.

 

[Carnifex]

Return to the Smithy:

Burl watched as his frozen shard of ice flew toward the werewolf, striking it in the chest. But his actions had not been quick enough to save Wyshira the pain of having the creature rip a chunk out of her. The werewolf had paid with it’s life, the blood freezing in the wound.

“Quick, help me get the door open for her.” yelled Burl as he began to open the door, letting Wyshira inside the blacksmith’s shop. Helping her to lie down on a pile of straw, Burl reached over, pulling a jar of salve from his pack. Gouging his fingers into the jar, he drew out the healing salve contained, smoothing it over Wyshira’s wound.

“Lie still Wyshira. Let the salve do it’s job. You will need all your strength when we make the trip back to the temple soon.” There was nothing more he could do for her other than let the salve work on her. He could only hope that the silvering could begin soon so they could make the journey back to the temple and that she would be healthy enough to return without help.

"I'm all right," Wyshira said, wincing as Burl rubbed the bitter smelling ointment into her wound. Though she wasn't all right, not really. It had been such a shock to see what she thought was a helpless villager in need of her healing touch, change in the blink of an eye into a rampaging monster hell-bent on savagely ending her life.

And the fiery pain in her shoulder.... Don't look, she thought. That's my blood spattered all over the place! The thought made her dizzy.

Burl's salve was beginning to have an affect however. At first it burned, so much so that she had to set her jaw hard and concentrate to keep from crying out; but finally a sort of numbness set in, and she was able to relax a bit and rest. She looked up at the necromancer as he continued to tend to her, his face full of concern, and gave him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Burl."

As Burl rubbed the glutinous salve into the wound, the flow of blood dripped to a halt and the cooling balm took away much of the pain. The wound itself was still there but already the alchemical substances in Burl's application were acting to ensure fast and clean healing. Over by the forge, the smith took out his first silvered item; the wood-chopping axe. The head gleamed with its silvered plating, and the burly man grinned.

It wasn't all that long later when they finally finished, batches of arrows, bolts and weapons all silvered and ready for use. The smith sent a gout of smoke up the chimney, the signal to the temple.

"Everyone prepare to move," he said, bag of bolts on his back and silvered greataxe clenched tightly.

* * *

They'd been sitting around in more or less silence for a few hours in the temple, not a werewolf in sight, when the calm was broken by one of the militia entering from the back rooms.

"The signal's up - they're finished in the smithy!"

Latorath turned to gaze calmly at Kale. "Looks like it's your time for glory, young man. The blessings of Solantha protect you from fire," and with a muttered prayer and bowed head he wove a holy pattern with his hands. For a moment, divine energy suffused the air around the young mercenary with a white glow.

* * *

Burl gathered up his equipment, making sure Spike was secure in his bag. Turning to Wyshira, he asked, "Are you going to be okay to make the return trip to the temple by yourself, or will you need my assistance?"

He paused.

"And Wyshira, when we get close to the temple, if Kale is in need of any help, I plan on being there for him. Don't wait for me, but continue on to the temple."

Wyshira gathered up her newly silvered shark-fang javelins, admiring the way they glinted in the light, and made ready for the return trip to the temple. Now is when the werewolves are sure to attack in numbers, she reminded herself. She tested her arm and shoulder, and found that the wound was only slightly tender still; she could use her arm almost normally, and hadn't needed to call on the healing power of the goddess at all.

Burl continued to hover round her, helping her with this or that, and she was touched by his concern. "I'm fine," she told him, and this time she meant it. "The wound is practically healed. Is that salve your own concoction? I'd love to know how you made it! I'm sure I'll make it back to the temple without any trouble. But if you think I'm going to run like a hare, and leave you and Kale to deal with those creatures alone, you're daft!" She folded her arms across her chest and glared at the necromancer with mock fierceness. "I might be of some use out there, especially if either of you are in need of healing." She tried not to think of Kale carrying out his crazy diversion, engulfed in flame, charring himself to a crisp. And yet she knew that she needed to be prepared for such an eventuality. She had her vials of healing waters close to hand. "Burl, don't do anything foolish out there. At least, not without me. Promise?"

Burl was glad to see the feisty priestess was okay and ready to go or so it seemed to him watching her handle her shark-fang javelins. “No, Wyshira I am not planning on running out and going toe to toe with the werewolves. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything anymore foolish than our friend Kale.” With that said and done, Burl waited with the rest for some sign that the rabbit had left the hole.

* * *

Making quick fists with his hands, the damp cold sweat was his body's next protest. But as the last colored rays of sun had leapt from temple floor to simple worked walls, softly lit clusters of displaced peoples laid the proof that there was no turning back.

All was ready, Kale needn't check his gear for the tenth time. Weapons ready, and seven strange flasks fixed, poised for the last hour and tensely awaiting their time for use. Anything that could be done, was done... it was time.

Latorath stood, plate-armored sentinel, patron of holy powers, sending the divine blessing that glowed briefly in soft aura. To his right, Evant was resplendant in his shining mail, its spotless face so many times past a ready canvas for his enemy's blood. Beside and hardly noticed remained Wolf, leather-clad and travel-worn. Next to the metal so bold, it was as though he were invisible. But a second look, then a third- sharp gaze and sharper blade revealed the mysterious ranger in proper company. Of the three, bards could sing of glory while they still lived.

"Gentlemen," Kale said simply, before turning quickly to go. It was a relief to be going, after feeling so out of place. Maybe things will better fit when I return, Kale thought optimistically, nodding from a distance for the guard to open the heavy door. Yeah, right. Gritting his teeth, he burst through the threshold at a full sprint, teeth gritted, eyes slitted- looking for trouble that was sure to come.

Focusing as he could, his breath came easily and quickly, in gulps he could only hope would not be his last. The orange evening sun silently touched the horizon as road gravel ground and chain flashed the village's only sign of life...

 

[Carnifex]

Kale's feet crunched on the gravel as he left the small hedged grass area of the temple, moving off the stone slab path and onto village road. Around him the streets slithered off in various directions, providing a moments disorientation before he struck off directly away from the temple front. The eerie quiet pervaded the entire settlement; the noise that the mercenary was making in his flight was like an alien interloper into the oppressive silence, a suffocating and cloying thing hanging heavy over hushed houses.

Only a few more paces down the road and the howl of a lycanthrope destroyed the calm for good, piercing shriek slashing through the air to be joined by a dozen others, howls and yelps and pack-gathering barks to summon the coven after their quarry. Shapes slunk and shifted down side-streets, amidst the shadows by buildings, and in the concealing dark of buildings.

The pack knew he had left the building. The pack chased.

Some half-dozen werewolves tracked after him, cautious and yet eager to bring down this lone runner. As Kale continued to sprint lycanthropes left the shadows and came into the reddening light, racing after the human with unnatural pace and agility.

His path took him to one of the outskirts, a barn full of hay. Running inside the low entryway, he found himself in the dark, humid innards of the construction, high bales around him blocking his view but still enough line of sight for him to pick out the ladder up to the loft that hung over half of the interior space.

He began to climb even as dark shapes slunk in behind him, dispersing amidst the gloomy bales and watching him hungrily. As he reached the loft, he could see in the dark void below the glinting eyes of the ravenous brood; watching and waiting to see what the human might try next.

Fumbling with the firebomb, he sent it arcing through the darkness to splash over the doorway, engulfling the entrance with flame that began to lick and flicker at the dry hay. Alarmed werewolves hissed down below; one launched itself up the ladder, leaping half the height with a single jump and rapidly hauling itself up to be most of the way to the loft already.

* * *

The doors to the smith’s shop slid open, Burl peeking out. All was quiet, no sign of the werewolves. The smithy party scurried out of the forge, hoping that those in the temple had already put the distraction into motion. The whumph of a firebomb detonating over the other side of the village indicated it had; but the direction and distance meant that Kale was well away from their aid. The smith led them hurrying towards the temple compound and the comparative safety to be found there.

* * *

Hot, dusty air singed flared nostrils, Kale stood atop the loft breathing desperately. A strange relief washed over him- that although numerous werewolves surrounding him nearly sealed his fate, the quickly mounting flames in the doorway threatened to seal the wolves' fates.

This was a battle Kale could not possibly win, the reality driven home as one powerful wolf leapt nearly half the height of the ladder: these beasts were far beyond anything Kale could handle.

Time, play for time, Kale reminded himself as he squared himself at the ladder. Old academy lessons of rampart defence suffused his mind- boring lessons Kale knew he would never use. Poor fodder defending another's livelihood, that was a scenario he thought he would never be in. That, perhaps, was the most ironic part of the sad, frantic scene.

The young mercenary would sooner run himself through than become a pawn to consolidate a noble's power, yet in a burning barn, surrounded by ravenous beasts, Kale could say that he really didn't mind too much- to detach from the horror of the moment, he considered that dying for one's companions was much finer than being spent as one straw in a bale of some ruler's bloody poor infantry.

It was satisfaction, then, when Kale set the silvered spear he had commandeered from a militiaman, to recieve a charging wolfbeast. Ramparts hadn't the benefit of rafters overhead, and it was the first and least important of many distinctions that meant that this place, this time was worth dying for... maybe even living for.

Wild but fearful eyes were not a difficult expression to assume, Kale goading the animal up to the slaughter. C'mon, think like animals, not men... Just a little longer, the wolves needed to think they were still chasing prey...

* * *

Wyshira strained to see in the fading light; every shadow seemed to quiver with movement caught only with the tail of her eye. She imagined grotesque wolf-like shapes slinking along behind them as they hurried toward the Temple with their load of silvered weapons, the feral creatures holding back till just the right moment to spring.

But finally she had to admit that the werewolves were unaware of their presence on the streets, and therefore must have take the bait. Were the monsters even now being led on that wild-Kale chase to the outskirts of town; taking their final steps to a fiery end?

A sound in the distance, like the onrush of flame in a dry, summer-time forest firestorm, made her tremble with fear for her fellow-mercenary. Burl urged the smith and milita men on toward safety, and frantically, she echoed his words: "Hurry! Hurry!" Once the weapons were delivered to the Temple, she had to get to Kale. "Burl, where's that barn? We-" but she stopped in mid-sentence, staring away beyond the Temple at an orange glow reflecting off the low overcast, and a column of thick black smoke rising into the twilit sky. The barn was already burning.

* * *

As its packmates gathered below the lycanthrope climbing the ladder came towards Kale with terrible speed, jaws dripping saliva down to the straw-covered barn floor far below. The mercenary set his spear to recieve the beast but with insane dextrousness it simply dodged the tip and clambered up using the very shaft of the weapon to aid its approach.

There was a moment as Kale faced the lanky, tall beast, insane eyes glaring at him from the feral features, and then it lunged at him, jaws tearing at his shoulder. The weight of the beast sent kale staggering and his foot slipped out to step onto void; then the pair plummetted down off the loft to hit the barn floor below with a thunk.

Kale should have known better, but a fall as in slow-motion offered him plenty of time to consider his folly. All the unwise and unreal and utterly useless sentiments had stabbed him and sent him falling. Glory was for the bards, indeed. Survival was the mercenary's mandate.

The impact was agonising, especially with the weight of the werewolf on top of him, and since it had the mercenary as a cushion his attacker seemed barely fazed by the drop. Unable to do much other than groan in agony and watch the pack circle in from the shadows from the kill, Kale felt something digging into his back.

Glass.

Shards from smashed vials, shattered by his drop.

The fireball blasted flaming hay around the interior of the building like a rain of incendiary drops, the werewolf atop Kale covered in a layer of sticky fire that it couldn't douse no matter how hard it tried, as it rolled away into a bale and set the thing alight, consuming it within the inferno. The nearest pack members whimpered and howled as droplets of liquid fire spattered over their faces, the bales and timbers around them blazing up in fire and the wisps of burning hay clogging the air. The animals leapt and rolled around the place in confused and terrified madness.

Kale could see the liquid fire burning all over the surface of his clothes, but thus far the priest's magics seemed to be holding out and he felt no more than a slight warmth. He couldn't tell how long it might last though, and the pain of the bite and the fall had been bad enough.

Luck was not without a sense of humor, it seemed. For although fang and shard and flame quickly chased away any delusion of grandeur, the engulfing blaze threatened to consume the wolves' pride, as well.

Rolling to his feet, pain suffused his body, but Kale focused instead on confused and uncertain wolves. Pupils irising to mere pinpricks, it was an odd feeling to be a walking inferno. If not for the searing pain in his shoulder, he might have been able to appreciate the experience.

In the stories, Kale would have stayed to inflict more pain and confusion upon the foul beasts. In reality, the bruised and bleeding mercenary cut and ran. Only a part of him was upset that he could not take advantage of his enemies so vulnerable. Every other bit of him knew that it was time to run for his life.

Strange bright light from all directions emphasized the unreality of the whole situation. The human torch took flight, stabbing with his spear at a wolf too hysterical to get out of the way; but the inferno had already caught the weapon in its grip and the charred haft simply broke as it impacted, leaving the silver spearhead embedded in the flank of the lycanthrope. Tipping some bales before the entrance as he left, Kale ran downwind from the barn, a flaming pyre fleeing the chaos.

Schooling his breath, Kale struggled to protect his lungs- protection fom fire he had, but from smoke he was just as vulnerable. Thankful he had left his cloak behind, Kale sprinted between two buildings, then dove to the dust to extinguish the last of the flames. Slipping into the nearby structure, Kale donned his unfamiliar black ring, quaffed a strange blue vial, and waited to regain his bearings and breath. Truly scared eyes took in his surroundings: Kale still needed to get back to the temple, and he was quickly running out of tricks...

 

[Broccli_Head]

Go Kale, Go!

 

[Carnifex]

Silent Runnings:

Finding himself in one of the small villagers houses, Kale slipped the umbramantic ring on his finger and watched as the shadows around the room slipped towards him, draping him in darkness and bringing a cool sensation to his skin after the encompassing warmth of the burning barn. He reached for his healing potion, only to find that it too had been shattered by the fall; the precious liquid within had doubtless spilt on the barn floor, now burned to steam by the inferno that was consuming the building over the road. As he watched, support timbers within failed and the barn begin to collapse in on itself.

Looking around the house, it seemed to be a normal, one-storey peasant home; but something unpleasant on the air caught his nostrils. He found the source quickly, in a pool of blood by the fire. The owner seemed to have been caught by the werewolves during their initial attck, an elderly man with his throat torn out, curled in a foetal position in death.

* * *

The temple loomed up over the smithy party as they scurried the last few feet into its protecting embrace; once within, all could let out a sigh of relief. Militiamen grabbed the boxes of arrows and weapons, carrying them into the main chamber to be handed out to the troops; the 'commanders', Wolf, Evant and Latorath, quickly hurried to meet the returned band.

"Thank Ishrak," Wolf said with a lopsided grin as he saw that the mercenaries had returned without too much apparent damage to life and limb. "Seems the decoy worked well enough to get you lot back here in one piece."

* * *

Char stung Kale's nose as stifled a growl, angry with himself that he'd broken his needed potion. Sitting enshrouded in shadow, it was more important than ever that he haul his battered body back to the temple- without being detected.

Foul scent and sight, Kale's encountered the corpse of a hapless villager. There was no sorrow in the mercenary's heart, as the sight served only as a warning in this desperate time. Screw up, and you end up like this.

Taking a cloth to quickly bind his torn shoulder, Kale gritted his teeth for the pain, peeking as he did so through the window and the deadly zone beyond. Precious little time for preparation, he exited into shadow as quickly as he could. Making his way downwind for a bit, he turned then and parallelled his way back to the temple, hoping the wolves' darkvision was an exagerated fable.

Drawing his sword slowly from a baked leather sheath, Kale moved out, concealing the odd oily blade from any light source. To the balls of his feet, he watched and moved silently, prey in a stalking game he simply couldn't afford to lose.

* * *

The temple doors opened for them. Relieved, Burl uttered, “Quickly men, inside the temple. They must quickly arm themselves as we need to help Kale.” Burl handed his share of the items off and waited for the last to make it safely inside before he shut the door behind him. Looking to Wolf and the others, “What of Kale? Has he been spotted?” Barely waiting for an answer, he continued, “Shouldn’t we be going to look for him?

His question was echoed by the priestess. "Where's Kale? Did Kale make it back?" Wyshira searched the faces of those gathered in the Temple, looking for an answer to her question. She barely even noticed Wolf's words of thanksgiving to the goddess.
Kale was not there. "Wolf, Burl and I are going for Kale," she told the older mercenary even as she was heading towards the temple door.

As Wyshira and Burl headed for the way out, intent on seeking Kale, Wolf interposed himself between them and the exit, iron grip grasping their shoulders.

"No."

"You go out that door, what do you think you'll achieve? You're right, Kale isn't back yet. That means he's either dead, in which case there's nothing you can do for him, or he's alive and well and trying to make his way back. If you go storming out there after him, and he's trying to quietly make his way back, what do you think you'll achieve?"

"You'll alert them to his presence, and yours. It'll most likely be the death of all of you. If you go running out there now, the coven will tear you to pieces. Kale, on his own, stands a chance of getting back. We've pretty much expended all the tricks we have of decoying the wolves so we just have to sit and wait for him to make it back by himself."

"You think Kale wants to make it back for me to tell him that you two got torn to shreds by running off on your own into the village?"

The Inquisitor and the Solar Templar watched silently; a matter for the mercenaries to solve amidst themselves, it seemed.

Burl heard these words, then thought, Maybe we will achieve getting Kale back again. But he answered instead, “What good did we accomplish by bringing these weapons back if we don’t use them. Arm the men so we can sweep through the city while the beasts are confused. And at the same time maybe, just maybe we can save our friend. If we wait until the morning, the beasts will have had time to recover and regroup and our task will be much harder and more than likely Kale will be dead.” Even as he spoke, Burl knew that Wolf and the others were right and that Kale would just have to make it on his own.

* * *

It is here that a new PC joins the game: Cord, a monk of Grumand (the earth god) and a dwarf. What makes this character so unique is that he is also entirely blind. We came up with a special ‘Blind’ template for him; effectively he cannot make use of any sight-related ability, while gaining a big bonus to Listen checks and suchlike. However, since he is also a monk and focused towards perfect attunement, the template also grants him Blindsight out to a distance of up to half his speed; meaning that as he progresses in monk levels and his speed increases, so does his ability to sense the world around him to a far higher peak through listening, smell and feeling movements in the air around him.

For Cord, travel didn't abide by the normal rhythms of day and night. He walked when he felt able, and slept when he was tired. For the sightless, whether it was the gloom of night or the light of day did not matter.
Thus it was that his travels had brought him to the small village in the south-west of Adbar in the morning, after many hours of travel in the quiet of dark. A friendly peasant farmer had offered him lodgings at his own home to sleep in; he found that often people would give him such aid just to hope for returned aid from Grumand in the form of rich soils and suchlike. So that morning, even as the sun rose, he had settled down to sleep.

* * *

Kale crept through the shadows; they shimmered and tugged after him in his wake, but the growing gloom of evening could only serve to aid his hopes of staying hidden. His progress was slow, agonisingly slow, but he simply couldn't risk being seen now.

As he snuck past the back door of one peasant house, he struck trouble. Silently padding along, he didn't notice that the shadows that protected him also concealed a resting lycanthrope behind a pile of chopped wood that kept it from his sight. Stepping past the wood-pile, he found himself right next to the being; it was in human form but the feral eyes and blood spattered down its shirt left him in little doubt of what it was. They both stared at each other for a second or two, caught up in shock at the others sudden appearance, and then the werewolf began to struggle to its feet...

No. No, NO!!! Kale's mind shouted in denial as the feral bloody form scrambled before him. Bereft of team, gear, proper weapons, health, dirty tricks- yet another threat, and the desperate mercenary began to fade despondant. Taking on too much with this assignment, it seemed the mistake would be his last. But this blood has a cost, Kale thought to the wolf, leaping on the thing like a wild animal. Stronger and faster, the stained chest beast would beat the wounded man. Choosing a test of strength, Kale could at least deny the thing its jarring speed.

The pages of epics, inked in faceless warriors' blood- an anonymous honor, a nameless end. Kale could imagine his unmarked grave, and he could consider it no regret, so long as he drove... this... blade... home.


* * *

Cord awoke. It was quiet, yet he was sure that for those with sight, it must have been some time before nightfalll just yet; surely the village must still be active and noisy? But no, his acute ears could pick nothing up except...

...except the roaring, crackling sound of fire. Something was burning, it sounded like a building not all that far away, and to his sensitive nostrils it brought the acrid tang of smoke.

And yet, apart from that, no sounds. No people desperately rushing around to douse the fire, nothing at all.
He could smell something else on the breeze too; blood. Its metallic tang lingered in the air, though he could not tell the source. Blood, the scent of death. The uneasy feelings that had been plaguing him for months now as he walked the Drakkath flared up into supremacy in his sensations; it was almost gut-wrenching, just how strongly he could feel that something was wrong here. Cord could smell it, feel it, taste it.

He rose from the bed, gripping the splintering edge with strength and sniffed the air slightly, hoping to catch the distinctive whiff of the man that welcomed him earlier in the day. Nothing, only the overwhelming smell of blood mixed with the heavy charcoal of wood smoke. He hesitated to even allow the thought into his mind, but there seemed no choice: the town was dead. He stifled his reaction. He was, after all, still alive. Others must be as well.

Cord wove through the house, it's floorplan memorized when he first explored before setting down to rest. He made his short way to the main room, hoping to sense the movements of the peasant and his family. He paused, listening. Again, nothing. Except-

The house was only a single storey; suddenly, just outside the back door, he heard movement.

He twisted his body in the direction of the sudden sound. It had come from somewhere in the back, a slight movement on the other side of the thin wall. He wanted to believe it was the peasant, but his gut convinced him otherwise. No family could function normally with the palpable sense of wrongness in the air.

Touching doorframes as he passed, lightly dragging his fingers against worn wood, he made his way to the back door. Again, movement. Cord listened, and waited. Dear Grumand, what is happening here? he thought. He placed one palm smoothly against the door and sensed the vibrations through the wood, mentally preparing himself for what he must discover on the other side. I must find the way, and act as I need.


* * *

Wyshira gasped in shock at Wolf's forceful "No", and had to blink back tears at the mercenary's seemingly cold-hearted assessment of Kale's situation. She wanted to argue that there was a third possibility: that Kale could be unconscious and dying somewhere, in which case there was something she could do for him - she could save his life.

But she recognized Wolf as the group's leader. And she had to admit that some of what he said made sense. She certainly didn't want to jeopardize Kale's chances of making his stealthy way back to the Temple, by actually drawing the werewolves' attention to him. And if all three of them - Kale, Burl, and herself - were killed out there, the hope that this village could survive the werewolves' attack would very definitely be severely diminished.

But what was she anyway? She didn't see herself as a mercenary, not really. When she had first met Kaerval and heard about his uncle Wolf, the Merc, she had been a priestess in search of a flock to care for. His little band had fit the bill for her nicely: she could use her skills to keep them healthy, while traveling and seeing a little bit of the world. She had been ready to do her share of fighting when the time came too (and so far she had done so), but her real mission, at least in her own eyes, was to take care of the crew by healing their wounds and keeping them safe with the help of the goddess.

She just couldn't help but feel that she was failing miserably if she left Kale out there to fend for himself.
"Wolf, I - " she began, but she couldn't find the words to tell the mercenary how she felt. Burl rather heatedly suggested that they take the opportunity to attack the werewolves now while they were still confused by the fire, and Wyshira couldn't agree more. "That's right, we have to do something, don't we?" But then, they couldn't very well weaken themselves by splitting their forces. And a sizable force would have to be left at the Temple to defend the townsfolk.

She sighed and turned away from Wolf and the others, and began to pace near the door. She whispered a silent and heartfelt prayer that Ishrak would bestow her blessing on Kale.

Wolf stared coldly at Burl. "You want to lead all these men to their deaths too, Burl?"

"Why do you think they're all holed up in here? It's the most defensible location in this whole god-forsaken village, that's why. If a contingent of men leaves the safety of this compound they are easy meat for the werewolves, who'll be able to pick them off with hit and run attacks, choose when they're weakest and take advantage of the fact that they have no defences... these are ordinary men, wizard. They may now have weapons that can hurt the foe but they fear, and they wish they were elsewhere, and they know that what they're fighting isn't human. It's called morale, Burl, and if you think you're going to be able to rally them to charge out into certain death behind you, then you'd best think again."

"So Kale toasted a few werewolves - it doesn't mean they're beaten, and it doesn't mean we'll win if we leave the safety of this temple. We can force them to come to us, if they want the woman back, while we're in a tactically sound defencible position. And guess what? If we all go running out of here now, all those villagers are going to die because we decided that it was a good idea to go charging off. They don't stand a chance without the protection of the militiamen, and we've run out of tricks to decoy the werewolves now, I'm afraid."

"The best we can do for Kale now is wait. If he's still alive, he stands a better chance of getting back alive without us going blundering out there and getting all of us killed. If he isn't, then we should make sure that what he did is worth something by not getting ourselves all killed on some fool expedition into the jaws of death."

"I fought in a war between the Killanese and a giant tribe of the Storm mountains. I was scouting out their positions, but had to lie low for longer than intended because I nearly got seen by a patrol and their shaman. If they'd seen me, I'd have been carrion. Only, I was away a bit long and the contingent I was assigned to scout for were led by a fool young captain, who decided he'd lead his men off to find out what had become of me. What do you know, as I was creeping away, the forerunners hailed me with shouts and cries. The giants couldn't miss three score soldiers clattering around, and they killed them all."

He rolled up one of his sleeves, so the others could see the scars ringing his arm at the top, in a serried circle all the way round. "I was ****ing lucky there was a Manipulator in camp to reattach my arm. If you go out there now and draw attention to the fact that Kale's still alive, you kill him as surely as if you'd driven a dagger in his heart."

Burl turned and walked away from Wolf to sulk in the corner. The wound that Wolf had shown had at first caused him some concern, but after a bit, Burl realized that for someone in his line of work, a few ugly scars was just a natural occurance. Well Spike, I guess I deserved that chewing out. I’m not the battle smart leader here. I only wished that he had taken me aside and spoke rather than dressing me down in front of everyone. It isn’t like I wanted glory. All I wanted was to find Kale.

Finding a place to sit, Burl waited for orders, checking his equipment and his component pouch making sure he had everything he would need.

* * *

Kale and the werewolf both reacted at the same moment, the thing pulling itself up from the ground even as Kale lunged at it. He stabbed with the brine blade, the enchanted sword glinting with the oily exudations along it, but the beast twisted amazingly fast even as it changed form with a gristly crunch and a stomach-churning alteration in appearance. It staggered backwards, slightly off balance at the need to dodge even as it stood up, and bared its fangs at him, snarling as it opened its claws wide and prepared for battle. Kale himself had been thrown off-balance too, hitting the wall behind where the werewolf had been with a thud before he could round on the monster.

And into the confusion stepped someone, a short figure slipping out of the back door of the house. A dwarf, that much was immediately clear to Kale, and one of advanced age it seemed from his long and unruly gray-white beard. He wore merely simple garb, but moved with strange grace and speed for a dwarf. There was something else, something Kale couldn't quite place, which was very wrong with the fellow too. The werewolf seemed as surprised by the newcomer as Kale; both had yet to see what he would do.

Cord found himself between a man and a beast. His acute senses, amazingly attuned by his blindness and monastic training, could tell the man was afraid by the sweat upon him, but he also smelt strongly of smoke and burned material; his blade had the acrid tang of something chemical lingering in the air. The fellow moved with grace, with speed, and was obviously fighting the other thing... it stank of blood, beast-sweat and foulness, and it had been human one moment and now canine. The stench reminded him of the packs of mongrels in the streets when he had been a beggar, but this had something else too, something corrupted. He could feel it in his very bones; this thing was unattuned to the land, and the land hated it. Grumands antipathy towards it could be felt exuding from the soil beneath Cord's feet; it was a part of the horrible wrongness he had been feeling, he was sure.

Cord shrunk back from the overpowering scent of the twisted mockery of nature, at the last moment turning his foot slightly into a defensive stance against the creature. He remained unsure of the man behind him, and kept his hearing attuned to any movements, but Cord kept his attention focused on the beast that had fulfilled his premonitions of the past months. There would be time to worry about the fire and chemical aroma later; now, he had to deal with this canine-human. A werewolf.

He readied his stance and prepared for the onslaught, sensing the ragged hot puffs of breath upon his skin and the slightest vibrations of the air as the werewolf shifted positions.

"You are a thing not of this world," Cord said quietly, yet clearly, blank eyes staring disconcertingly directly at the werewolf's form. "Leave, foul beast."

Of course, the werewolf had no intention of just leaving like the elderly dwarf requested. The short humanoid was old, clearly, a weak, elderly being that was no more deserving of the life it had than that pyromaniac human hiding behind it. Easy prey. Easy meat. Easy kill.

The monster therefore leapt at him without another moments hesitation, but Kale's readied counterattack caught it by surprise. It wasn't particularly afraid of the man darting in with a blade as it sailed through the air towards the old dwarf; who had fallen into a stance that suggested he had some battle experience, because it knew well that normal weapons were no threat to its superior being.

It was somewhat of a shock, therefore, when the blade slashed in through its ribs and sliced into a lung and innards, the chemical smell of acid billowing from the wound as it corroded through bone and flesh. Agonised and frenzied in pain, it slammed into the monk, rabidly sinking its teeth into his arm held defensively out. Blood spurted from the series of tooth-marks but then the acid tearing through its innards overcame the beast and it collapsed, crumpling into a dead pile at Cord's feet.

Silence reigned through the village once again. The faint tang of acid now wafted in the air as the werewolf-pile gave one final gurgle before blood streamed out of its mouth and it expired for good.

 

[Carnifex]

Within the temple, it was silent too, except for the occasional sound of nervous movement as a militiaman or peasant shifted uneasily. When one warrior fumbled with his spear and clumsily dropped it, the resulting clang as the silvered weapon hit the stone floor made everyone jump visibly.

Wolf leant against the wall by one of the windows, impassive featured as he gazed out intently over the area in front of the temple. Evant sat in his gleaming armour on a pew, head bowed in silent prayer, while Latorath sat with a sheath of papers on one armoured knee, one bladed gauntlet removed so he could write on the scrolls; numbers, details, supplies - all plans and organisation from the orderly Inquisitor.

* * *

"Thank you," Cord said, clenching his fist to relieve some of the pain as the werewolf slumped to the ground. "I have not encountered such a being before; I do not know what the outcome of such a meeting might have been. Your weapon seems to have saved both of our lives, this hour." Cord sighed, rubbing the leathery skin of his wounded arm, instinctively recoiling from the wrongness emanating from the bite. It burned, and the pain of corrupted nature hurt far more than that of broken skin.

Note: At this point several players began to get worried about the possibility of acquiring lycanthropy; luckily for them, it works slightly differently in my campaign world.

Cord turned to face the man, cradling his arm, but still on the defensive. He had no reason to trust such a stranger that smelled of fire and acid, at a time when his worst fears had been realized.

"I am Cord," he said, scarred irises suprisingly focused and penetrating. "What has happened to this peaceful village?"

Grip tightened on his blade, Kale was unsure what to think, and so wounded and threatened, he was almost to the point of, when in doubt, kill it.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, his hand relaxed, and he tipped an invisible nod of respect to the mystical dwarf. Who was this man? Where did he come from... how does he do it?

Self conscious for a moment, shadows menacingly cloaking his bleeding form, Kale remembered the dwarf couldn't see a thing. Yet, blind he fared as well as Kale could against the wolf... the mercenary remained wary and pragmatic.

It was poor thanks for the dwarf's help, but the man now could be nothing but a liability. Long odds on the man making it to the temple intact. Kale had done his foolish deed for the day, and as he steadied his weight and recovered from the quick battle, he planned to leave the simply clothed man behind.

But even then, the set of the dwarf's jaw, and long lengths of grey hair testified that he had defied the odds in the past- and survived. He regarded Kale knowingly, and his nostrils flared as the telling wind wafted. The dead wolf at their feet was foolish to dismiss this one. That determination and grace, Kale just couldn't leave the dwarf for the wolves to destroy.

Feeling sick as he spoke, Kale whispered, "Head for the temple if you want to live. I'm going, you can follow at a distance. Walk where I walk, hold when I hold." Gods, what am I doing? Turning abruptly, he curled to the balls of his feet and listened carefully. Making for the shadows, his chain-clad form faded from sight and sound.

Absorbed in his task, Kale couldn't help but wonder from time to time how the dwarf could do what he did: to see without eyes. He's just a liability he told himself harshly, desperate to forget the distractions and haul his battered body to safety.

Not sparing any loud footfalls to help the dwarf along, Kale used the man nonetheless as a rearguard, whether the dwarf knew it or not. Knowing the wolves would likely see the dwarf before him, Kale focused more of his attention forward. The sound of the dwarf falling to fang and claw would alert him to trouble from behind. Breathing in slow, pained tugs, the lone mercenary moved smoothly and slowly, mind and body screaming to just cut and run the rest of the way.

Move, listen, move, listen. From house to house, Kale found himself occasionally dragging a fingernail along the boards, or rubbing his smoking scabbard. Far from the sounds of chain or footfall that were the first to be muffled, the extra movements were out of place for one who practiced every deliberate movement while prowling.

Focusing on controlling his throbbing pain and insuring his safe return, Kale intentionally ignored his departures from proper practice.

If the dwarf survived... that would really be something to see. The socky old guy could probably track the bleeding, smoking mercenary by scent alone. Shut up! Focus.

Cord had easily fallen into step behind him. The measured beat of the man’s footfalls and the slightest tremble in the ground provided a guidepost for him. He walked normally, however, and did not try to silence his own steps with as much effort as the stranger. His fluid grace had served him well in the past, and Cord allowed his body to flow from corner to corner in silence.

The occasional scrape and dragging of feet were magnified in Cord's ears. He appreciated the thought, but had little need for the type of help this man seemed willing to offer. He sighed inwardly, accepting the situation and willing to follow for as long as needed to discover what had destroyed the village, and why werewolves infested the streets.

The stranger stopped momentarily. A short whiff of the evening air pinpointed his location; the tapping on rock confirmed his location. He smiled grimly, rubbed at his still-bleeding arm, and continued following the stranger to whatever safe haven the local temple had to offer.

* * *

They made it back.

It was almost to Kale's amazement, but they did make it back.

It had been agonisingly slow and paranoid progress for Kale, ever fearful that a shadow might contain a werewolf - a lycanthrope might pick up his scent on the wind - that wierd dwarf might draw attention and get them both killed. Amazingly, half the time he had to remind himself the elderly fellow was actually there, for the dwarf walked with quiet step and seemed amazingly alert to a world around him that he couldn't actually be seeing.

Kale had honed senses but Cord's were even better, and more than once he picked up the very scent of a werewolf lurking nearby, pausing at just the right moments to avoid being sensed, the human could only watch in surprise as, by watching the dwarf's movements, he worked out where such a lycanthrope was hiding nearby. Never had he seen someone both so old and blind demonstrate qualities like this. Despite his earlier apprehensions, the dwarf was more of a boon in making it back than he had expected.

* * *

Burl was sitting quietly, when the first surge of electricity racing through the room. Voices began to raise, people turned toward the door and others began to move toward it. Burl jumped, half expecting that the werewolves had begun their assault on the temple, but there were smiles sweeping across the faces of those closest to the door.

Slowly the door inched open and the welcome face of Kale slid through. He looked as though he had been to a barbecue and not as a guest, his clothes and body singed. Burl began making his way toward him, when the door again popped open and an odd looking stranger entered. Remembering Wyshira’s experience with the wounded villager, Burl stopped, waiting for some kind of explanation, his relief to see his companion overshadowed by the newcomer, as the two were ushered to Latorath and his greeting.

Within the main chamber of the temple, where the peasants clustered fearfully, the militia watched vigilantly and the mercenaries scattered with their own thoughts, Cord and Kale were brought before Latorath, the armoured Inquisitor nodding respectfully to Kale as Wolf languidly pulled himself away from his viewpoint by a window and strolled over.

Latorath was of course interested in the details of Kale’s venture - how many werewolves had been slain, and who was this dwarf? The monk introduced himself as "… Cord. A teacher, a student, a traveler. I happened upon this village late last night; a kind peasantman, by the name of Fredrik, took me into his home. I accepted his offer, but awoke to an empty night. Obviously, I missed the call to your temple, Inquisitor." The dwarf himself was curious as to what had befallen the town, and eagerly questioned those around him to garner more knowledge. What Burl had noticed was certainly true; the return of Kale had brought a certain uplifting to those cowering within the temple. Smiles spread across the faces of many, some very faint but even so they were there at the return of the brave (or perhaps stupid? some thought...) young mercenary. A minor victory, but another victory nonetheless. Militiamen, looking at their now burdgeoning stock of silvered weapons, felt they might stand a chance; the mercenary had gone out there and spat in the eye of the lycanthropes, as it were; he had challenged them, taunted them, and lived to tell the tale.

The elderly dwarf was drawing some attention too, many of the peasants watching the conversation attentively to see what was going on. Some had known of the old travellers arrival last night - they muttered quietly to their friends and family - there was that old dwarf, the Grumandic nomad, possessed of wisdom, they said.

Some mutterings were darker - could they trust him? His arrival had, after all, coincided with that of the werewolves. Yet Evant the Solar Templar, and the Inquisitor too, would surely have noticed any taint upon the fellow the moment he entered the temple, would they not? Surely then, he could not be in league with the lycanthropes? Yet, uncertain of anything any more after recent events, the commoners were wary.

Latorath nodded respectfully to Kale as the debriefing ended and he prepared to dismiss the two. "Well done, well done indeed. Certainly this should come as a setback for our canine foes out there... and you've brought yourself back to us in one piece. Well, more or less one piece anyway. Hold still."

The Inquisitor held up the holy symbol, the golden emblem of a blazing sun, that hung round his neck, and chantd quietly in prayer to the Sun Lord, one hand outstretched to a few inches from Kale's chest. Golden energy glimmered at his fingertips and gently wafted out to Kale, where he felt a surge of positive energy that knitted wounds back together and salved much of the pain he felt from the fall in the barn. Whole once again, Kale felt right back in full fighting condition, pulsing with the holy energy of Solanthar.

The Inquisitor’s questions finished at last, the mercenary returned to the others of his band, eagerly trading tales of the decoy run and the expedition to the smithy. There were many hours yet before sundown, and the time when the werewolf attack was estimated to happen, but already the tension was tangible in the air. Kale happily took the silvered arrows that the smithy run had procured for him, bantering with the others to ease some of the tension he felt. One comment he made, about the divine healing he had received, gave him a sudden thought. He looked to Wyshira, worried that he grouped 'god-folk' a little too broadly. "Solanthar and Ishrak... get along, don't they? I mean, you guys don't do more than bicker about the weather, right?"\ Kale asked, looking around to the body of believers around him... thinking it would be great fun if a storm heralded their survival to the next sunrise. Sadly, Wyshira likely wasn't powerful enough yet to make that dream a reality...

“You really ARE all right, aren't you?" Wyshira peered skeptically at Kale. "I mean, did he do enough to heal you just now?" She indicated with a slight tilt of her head the Inquisitor of Solanthar. "It looked so..... bright; the spell he cast, I mean. Do you want some cool water?" She found herself babbling on for a bit, as she pondered Kale's question about Solanthar and Ishrak.

She remembered quite clearly the shock she had felt as a little girl when she came to the realization that her goddess wasn't alone in the pantheon. Other people, in other places, worship other gods? Sacrilege! Then as she'd gotten older, she'd found that many of those foreign gods weren't so bad. Some of course were truly at odds with Ishrak, and Wyshira would name their priests as her enemies. But most were innocuous and well-meaning; while she didn't necessarily see them as a force for good, she also had come to admit over time that they had their place in the scheme of things, especially Lliras, the goddess of healing.

So then, did Ishrak and Solanthar get along? Wyshira wondered what a meeting of the two deities would be like. They seemed to be opposites in many respects. The sun: bright, burning rays; constant; unreachable. The sea: cool, dark waves; capricious; encompassing.

She wanted to ask Kale, What was it like, his healing touch? But the question was too much like, Who do you like better, him or me? and so she didn't ask. Suddenly her feelings about Solanthar were all mixed up with her feelings of acceptance and competency. She wasn't sure she could separate them properly just now, and so she simply said, "I like the sunshine as much as anyone, and so does Ishrak, I'm sure. Well, maybe not quite as much..." she added with a glance at the pale, scaly skin of her arms peeking out from the sleeves of her robes.

Perhaps it was time to change the subject. She turned to the necromancer resting beside her. "Burl, tell him about the trip to the smithy." Before Burl could begin the tale, Wyshira jumped in again. "He was great, Kale. He saved me from one of those vile creatures out there in the street. And I think he was ready to fight Wolf all by himself when we saw the flames in the distance and wanted to go out looking for you. Go on Burl, tell him!"

* * *

And so they talked for a while, letting time drift past as they relished safety for what short period they would have it. Talking about his argument with Wolf, Burl spoke frankly; “I didn’t understand the reasoning behind us bringing the weapons back. I thought they were to be used to drive the creatures out of the village, not to be used for defense only. I believed the time was right and Wolf, being more knowledgeable, didn’t. End of subject.” Kale listened to this with interest. Willingness to follow the group's expertise, this was an important step in building a team. As unlikely as it may seem, the four of them could make an effective mercenary crew. Of course, that meant eventually trusting Burl in the affairs of magic and such... at least they had an experienced leader, anyway.

Of course, much interest was directed towards Cord, the newcomer, who had positioned to sit himself with the mercenaries. He had offered his aid in fighting the lycanthropes when they came, and they could not help but notice his grace and skill despite the apparent disability of being blind. Some friendly introductions were made, and before long the band were comfortable with the monk’s presence, Wyshira healing him and the others incorporating him into their tactical discussions.

“Grab yourself a silver dagger and cover aflank the spearmen. The beasts are likely to get close, and when it happens we need as much flashing silver as we can muster. If you want to provide close guard for the casters, all the better." Kale concluded. Latorath, the most powerful caster, would take care of himself. The only other casters, then, were Burl and Wyshira, for whom the young mercenary certainly wouldn't mind the extra protection.

That did leave one other caster, Kale rememebered. Thinking back to Wolf and Evant's escapade, he thought it wierd, as the elder mercenary called upon divine powers. But no surprise, it would seem, as Wolf was always full of the unexpected.

Suddenly, Kale was left with a desire to reconnect with the man. They had often fought together, and now with so many more companions and allies, things seemed to change so quickly. Yet, Kale future seemed sure to be as rich as Wolf's unknown past- 'the way it used to be' never was. Kale just didn't know anything about himself, about the world, or about his mentor.

The mercenary's eyes drew over the crowded masses in the temple, yearning a bit for simpler times. Eyes settling on Wolf, things seemed a bit different. Different, and more difficult, perhaps. The gods only knew where paths could lead him, but sitting there, among his companions, recovering from a victorious battle with a vile foe... it felt gooood.

"I am assuming you are not expecting a siege from these creatures," Cord replied, addressing Kale. "The strategy appears sound, and I have handled a dagger a few times in my life. I believe I can provide some safety for spellcasters, if the werewolves grant me the chance to reveal a trick or two hidden within my sleeves." Cord reached out and patted a hand near his side, though he was not entirely sure to whom it belonged. The three sitting near him were rather close and only their voices and faintest of mingling scents separated them. In reality, it did not matter. The brief contact revealed his true feelings for the small company, whether a congratulations for the bravery of Burl, gratitude for the healing arts of Wyshira, or agreement and kinship with Kale.

The time was coming when they would have to fight, but if anything, the mercenaries were eager to see how well they could fight together.

Perhaps if they had known the full horrors the night had yet to bring, they might have been more apprehensive.

 

[Carnifex]

The day drew to a close, and the sun slipped finally below the horizon. It took with it the final glow of ruddy light, and pure darkness began to loom over the countryside and dominate the landscape.

* * *

Militia patrolled round the building, lighting torches within the main chamber and in the back rooms to keep a zone of flickering light flooding the area round the temple. Beyond its perimeter, pitch black clouded vision, and nervous men fingered their crossbow triggers uneasily as they stared into the void all around them.

* * *

Latorath stood by the altar at the far end of the main chamber, looking down over the mass of huddled peasants and fearful militiamen gathered together before him; Evant stood quietly off to one side, apparently studying with great intensity an old stained glass image of Solanthar on one of the temple windows.

"My people, night has fallen upon us, but Solanthar shall ensure that light rises over the horizon once again and when it does we shall have expunged these atrocities that stalk the streets. We believe that soon they shall attack, using cover of darkness to their advantage, but the torches should negate their nightsight and put us on equal terms."

"We have many silver weapons now; every able-bodied man, grab a spear or dagger; soldiers, do not fear to use as many silvered bolts as you wish, for we have plenty. Spare no effort to slay the vile things out there, in the name of the Sun Lord's terrible wrath - kill them all."

"Villagers, people of this hamlet, stay back and out of harms reach and we shall ensure that no fell werewolf breaches the perimeter to strike at you. Soldiers, take up your preordained positions, raise the alarm at any sign of the foe and fire at will on them."

Latorath began to hand out more specific orders; procedures for getting the wounded to the care of the village priest, how militia were to react to attacks, and of course what the mercenaries were to do. "Please, brave warriors, put yourselves wherever you feel your talents are most needed at the time."

Burl looked over his weapons, knowing that his staff was useless, he grabbed up one of the silvered daggers and six of the specially tipped crossbow bolts. Mentally he went over the spells that he had prepared; several would work best when the beasts first attacked, the remainder could be used at anytime. Kale equipped himself with bow and arrows, positioning to rain missiles upon the enemy when they came, a spear too so that when they closed he might still be able to fend them off.

* * *

Howls began to echo round the deserted village.

First one rose up to the sky above, then another, then yet more, until a chorus of gods-only-knew-how-many were serenading the clouds with their tortured screams. They came from all around, disorientating and disconcerting, as the pack closed in on the beacon of light that was the temple.

Militiamen gripped their crossbows and spears in tightness born of fear; small children within the mass of villagers seated on the pews began to whimper in terror. Latorath, stoic faced, positioned himself near the main door, while Evant took up position beside him.

"Here they come," the Solar Templar said quietly.

All around, the sound of rapidly approaching feet, padding at high speed over dirt, became audible, though as yet the oncoming foe were invisible within the cloak of night. As the noises came closer, Wyshira smiled grimly and began her prayers to Ishrak

Cord had remained calm and attentive as the afternoon waned, and it was not until the inhuman howls pierced his mind that he added his own fears to that already collected within the walls.
A dagger appeared in his hand as the able-bodied prepared for the onslaught. Rattling spears, stomping feet, and nervous sweat suddenly filled the air. He had been listening to a young girl ask incessant questions of her mother earlier, and now she was lost in the clamor of voices. Cord hoped she would survive the night.

Grumand, I pray that I survive this night. Please, give me the strength to face and defeat these abominations. Cord felt the presence of his god in his prayer as he sighed deeply and stood.

"But with these masses," he overheard Kale saying to Wyshira, "the blessings of the Storm Lady may well be the best thing you can bring." Cord nodded in agreement. Feeling the presence of a god was one thing; feeling their suffusing power was quite another. The clerics of Grumand at the monastery had once or twice given him a glimpse of the true blessing of Grumand before select training sessions. The effect had not gone unnoticed. He wondered, briefly, whether a blessing by the storm goddess would be in any way similar. Calming his nerves and steadying his hands even as the howling and padding of feet grew louder, Cord smiled and awaited Ishrak's blessing.

"If you two do not mind," he said after Kale left, "I will do my utmost best to protect you if a werewolf prowls near. If one approaches I may be able to stun it temporarily, giving us the chance to attack without fear of reaction for a brief time."

Cord breathed deeply, extending an arm to brush against the robes of Wyshira, both for reassurance and to sense her location. It would be a short battle but a long, long night.
"I am ready," he said.

 

[Carnifex]

Shadows seemed to shift in the darkness, the few feet beyond the radius of light that spilled out of the temple, and the militia crowded round the windows and door with weapons readied as spellcasters began their work. Burl quickly spoke the hex to throw up the faint glimmer of blue that signified a mage armour spell at work, while with the scent of lingering storm, Wyshira called up the blessing of Ishrak to send out a pulse of power that surged into all those around her, buoying them up with divine energy. At the front, near the doors, Latorath wove a complex array of protective prayers around himself and those nearby, gleaming white energy streaming from his hands.

They waited with baited breath for the foe to show themselves. Wolf was poised in the shadows near the door, a silvered shortspear glinting in the light as he held himself ready for action. Latorath stood ready with a spell held in his very hands; the globe of shimmering white light, a spell contained as he readied himself, illuminated the area around him. Evant stood calmly nearby, gripping his blade tightly in his gauntlets.

Kale too was near the door, by one of the large windows with a group of militia crossbowmen. A little further back, Burl, Wyshira and Cord were ready with spells, javelins and daggers, prepared to pitch in wherever their power was needed.

For a few moments, it all seemed to lull into nervous silence, seconds dragging on as the scene seemed frozen in time. The many long, dark shadows in the temple, cast by the fitful torches, gave the impression that the night outside was trying to force its way in.

Then the werewolves charged from the darkness.

* * *

"Open fire! Open fire!"

All hell broke loose. Men were firing bolts into the oncoming, shadowy mass of werewolves - so many of them, how many? - and shouts raised up from around the building. From the rear rooms came yells of "They're coming round the back too, fire!" as lycanthropes attacked from all sides. With the zip of bolts arcing into the mass of foe - still coming, a dark, shadowy mass, dozens, dozens strong of leprous, fetid, scrawny beasts -the militia tried to hold their morale - fangs and teeth flashing in the rush of werewolves, not this many, surely not?

Here, there, lycanthropes dropped in the rush, bolts protruding from eyes or throats, but many more were merely injured, or kept coming. The fact that the defenders were armed with weapons that could harm them didn't seem much of a shock, as if they were too deep within the beast, too rabid and raging, to even care or perhaps even notice. Many more kept coming.

They leapt over the low hedge around the temple under the fusillade of bolts, closing still. Kale had time to fire one, two, three arrows into the rush, finding their mark here and there, but not a single foe dropped to his shots. Still closer, and then they were at the temple - still more pouring from the shadows, a tidal wave of horror itself, dozens skittering out of the dark - and leaping through windows, throwing themselves on militiamen in berserk fury, and a mass smashed into the door.

The wooden door was not designed for resisting assault, and splintered easily under the force of the attack before shattering completely and letting the tidal wave of dark beasts pour in. The main brunt of the attacking force was coming through here, and it recoiled at the force it was met with.

With arcane gestures and words that illuminated Burl in dark, shadowy power, crackling over his clothes and gathering shadows sinisterly around him, Burl cast his incantation, hands thrusting out towards the door. Nearby militiamen, simple people for the most part awed even by the minor magics of a village priest, watched in awe as the first rank of werewolves through the dorr panicked as magic flowed round them, their minds filled with consuming fear and then turning tail and pushing away through their companions ranks to lope off into the night. More came still, and Latorath unleashed his power, a bolt of pure white light arcing into the mass and cutting through wolf-flesh like a hot knife through butter, filling the air with the reek of burning fur and meat. At point blank range, Kale and the crossbowmen unleashed a storm of bolts and arrows into the now faltering mass, which milled in a mix of terror and panic as its components were cut down like chaff.

Some werewolves had made it into the temple itself, leaving a trail of dead around the windows as they tore their way in. Most were cut down by the militiamen, kept back with a wall of spears then brutally slain, but some evaded them and danced a waltz of carnage amidst the humans, claws and fangs catching fearful and fleeing militiamen. Two made it to the spellcasters; Wyshira's javelin caught one in the throat in a lucky throw, the other was blocked in its path by Cord. It snarled at the elderly dwarf, thinking this irritating creature and easy kill, but then the monk's hand shot out and hit an artery, cutting off the blood supply to the lycanthropes brain and leaving it shuddering in agony. The dagger made quick work of it after that.
Wolf and Evant pitched into the mass of werewolves, weapons killing many of the dazed and confused beasts, their impetus lost and their rage drained by the wholesale slaughter of their kin. They broke and fled into the night.

* * *

Many were dead or dying, the werewolves who had assaulted the windows having taken a terrible toll, but the bulk of the lycanthrope force had come at the main door and their ravages been limited. Militiamen began to look at each other in faint disbelief, some began to smile, the faintest beginnings of a cheer rumbling as they realised the werewolves had been repelled and they were still alive.

They were silenced by Latorath, the gleaming warrior having taken a few steps over the blood-slicked porch of the temple to peer out into the darkness of the night.

There was more movement out there.

* * *

The Inquisitor just had time to whirl round and yell, "The master's here!", a look of horror on his face, before the gloom was illuminated by a crack of thunder and a bolt of coruscating electricity smashed him off his feet, hurling him into the temple to land with a metallic clank in a limp heap. The smell of burning flesh on the air was joined by the stench of ozone.

One of the militiamen looked out into the darkness. "Oh %&*^," he said in quiet fear.

To Be Continued...