Joshua Randall
Legend
Note: this part of the story is in second person present tense instead of the normal third person preterite. I hope it's not too jarring.
= = = = =
With a start, you leap to your feet, grabbing for your weapons. A loud drumming comes from overhead. Disoriented, you try to figure out what it is – only to realize it’s the rain, pounding on the roof of the inn. Your tensed muscles relax and you lay down your weapons.
Throwing open the window of your room (provided to you free-of-charge by the grace of his lordship, Baron Giosue da Silva), you breath in the fresh, cold air of another winter morning in Lof. You can smell the Kaltersee, although your vision is obscured by the sheets of water falling from the sky. Below your window, the streets of Lof are clear, the rainwater rushing down them like a shallow river.
Stretching your aching muscles, you decide to head downstairs to seek out some breakfast. The common area is clear, the innkeeper sullenly mopping the floors beneath the windows where the driving rain has entered.
As you are about to ask for some food, the doors of the inn burst open and two figures enter. At first you hardly recognize them: the tall, imposing man clad in a bright blue traveling cloak, water streaming off an ostentatious red hunting hat. Behind him, a short, somewhat dumpy woman in simple gray robes but wearing a gleaming silver crescent moon on a pendant around her neck.
Dellarocca takes off his hat and wrings it out on the floor. “Damn this rain!” he complains, but you can tell that the wizard is in a good mood.
“Brogun, Kell – we’ve come to bid you farewell – for now, anyway,” Dellarocca announces. “We’re off to Sommerlund. I mean to have a word with Loi-Kymar and the rest of the Guild. They’ve been far too selfish with their arcane knowledge –“
His imminent rant is cut off as Sara puts a hand on her brother’s arm and looks piercingly into his eyes. Dellarocca scowls as he slaps her hand away, then makes an awkward coughing noise. “No need to nag, sister. I was just coming to that,” he snaps.
Sara sighs and steps forward. “The main reason we’re headed to Sommerlund is to visit the Temple of Ishir in Holmgard. There we shall appeal to the Goddess to return the breath of life to our fallen companions.”
“Yes. Exactly,” Dellarocca cuts in. “The Brotherhood of the Red Kestrel takes care of its own.”
“That reminds me, Brogun – I’ll have to ask for Kednor’s armor and warhammer back. I’m sure he’ll want those once he is revivified. But go ahead and keep that magic wand and the net that ciquali leader was using – they might come in handy.”
Dellarocca looks at you, then abruptly wheels around, claps his hat on his head, and opens the door to leave. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ve made arrangement with the baron to get us a cut of any treasure recovered when they raid the ciquali lair. Well, goodbye, then!” And with that, Dellarocca steps out into the street.
You almost don’t notice that Sara is still standing in front of you. The corners of her mouth curl upwards in a smile, but her eyes bear a hint of sadness. “Our paths shall cross again,” Sara says, “when Ishir designs.”
Raising her hands, the priestess intones a blessing on each of you in turn.
“May the Goddess Ishir watch over and protect you. May the moon light your way through the darkness of the night.”
Sara remains standing before you, her arms outstretched, her head tilted back as if to contemplate the heavens. You feel a great serenity wash over you.
The mood is shattered by a cry to “hurry up!” from outside the inn. Sighing, Sara lowers her arms and shakes her head in dismay. “Farewell,” she whispers before departing.
As she opens the door, you catch a glimpse of Dellarocca, mounted atop a fine riding horse, water streaming off his hat and cloak.
“Damn this rain!” he exclaims happily, before jerking the reins and riding off into the mists.
= = = = =
Brogun next decides to track down Zaccarias Zabar, a famed dwarven weaponsmith. Brogun had been supposed to do this much earlier, but he kept pushing it to the back burner in order to pursue his adventuring.
The innkeeper provides directions to Zabar’s smithy, so you head out into the rain. Your path takes you up the street, the water rushing past at your feet. Soon it becomes somewhat challenging to walk, as you slog your way along the street that heads up a slight hill. At last you reach your destination – a low building of dark stone with a pair of impressive metal doors.
As you draw near these portals, you take note of their extremely weather-beaten appearance. The doors seem incredibly old, their metal pitted and stained. Upon their surface is engraved two runes – two interlocking letter Z’s. As you draw nearer to study these doors, you see that they tower above you, blocking out the light, looming immense and hideous over you –
You blink the rain out of your eyes and step back. The doors are no more than five feet tall, as you would expect in a dwarven dwelling. Shrugging, you knock upon them. A low booming sound echoes within.
Several moments pass. Rain pours down upon your, soaking your garments and chilling you to the bone.
There has been no answer to your summons. So, frowning, you knock again, noticing this time that the doors are slightly open. There is still no answer, so you push them fully open and step inside.
A corridor stretches off to your sides. To your right, you see a small room; a line of pegs on the wall and benches on the floor suggesting it functions as a cloakroom. Presently, however, there is only a single forlorn pair of boots in one corner.
To your left, the corridor stretches off into darkness, but you can make out a wooden door ajar at its end. Advancing down the corridor, you are struck by how quiet things have gotten – no sounds of rainfall make their way inside the building. It’s also incredibly dark. Surely some light, however dim, should be filtering in from the main doors? But no – you must’ve closed them after all, for glancing behind you, you see that they are shut tightly.
As you near the wooden doorway ahead of you, you catch a glimpse of a large, open room. A giant hearth fills the center of the room, but it is cold. Two anvils stand to either side of the unlit hearth, one with a hammer lying upon it. Empty weapons racks hang on the walls. The entire area is scorched and blackened as if a great fire had once raged within.
“Wh—Who’s there?!” stammers a voice from behind you. Whirling around, you see a rumpled-looking dwarf blinking at you and clutching a military pick.
“Oh, it’s y—you,” the dwarf says. He appears relieved and lowers his weapon. “If you’re l—looking for M—M—Master Zabar, he’s n—not here.” The dwarf blinks, his eyes wide. “They’ve all g—gone. To Ha—Ham—Hammerdal,” he stutters.
“I was j—just cleaning up,” the dwarf says. “There’s n—nothing h—here, now,” he continues in a low voice.
Apparently your business with Zaccarias Zabar will have to wait. You follow the dwarf back to the main doors, which he motions at apologetically. “I h—have to o—o—open them for you,” he announces. Stepping up to the massive portals, he mutters something incomprehensible.
The doors remain shut.
“S—sorry!” the dwarf says. “S—sometimes my st—st—stutter…” he trails off as his face contorts and spasms. Finally, the dwarf masters his tics and blurts out a string of syllables in a shrill voice.
The doors swing open silently. Outside, the rain pours down, drumming loudly on the street.
= = = = =
With a start, you leap to your feet, grabbing for your weapons. A loud drumming comes from overhead. Disoriented, you try to figure out what it is – only to realize it’s the rain, pounding on the roof of the inn. Your tensed muscles relax and you lay down your weapons.
Throwing open the window of your room (provided to you free-of-charge by the grace of his lordship, Baron Giosue da Silva), you breath in the fresh, cold air of another winter morning in Lof. You can smell the Kaltersee, although your vision is obscured by the sheets of water falling from the sky. Below your window, the streets of Lof are clear, the rainwater rushing down them like a shallow river.
Stretching your aching muscles, you decide to head downstairs to seek out some breakfast. The common area is clear, the innkeeper sullenly mopping the floors beneath the windows where the driving rain has entered.
As you are about to ask for some food, the doors of the inn burst open and two figures enter. At first you hardly recognize them: the tall, imposing man clad in a bright blue traveling cloak, water streaming off an ostentatious red hunting hat. Behind him, a short, somewhat dumpy woman in simple gray robes but wearing a gleaming silver crescent moon on a pendant around her neck.
Dellarocca takes off his hat and wrings it out on the floor. “Damn this rain!” he complains, but you can tell that the wizard is in a good mood.
“Brogun, Kell – we’ve come to bid you farewell – for now, anyway,” Dellarocca announces. “We’re off to Sommerlund. I mean to have a word with Loi-Kymar and the rest of the Guild. They’ve been far too selfish with their arcane knowledge –“
His imminent rant is cut off as Sara puts a hand on her brother’s arm and looks piercingly into his eyes. Dellarocca scowls as he slaps her hand away, then makes an awkward coughing noise. “No need to nag, sister. I was just coming to that,” he snaps.
Sara sighs and steps forward. “The main reason we’re headed to Sommerlund is to visit the Temple of Ishir in Holmgard. There we shall appeal to the Goddess to return the breath of life to our fallen companions.”
“Yes. Exactly,” Dellarocca cuts in. “The Brotherhood of the Red Kestrel takes care of its own.”
“That reminds me, Brogun – I’ll have to ask for Kednor’s armor and warhammer back. I’m sure he’ll want those once he is revivified. But go ahead and keep that magic wand and the net that ciquali leader was using – they might come in handy.”
Dellarocca looks at you, then abruptly wheels around, claps his hat on his head, and opens the door to leave. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ve made arrangement with the baron to get us a cut of any treasure recovered when they raid the ciquali lair. Well, goodbye, then!” And with that, Dellarocca steps out into the street.
You almost don’t notice that Sara is still standing in front of you. The corners of her mouth curl upwards in a smile, but her eyes bear a hint of sadness. “Our paths shall cross again,” Sara says, “when Ishir designs.”
Raising her hands, the priestess intones a blessing on each of you in turn.
“May the Goddess Ishir watch over and protect you. May the moon light your way through the darkness of the night.”
Sara remains standing before you, her arms outstretched, her head tilted back as if to contemplate the heavens. You feel a great serenity wash over you.
The mood is shattered by a cry to “hurry up!” from outside the inn. Sighing, Sara lowers her arms and shakes her head in dismay. “Farewell,” she whispers before departing.
As she opens the door, you catch a glimpse of Dellarocca, mounted atop a fine riding horse, water streaming off his hat and cloak.
“Damn this rain!” he exclaims happily, before jerking the reins and riding off into the mists.
= = = = =
Brogun next decides to track down Zaccarias Zabar, a famed dwarven weaponsmith. Brogun had been supposed to do this much earlier, but he kept pushing it to the back burner in order to pursue his adventuring.
The innkeeper provides directions to Zabar’s smithy, so you head out into the rain. Your path takes you up the street, the water rushing past at your feet. Soon it becomes somewhat challenging to walk, as you slog your way along the street that heads up a slight hill. At last you reach your destination – a low building of dark stone with a pair of impressive metal doors.
As you draw near these portals, you take note of their extremely weather-beaten appearance. The doors seem incredibly old, their metal pitted and stained. Upon their surface is engraved two runes – two interlocking letter Z’s. As you draw nearer to study these doors, you see that they tower above you, blocking out the light, looming immense and hideous over you –
You blink the rain out of your eyes and step back. The doors are no more than five feet tall, as you would expect in a dwarven dwelling. Shrugging, you knock upon them. A low booming sound echoes within.
Several moments pass. Rain pours down upon your, soaking your garments and chilling you to the bone.
There has been no answer to your summons. So, frowning, you knock again, noticing this time that the doors are slightly open. There is still no answer, so you push them fully open and step inside.
A corridor stretches off to your sides. To your right, you see a small room; a line of pegs on the wall and benches on the floor suggesting it functions as a cloakroom. Presently, however, there is only a single forlorn pair of boots in one corner.
To your left, the corridor stretches off into darkness, but you can make out a wooden door ajar at its end. Advancing down the corridor, you are struck by how quiet things have gotten – no sounds of rainfall make their way inside the building. It’s also incredibly dark. Surely some light, however dim, should be filtering in from the main doors? But no – you must’ve closed them after all, for glancing behind you, you see that they are shut tightly.
As you near the wooden doorway ahead of you, you catch a glimpse of a large, open room. A giant hearth fills the center of the room, but it is cold. Two anvils stand to either side of the unlit hearth, one with a hammer lying upon it. Empty weapons racks hang on the walls. The entire area is scorched and blackened as if a great fire had once raged within.
“Wh—Who’s there?!” stammers a voice from behind you. Whirling around, you see a rumpled-looking dwarf blinking at you and clutching a military pick.
“Oh, it’s y—you,” the dwarf says. He appears relieved and lowers his weapon. “If you’re l—looking for M—M—Master Zabar, he’s n—not here.” The dwarf blinks, his eyes wide. “They’ve all g—gone. To Ha—Ham—Hammerdal,” he stutters.
“I was j—just cleaning up,” the dwarf says. “There’s n—nothing h—here, now,” he continues in a low voice.
Apparently your business with Zaccarias Zabar will have to wait. You follow the dwarf back to the main doors, which he motions at apologetically. “I h—have to o—o—open them for you,” he announces. Stepping up to the massive portals, he mutters something incomprehensible.
The doors remain shut.
“S—sorry!” the dwarf says. “S—sometimes my st—st—stutter…” he trails off as his face contorts and spasms. Finally, the dwarf masters his tics and blurts out a string of syllables in a shrill voice.
The doors swing open silently. Outside, the rain pours down, drumming loudly on the street.
