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Company of the Red Kestrel (1/8/2004 - Confrontations)
- Thread starter Joshua Randall
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Joshua Randall
Legend
The Battle of Choth’s Lair
Caligraf of Mogaruith considered the glittering fragment of crystal as he grasped it in his left hand. It was smaller than his littlest finger, but Caligraf suspected that driving it into the forehead of the squirming child beneath him would render the child docile and easily controlled – as well as giving him unknown mental powers. That this knowledge had been gained only after weeks of messy experimentation upon animals was of no consequence to Caligraf. He was a Cener Druid, of the same order that had unleashed the Great Plague upon Magnamund seven and a half thousand years ago. (1) Perhaps the Cener had failed then, but they would not fail now. Mad visions of himself as the leader of an army of mentally dominated thralls filled Caligraf’s head. A self-satisfied smirk played over his features, mere instants before a shaft of wood tipped with steel tore into his hand, spraying blood across the sacrifice’s face.
“Aaaaagggghhh!” Caligraf screamed in surprise and pain, jerking his hand away and instinctively clutching it to his chest. The druid whirled to face the back wall of the great cavern, eyes wide. There! His assailant, with an expression of hatred and determination upon his face (2), was already fitting another arrow to his bow. But how? How could the archer’s head and torso be protruding out of the solid rock itself?
Caligraf blinked the tears out of his eyes and stared again. Because it was not solid rock – an illusion of some sort – his mind raced, straining to recall arcane teachings. Of course. Illusory wall. How simple.
But the druid had little time to think on this discovery, for another arrow streaked through the arrow, narrowly missing him. At last, Caligraf found the will to act. With barely a glace, he brought the hammer down full force, crushing the skull of the Bellhold youth on the altar. Then, turning to Akratt, the Cener spat out a warning. “The wall behind is an illusion!”
Caligraf watched in satisfaction at the Giaks’ reactions. The two who had been holding down the boy released their grasp on what was now a corpse and knelt behind the altar, picking up their own bows and training them on the far wall. Akratt’s sword rasped free of its scabbard as he adopted a defensive stance. The Giak leader might be spineless in a verbal altercation, but Caligraf knew he was a fierce combatant.
In other parts of the cavern there was more activity. Sprelt, the tribe’s sorcerer, climbed halfway up the wall, his hands and feet made magically sticky. At the entrance to the cavern, opposite the illusory wall, a Giak called Prukk slunk into the shadows at the edge of the room and began moving stealthily forward. Additional Giak warriors began streaming out of their makeshift barracks, weapons at the ready.
The mysterious archer seemed to have allies as well. From behind his shoulder, a magic missile flew unerringly towards Sprelt, snuffing out the diminutive Giak’s life and leaving him hanging on the wall until the expiration of his spider climb. The sounds of mailed feet on stone indicated that more heavily armored foes were about to enter the fray. And yet another arrow took Caligraf in the leg. He swore, and hobbled away, undergoing the transformation as he moved. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Giak archers returning fire, one arrow striking its target.
By the time Caligraf reached down to pick up his weapon, it was with the claw of a mighty bear, rather than the hand of his human form. He looked upon the spiked greatclub with glee and roared with bloodlust. (3) At this signal, Caligraf’s Doomhound bounded towards the attackers and leapt at them, but could not jump high enough to reach them where they stood atop what appeared to be a stone ramp behind the illusion.
To Caligraf’s left, all four of the recently arrived Giaks dropped in their tracks and began snoring loudly. The druid-bear snarled in anger and viciously kicked the nearest one awake.
From atop the ramp, two dwarves in plate armor leapt down upon his Doomwolf, axe and hammer striking as they fell. The beast yelped once before it was chopped and crushed to death. His eyes narrowed in hate, Caligraf studied these foes. The dwarf on the right looked familiar, and he wore the holy symbol of Kirabá. Snarling out a curse, Caligraf quickly mouthed the words of a protective spell, one that he knew it had been wise to prepare. (4)
Akratt leapt forward and struck at the other dwarf, but his sword was turned aside on the heavy armor. More arrows crisscrossed in the air, one striking Caligraf, two others striking the partially concealed enemy sorcerer. A different kind of arrow, this one composed of magical acid, splashed on the floor near Caligraf, melting a hole into the stone. He frowned, wondering if he had warded himself against the wrong type of energy.
As if in answer, a cacophony of sound screamed out nearby. The sleeping Giaks staggered up, blood streaming from their ears, while the one that Caligraf had awakened was knocked off his feet. But the druid was unaffected, the sound waves washing over him harmlessly. He moved forward undeterred.
Ah yes! Prukk had almost made it behind the nasty little dwarf. Soon the Giak rogue would deliver a painful – no! How could he have been seen? For the Herbalish archer had pointed his bow strait down and fired it into the top of Prukk’s head, killing him instantly. (5)
By this time the disoriented Giak warriors were on their feet; they charged into battle. One met his maker on the end of a dwarven waraxe; another successfully flanked the other dwarf, allowing Akratt to deliver a devastating sneak attack.
Caligraf at last reached his target. Stepping over the Giak bodies, he swung his greatclub in a tremendous sideways arc, and felt the satisfying crunch as it punched through the war-priest’s platemail, literally lifting the dwarf off his feet and sending him crashing to the ground. “Rrrrrooooooaaaarrrgggghhhh!” The druid-bear’s roar of pleasure became a scream of pain as arrows both mundane and magical tore into his body, both striking with terrible force. (6) Shaking, Caligraf began to withdraw, clawing clumsily for a sprig of Laumspur.
Too late. As the Cener tried to make it behind cover of the altar, he felt another arrow bury itself in his back, and the acid continued to burn him. He sank to his knees, kept conscious only by his rage. The Laumspur scattered on the cave floor in front of him, just out of reach. (7)
Caligraf could not know that moments after he was struck down, two Giak darts pierced Otieno’s lung, dropping the sorcerer and forcing Kell to withdraw and attempt to revive him. Nor could the Cener druid watch as Akratt paired off with another Giak warrior to repeatedly flank and sneak attack Kednor, until the dwarf finally shattered Akratt’s longsword with a well-timed sunder. Thereafter, Brogun joined his cohort in beating back the Giak warriors, who eventually joined the archers in a hasty retreat.
The druid felt his racing pulse begin to slow, and knew that his death was imminent. An evil soul would journey to the Plane of Darkness, doomed to serve Naar for an eternity of pain. But the soul of this Cener was already promised to another – and its work in the moral realm was not yet complete.
Notes:
(1) In 2514 MS, the Cener Druids completed work on a biologically engineered virus and released it upon Magnamund. The resulting plague decimated the population, hitting the Elder Magi and Drodarin races especially hard. It tooks desperate counter-measures by the Herbalish Druids to save Magnamund.
(2) Kell had taken Cener as his favored enemy.
(3) As a multiclassed barbarian/druid, Caligraf could wild shape into a bear and then enter a rage, giving him Str 23. Combined with a greatclub with the spikes spell cast upon it: attack +12, damage 1d10+11.
(4) Ever since his first encounter with Brogun and the dwarf’s propensity for soundburst, Caligraf had kept protection from energy: sonic on hand.
(5) Sneak attack plus critical hit. Not to mention beating Prukk’s Hide and Move Silently checks. *sigh*
(6) This crit for Kell’s arrow (against a favored enemy, no less) and another crit by Otieno’s acid arrow took Caligraf from alive but wounded to nearly dead in one round. And yes, that’s three confirmed criticals in a row for the PCs.
(7) Caligraf, at exactly zero hit point, was screwed. He couldn’t take a standard action (for example, to retrieve the healing herbs) without dropping to negative, but if he did nothing, he would drop to negative anyway when he came out of his barbarian rage. So much for my villain! At least for now....
Caligraf of Mogaruith considered the glittering fragment of crystal as he grasped it in his left hand. It was smaller than his littlest finger, but Caligraf suspected that driving it into the forehead of the squirming child beneath him would render the child docile and easily controlled – as well as giving him unknown mental powers. That this knowledge had been gained only after weeks of messy experimentation upon animals was of no consequence to Caligraf. He was a Cener Druid, of the same order that had unleashed the Great Plague upon Magnamund seven and a half thousand years ago. (1) Perhaps the Cener had failed then, but they would not fail now. Mad visions of himself as the leader of an army of mentally dominated thralls filled Caligraf’s head. A self-satisfied smirk played over his features, mere instants before a shaft of wood tipped with steel tore into his hand, spraying blood across the sacrifice’s face.
“Aaaaagggghhh!” Caligraf screamed in surprise and pain, jerking his hand away and instinctively clutching it to his chest. The druid whirled to face the back wall of the great cavern, eyes wide. There! His assailant, with an expression of hatred and determination upon his face (2), was already fitting another arrow to his bow. But how? How could the archer’s head and torso be protruding out of the solid rock itself?
Caligraf blinked the tears out of his eyes and stared again. Because it was not solid rock – an illusion of some sort – his mind raced, straining to recall arcane teachings. Of course. Illusory wall. How simple.
But the druid had little time to think on this discovery, for another arrow streaked through the arrow, narrowly missing him. At last, Caligraf found the will to act. With barely a glace, he brought the hammer down full force, crushing the skull of the Bellhold youth on the altar. Then, turning to Akratt, the Cener spat out a warning. “The wall behind is an illusion!”
Caligraf watched in satisfaction at the Giaks’ reactions. The two who had been holding down the boy released their grasp on what was now a corpse and knelt behind the altar, picking up their own bows and training them on the far wall. Akratt’s sword rasped free of its scabbard as he adopted a defensive stance. The Giak leader might be spineless in a verbal altercation, but Caligraf knew he was a fierce combatant.
In other parts of the cavern there was more activity. Sprelt, the tribe’s sorcerer, climbed halfway up the wall, his hands and feet made magically sticky. At the entrance to the cavern, opposite the illusory wall, a Giak called Prukk slunk into the shadows at the edge of the room and began moving stealthily forward. Additional Giak warriors began streaming out of their makeshift barracks, weapons at the ready.
The mysterious archer seemed to have allies as well. From behind his shoulder, a magic missile flew unerringly towards Sprelt, snuffing out the diminutive Giak’s life and leaving him hanging on the wall until the expiration of his spider climb. The sounds of mailed feet on stone indicated that more heavily armored foes were about to enter the fray. And yet another arrow took Caligraf in the leg. He swore, and hobbled away, undergoing the transformation as he moved. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Giak archers returning fire, one arrow striking its target.
By the time Caligraf reached down to pick up his weapon, it was with the claw of a mighty bear, rather than the hand of his human form. He looked upon the spiked greatclub with glee and roared with bloodlust. (3) At this signal, Caligraf’s Doomhound bounded towards the attackers and leapt at them, but could not jump high enough to reach them where they stood atop what appeared to be a stone ramp behind the illusion.
To Caligraf’s left, all four of the recently arrived Giaks dropped in their tracks and began snoring loudly. The druid-bear snarled in anger and viciously kicked the nearest one awake.
From atop the ramp, two dwarves in plate armor leapt down upon his Doomwolf, axe and hammer striking as they fell. The beast yelped once before it was chopped and crushed to death. His eyes narrowed in hate, Caligraf studied these foes. The dwarf on the right looked familiar, and he wore the holy symbol of Kirabá. Snarling out a curse, Caligraf quickly mouthed the words of a protective spell, one that he knew it had been wise to prepare. (4)
Akratt leapt forward and struck at the other dwarf, but his sword was turned aside on the heavy armor. More arrows crisscrossed in the air, one striking Caligraf, two others striking the partially concealed enemy sorcerer. A different kind of arrow, this one composed of magical acid, splashed on the floor near Caligraf, melting a hole into the stone. He frowned, wondering if he had warded himself against the wrong type of energy.
As if in answer, a cacophony of sound screamed out nearby. The sleeping Giaks staggered up, blood streaming from their ears, while the one that Caligraf had awakened was knocked off his feet. But the druid was unaffected, the sound waves washing over him harmlessly. He moved forward undeterred.
Ah yes! Prukk had almost made it behind the nasty little dwarf. Soon the Giak rogue would deliver a painful – no! How could he have been seen? For the Herbalish archer had pointed his bow strait down and fired it into the top of Prukk’s head, killing him instantly. (5)
By this time the disoriented Giak warriors were on their feet; they charged into battle. One met his maker on the end of a dwarven waraxe; another successfully flanked the other dwarf, allowing Akratt to deliver a devastating sneak attack.
Caligraf at last reached his target. Stepping over the Giak bodies, he swung his greatclub in a tremendous sideways arc, and felt the satisfying crunch as it punched through the war-priest’s platemail, literally lifting the dwarf off his feet and sending him crashing to the ground. “Rrrrrooooooaaaarrrgggghhhh!” The druid-bear’s roar of pleasure became a scream of pain as arrows both mundane and magical tore into his body, both striking with terrible force. (6) Shaking, Caligraf began to withdraw, clawing clumsily for a sprig of Laumspur.
Too late. As the Cener tried to make it behind cover of the altar, he felt another arrow bury itself in his back, and the acid continued to burn him. He sank to his knees, kept conscious only by his rage. The Laumspur scattered on the cave floor in front of him, just out of reach. (7)
Caligraf could not know that moments after he was struck down, two Giak darts pierced Otieno’s lung, dropping the sorcerer and forcing Kell to withdraw and attempt to revive him. Nor could the Cener druid watch as Akratt paired off with another Giak warrior to repeatedly flank and sneak attack Kednor, until the dwarf finally shattered Akratt’s longsword with a well-timed sunder. Thereafter, Brogun joined his cohort in beating back the Giak warriors, who eventually joined the archers in a hasty retreat.
The druid felt his racing pulse begin to slow, and knew that his death was imminent. An evil soul would journey to the Plane of Darkness, doomed to serve Naar for an eternity of pain. But the soul of this Cener was already promised to another – and its work in the moral realm was not yet complete.
Notes:
(1) In 2514 MS, the Cener Druids completed work on a biologically engineered virus and released it upon Magnamund. The resulting plague decimated the population, hitting the Elder Magi and Drodarin races especially hard. It tooks desperate counter-measures by the Herbalish Druids to save Magnamund.
(2) Kell had taken Cener as his favored enemy.
(3) As a multiclassed barbarian/druid, Caligraf could wild shape into a bear and then enter a rage, giving him Str 23. Combined with a greatclub with the spikes spell cast upon it: attack +12, damage 1d10+11.
(4) Ever since his first encounter with Brogun and the dwarf’s propensity for soundburst, Caligraf had kept protection from energy: sonic on hand.
(5) Sneak attack plus critical hit. Not to mention beating Prukk’s Hide and Move Silently checks. *sigh*
(6) This crit for Kell’s arrow (against a favored enemy, no less) and another crit by Otieno’s acid arrow took Caligraf from alive but wounded to nearly dead in one round. And yes, that’s three confirmed criticals in a row for the PCs.
(7) Caligraf, at exactly zero hit point, was screwed. He couldn’t take a standard action (for example, to retrieve the healing herbs) without dropping to negative, but if he did nothing, he would drop to negative anyway when he came out of his barbarian rage. So much for my villain! At least for now....
Elder-Basilisk
First Post
Readercount=readercount+1
And am I right to think that you've had a few more players join the group?
And am I right to think that you've had a few more players join the group?
Joshua Randall
Legend
At the time of these updates, there were three players (Brogun+Kednor, Kell, Otieno). Otieno's player was a friend of Kell's player who was visiting from his home in Africa! Now that's dedication to D&D.Elder-Basilisk said:
Unfortunately, Otieno's player had to go back home, so we're down to two players again. But I enjoy the campaign even so, because with fewer players, I can focus intently on what they and their characters want to do, rather than having to serve many different agendas.
Joshua Randall
Legend
The Dragonstone
“Otieno is dead.”
Kell spoke the words in a flat voice, all emotion drained from him in the battle’s aftermath. His head ached dully.
The Herbalish scout moved past the dwarven warriors towards another corpse up ahead – that of Caligraf. Kell knelt by the body of this Cener, one of the hated enemies of his people. Gingerly, almost reluctantly, he heaved the corpse onto its back. Then, with a shudder of revulsion, Kell put a hand to the glassy green mask that covered Caligraf’s features. For an instant, the substance of the mask felt hideously alive, writhing under his touch like so many worms.
Kell jerked his hand back as though it had been burned. But the only pain was from the blisters that were beginning to form on his fingers where they had repeatedly pulled the bowstring. Steeling himself, Kell once again grasped the Cener’s mask and pulled it free. Beneath the mask, Caligraf had a narrow, pinched face, with high cheekbones and a hawklike nose. Numerous pockmarks and brown blotches marred the visage, making Caligraf look far older than his probable thirty years.
Curious, thought Kell to himself; I feel nothing – no sense of triumph at the death of this enemy. But the Herbalish were not given to pointless speculation, least of all upon something as transient as emotion. Kell gingerly stowed the mask in his pack, then stood.
Brogun and Kednor had freed a pair of children – one cowering, the other capering madly – from the cage in one corner of the room. Alas, the third child upon the altar was beyond all help, his skull shattered by Caligraf’s hammer at the beginning of the battle.
From the seemingly deranged child named Doric, the adventurers learned that someone only referred to as he yet awaited them, and that he would “swallow us all!” Doric seemed strangely pleased by that possibility.
“We are exhausted, our bodies tired, and my master’s spells are spent,” spoke Kednor. “Nevertheless, I feel compelled to journey onwards into yonder cavern.” Wordlessly, the others agreed.
As they advanced, a hush came over the group. Even Doric ceased his chattering. Kell could see why, for before them rose the vast bulk of a skeletal dragon – or more precisely, the mummified corpse of a dragon, for it was inert and dead. The tips of the thing’s wings nearly brushed the walls on either side, spanning some forty feet. Its body, nearly sixty feet long, was still covered in sapphire-colored scales. Even from this distance, one could tell that those scales would turn aside mundane weapons as easily as a suit of plate armor would turn aside a pebble. Kell swallowed nervously: he was scared, despite the fact that the dragon was already dead.
Thank you for saving me from the Giaks, purred a voice directly in Kell’s mind. Now if you will be so kind as to retrieve me from inside this… body… we can see about returning your companion to life.
“How did you know Otieno was dead?” Kell demanded, aloud.
I know many things, human. Many more things than your pathetically limited mind can safely comprehend. I have delved the forbidden depths of Right-Handed magic, and I have studied the forgotten secrets of the Shianti. Your people’s herbcraft is feeble compared to the powers of the Nadziranim! Where were you when we made the nations of the Hammerlands tremble before the might of Naar? You are nothing. GROVEL BEFORE ME, WEAKLING!
Kell staggered back under the mental assault, clutching his head. A firm hand guided him away from the dragon’s corpse, and then an open palm struck him lightly across the cheek.
“Kell! Snap out of it!” ordered Brogun. “What is happening to you?” The dwarf peered concernedly at his friend.
“The voice,” whispered Kell, his own voice unsteady. He licked his lips and swallowed. “There is a voice from within the dragon. Somehow it knows my thoughts and it….”
Brogun’s eyes narrowed. “Inside the dragon’s corpse, you say? Then one of us must enter and confront it. Kell! Listen to me. You must do this. Kednor and I are too clumsy to climb inside.”
“No,” whispered Kell, “I beg you. Do not make me do this thing.”
“You must,” Brogun demanded. “Now go.”
Trembling in fear, Kell approached the head of the dragon. No voice spoke in his head this time, but the silence was more terrifying that its previous rants. Biting back his nausea, Kell laid aside his pack and his bow and drew his shortsword. With some last reserve of divine energy, Brogun enchanted the blade so that it glowed brightly, and all took some comfort in the divine light of Kirabá.
Kell knelt before Choth.
Yes, purred the voice in his head. Yes.
Sword held before him, Kell squirmed his way into the dragon’s gullet.
= = = = =
Hours later, Brogun and Kednor trudged down the mountainside. Doric alternately ran ahead of them and lagged behind, laughing insanely. The girl-child whimpered quietly on Brogun’s shoulder as the warrior-priest carried her. At Brogun’s side, Kednor carried the body of Otieno across his own broad shoulders.
“Master, there is something I do not understand.” Kednor’s baritone voice broke the silence that had prevailed among the companions since their departure from Choth’s lair. “Why do we carry this Dragonstone towards Bellhold when that is exactly what it wants us to do?”
Brogun grunted in annoyance. They had already discussed their plan, back in the cave where the battle had taken place, safely out of range (or so they hoped) of the Dragonstone’s mental intrusion. Kell had remembered one of the tales told by Tokket, the innkeeper of the Bell and Clapper: the Wyrmcall bell in the church tower was so loud it had stopped the heart and shattered the bottle carried by an unfortunate drunk who fell asleep underneath it. The scout believed that the Dragonstone would be susceptible to those same vibrations.
Painful experimentation had demonstrated that the Dragonstone was not vulnerable to anything else.
Brogun remembered what had happened when he had struck at the hunk of crystal with his waraxe – the stab of pain between his temples, as though with his axe blow he had struck himself. It took the stalwart dwarf fully ten minutes afterwards before he could stand.
“Master?” inquired Kednor. “What if this does not work?”
Brogun strode onwards.
= = = = =
It was nightfall. “We are nearly back to town,” Kell announced. He had ranged ahead of the others, the Dragonstone swaddled in cloths within his pack. It had remained uncharacteristically silent during the journey. “Just across the river, we enter Bellhold.”
Brogun looked deeply into the Kell’s eyes, trying to gauge his resolve. What he saw was only fear and doubt to mirror his own. But Brogun recalled the teachings of Kirabá, which tell us that the brave man is not brave because he feels no fear; he is brave because he acts in spite of his fear.
“We all know what must be done,” Brogun began, then stopped short. He did not wish to speak his thought aloud – did not wish even to think his thoughts – in the presence of the Dragonstone. “Be brave, Kell.” They clasped hands, then turned purposefully toward the river.
Kell waded across the frigid waters of the Xane River. Behind him trudged Brogun, his axe held above his head to keep it dry. Though the water came up to the dwarf’s chest, he seemed to exhibit no discomfort. Upon reaching the shore, Brogun place his axe reverently upon the ground, then forged back across the river to help Kednor carry Otieno’s body. A few more trips saw the children ferried safely across.
“Doric, take your sister and go home,” Brogun commanded. He would rather trust the girl’s life in her brother’s deranged hands than subject her to what was to come. Doric tittered and scampered off, dragging his sister behind him.
The Kestrels then stood in silence for a moment before setting off. Three abreast, they marched up the street, heading strait for the center of town.
As they passed the first row of houses, their heads began to ache anew. They shook their heads to clear them and continued.
Suddenly, from every house and street around them came the voice – but it was multiplied and spoke as many voices in unison.
Stop what you are doing. Release me.
“Ignore it,” snapped Brogun; he was tired of the Dragonstone’s incessant, illusory threats.
Then you shall have a real threat, half-man, the voice gloated.
From the surrounding streets and houses stepped the people of Bellhold: men and women, young and old, merchant and miner. They moved jerkily, as though unused to the functioning of their limbs. All their eyes glowed with sapphire light.
“Oh, sh*t,” said Brogun. “Run!”
Kell needed no additional prompting: with a burst of speed he shot past the line of dominated townsfolk, spun away from another pair just emerging from a side street, and raced for the church.
Brogun and Kednor broke into a trot; in their heavy armor, they could not run. A crowd of people surrounded them. The dwarves swept their weapons side to side, pulling their blows enough to avoid lethal strikes. Many pairs of hands grabbed at them, but none was strong enough to stop their forward progress.
Up ahead, Kell had gained the belltower and flung open the door. An under-priest lurched out of the darkness and Kell clubbed him senseless with the pommel of his sword before dashing up the stairs. Behind him, he could hear Brogun and Kednor grunting as they plowed their way through the ever-increasing crowd and forced shut the door.
Kell raced around and around the spiral stairs.
You cannot succeed. Release me or die.
The voice came simultaneously from inside Kell’s head and from the hundreds of townsfolk gathered outside.
He forced his mind to ignore it. The stairs. Must count them. Two turns so far. Twelve steps in a turn. Two times twelve: twenty-four. Third turn now. Three times twelve: thirty—
Kell smashed into the door in front of him without seeing it. He stumbled back, dazed.
= = =
Below, Brogun put his back against the main door, bracing his feet against the nearest step. Kednor was about to use his warhammer to bar the door when an axe bit into the wood from the other side. The paladin dragged his master away just before several more axes chopped through the wood where Brogun had been leaning. In seconds the door was completely gone and the crowd surged forwards, murder in their sapphire eyes.
= = =
Kell frantically pushed at the portal blocking his way. But it was of stout oak and locked as well.
What will you do now, human? This path is fruitless. Give up your hopeless quest and release me.
Kell sagged against the wall. The voice was right – this was hopeless. Even if he somehow got past this second door, he’d still have to face a whole town’s worth of people. He’d be cut to shreds in no time – just like Kednor and Brogun, who were probably already dead.
“No!” Kell shouted. “You cannot defeat me with despair!” Leaping up, he fished lockpicks out of his pouch and set to work.
= = =
Axes, pitchforks, and lit torches chopped, pierced, and burned Brogun and Kednor. The dwarves retreated up the narrow stairs. They had the advantage of higher ground and of holding a choke-point, but their restrained blows were making little headway against the mob.
“Screw this,” announced Brogun. He turned his axe in his hand so that the blade was properly positioned and swept it back and forth before him.
= = =
The lock clicked open and Kell thrust open the door immediately. More stairs. One turn. Two turns. Three turns.
After a fourth turn the stairs ended. On the ceiling above, a trapdoor gave entrance onto the Wyrmcall bell itself.
And what will you do if this door is locked? You left your lockpicks below. The voice chortled in Kell’s head and echoed dimly from the base of the tower.
For a moment, he hesitated. If the trapdoor was indeed locked – but that was what the Dragonstone wanted him to think. Kell pushed on the trapdoor above his head. It opened easily and he climbed up onto the platform. The great Wyrmcall was suspended from a massive oaken frame, its fine burnished copper reflecting the moonlight. Beside the bell, a coil of rope was attached to the crossbar: by lowering this line into the belltower, one could then pull on the rope to ring the bell.
Kell ripped off his pack and dumped its contents onto the platform. The Dragonstone rolled free of its bundle and came to rest just beneath the Wyrmcall.
You fool, the voice was exasperated, do you honestly believe you can destroy me with a bell? Pick me up and carry me back into town.
Kell ignored the voice. He wrapped the bell’s rope several times around his waist and tied it in a simple knot, then grasped the trailing line and looked downwards. Many levels below, his two friends fought a desperate defensive action, buying time to do what must be done: to destroy the Dragonstone.
Kell took a deep breath and jumped through the open trapdoor.
“Otieno is dead.”
Kell spoke the words in a flat voice, all emotion drained from him in the battle’s aftermath. His head ached dully.
The Herbalish scout moved past the dwarven warriors towards another corpse up ahead – that of Caligraf. Kell knelt by the body of this Cener, one of the hated enemies of his people. Gingerly, almost reluctantly, he heaved the corpse onto its back. Then, with a shudder of revulsion, Kell put a hand to the glassy green mask that covered Caligraf’s features. For an instant, the substance of the mask felt hideously alive, writhing under his touch like so many worms.
Kell jerked his hand back as though it had been burned. But the only pain was from the blisters that were beginning to form on his fingers where they had repeatedly pulled the bowstring. Steeling himself, Kell once again grasped the Cener’s mask and pulled it free. Beneath the mask, Caligraf had a narrow, pinched face, with high cheekbones and a hawklike nose. Numerous pockmarks and brown blotches marred the visage, making Caligraf look far older than his probable thirty years.
Curious, thought Kell to himself; I feel nothing – no sense of triumph at the death of this enemy. But the Herbalish were not given to pointless speculation, least of all upon something as transient as emotion. Kell gingerly stowed the mask in his pack, then stood.
Brogun and Kednor had freed a pair of children – one cowering, the other capering madly – from the cage in one corner of the room. Alas, the third child upon the altar was beyond all help, his skull shattered by Caligraf’s hammer at the beginning of the battle.
From the seemingly deranged child named Doric, the adventurers learned that someone only referred to as he yet awaited them, and that he would “swallow us all!” Doric seemed strangely pleased by that possibility.
“We are exhausted, our bodies tired, and my master’s spells are spent,” spoke Kednor. “Nevertheless, I feel compelled to journey onwards into yonder cavern.” Wordlessly, the others agreed.
As they advanced, a hush came over the group. Even Doric ceased his chattering. Kell could see why, for before them rose the vast bulk of a skeletal dragon – or more precisely, the mummified corpse of a dragon, for it was inert and dead. The tips of the thing’s wings nearly brushed the walls on either side, spanning some forty feet. Its body, nearly sixty feet long, was still covered in sapphire-colored scales. Even from this distance, one could tell that those scales would turn aside mundane weapons as easily as a suit of plate armor would turn aside a pebble. Kell swallowed nervously: he was scared, despite the fact that the dragon was already dead.
Thank you for saving me from the Giaks, purred a voice directly in Kell’s mind. Now if you will be so kind as to retrieve me from inside this… body… we can see about returning your companion to life.
“How did you know Otieno was dead?” Kell demanded, aloud.
I know many things, human. Many more things than your pathetically limited mind can safely comprehend. I have delved the forbidden depths of Right-Handed magic, and I have studied the forgotten secrets of the Shianti. Your people’s herbcraft is feeble compared to the powers of the Nadziranim! Where were you when we made the nations of the Hammerlands tremble before the might of Naar? You are nothing. GROVEL BEFORE ME, WEAKLING!
Kell staggered back under the mental assault, clutching his head. A firm hand guided him away from the dragon’s corpse, and then an open palm struck him lightly across the cheek.
“Kell! Snap out of it!” ordered Brogun. “What is happening to you?” The dwarf peered concernedly at his friend.
“The voice,” whispered Kell, his own voice unsteady. He licked his lips and swallowed. “There is a voice from within the dragon. Somehow it knows my thoughts and it….”
Brogun’s eyes narrowed. “Inside the dragon’s corpse, you say? Then one of us must enter and confront it. Kell! Listen to me. You must do this. Kednor and I are too clumsy to climb inside.”
“No,” whispered Kell, “I beg you. Do not make me do this thing.”
“You must,” Brogun demanded. “Now go.”
Trembling in fear, Kell approached the head of the dragon. No voice spoke in his head this time, but the silence was more terrifying that its previous rants. Biting back his nausea, Kell laid aside his pack and his bow and drew his shortsword. With some last reserve of divine energy, Brogun enchanted the blade so that it glowed brightly, and all took some comfort in the divine light of Kirabá.
Kell knelt before Choth.
Yes, purred the voice in his head. Yes.
Sword held before him, Kell squirmed his way into the dragon’s gullet.
= = = = =
Hours later, Brogun and Kednor trudged down the mountainside. Doric alternately ran ahead of them and lagged behind, laughing insanely. The girl-child whimpered quietly on Brogun’s shoulder as the warrior-priest carried her. At Brogun’s side, Kednor carried the body of Otieno across his own broad shoulders.
“Master, there is something I do not understand.” Kednor’s baritone voice broke the silence that had prevailed among the companions since their departure from Choth’s lair. “Why do we carry this Dragonstone towards Bellhold when that is exactly what it wants us to do?”
Brogun grunted in annoyance. They had already discussed their plan, back in the cave where the battle had taken place, safely out of range (or so they hoped) of the Dragonstone’s mental intrusion. Kell had remembered one of the tales told by Tokket, the innkeeper of the Bell and Clapper: the Wyrmcall bell in the church tower was so loud it had stopped the heart and shattered the bottle carried by an unfortunate drunk who fell asleep underneath it. The scout believed that the Dragonstone would be susceptible to those same vibrations.
Painful experimentation had demonstrated that the Dragonstone was not vulnerable to anything else.
Brogun remembered what had happened when he had struck at the hunk of crystal with his waraxe – the stab of pain between his temples, as though with his axe blow he had struck himself. It took the stalwart dwarf fully ten minutes afterwards before he could stand.
“Master?” inquired Kednor. “What if this does not work?”
Brogun strode onwards.
= = = = =
It was nightfall. “We are nearly back to town,” Kell announced. He had ranged ahead of the others, the Dragonstone swaddled in cloths within his pack. It had remained uncharacteristically silent during the journey. “Just across the river, we enter Bellhold.”
Brogun looked deeply into the Kell’s eyes, trying to gauge his resolve. What he saw was only fear and doubt to mirror his own. But Brogun recalled the teachings of Kirabá, which tell us that the brave man is not brave because he feels no fear; he is brave because he acts in spite of his fear.
“We all know what must be done,” Brogun began, then stopped short. He did not wish to speak his thought aloud – did not wish even to think his thoughts – in the presence of the Dragonstone. “Be brave, Kell.” They clasped hands, then turned purposefully toward the river.
Kell waded across the frigid waters of the Xane River. Behind him trudged Brogun, his axe held above his head to keep it dry. Though the water came up to the dwarf’s chest, he seemed to exhibit no discomfort. Upon reaching the shore, Brogun place his axe reverently upon the ground, then forged back across the river to help Kednor carry Otieno’s body. A few more trips saw the children ferried safely across.
“Doric, take your sister and go home,” Brogun commanded. He would rather trust the girl’s life in her brother’s deranged hands than subject her to what was to come. Doric tittered and scampered off, dragging his sister behind him.
The Kestrels then stood in silence for a moment before setting off. Three abreast, they marched up the street, heading strait for the center of town.
As they passed the first row of houses, their heads began to ache anew. They shook their heads to clear them and continued.
Suddenly, from every house and street around them came the voice – but it was multiplied and spoke as many voices in unison.
Stop what you are doing. Release me.
“Ignore it,” snapped Brogun; he was tired of the Dragonstone’s incessant, illusory threats.
Then you shall have a real threat, half-man, the voice gloated.
From the surrounding streets and houses stepped the people of Bellhold: men and women, young and old, merchant and miner. They moved jerkily, as though unused to the functioning of their limbs. All their eyes glowed with sapphire light.
“Oh, sh*t,” said Brogun. “Run!”
Kell needed no additional prompting: with a burst of speed he shot past the line of dominated townsfolk, spun away from another pair just emerging from a side street, and raced for the church.
Brogun and Kednor broke into a trot; in their heavy armor, they could not run. A crowd of people surrounded them. The dwarves swept their weapons side to side, pulling their blows enough to avoid lethal strikes. Many pairs of hands grabbed at them, but none was strong enough to stop their forward progress.
Up ahead, Kell had gained the belltower and flung open the door. An under-priest lurched out of the darkness and Kell clubbed him senseless with the pommel of his sword before dashing up the stairs. Behind him, he could hear Brogun and Kednor grunting as they plowed their way through the ever-increasing crowd and forced shut the door.
Kell raced around and around the spiral stairs.
You cannot succeed. Release me or die.
The voice came simultaneously from inside Kell’s head and from the hundreds of townsfolk gathered outside.
He forced his mind to ignore it. The stairs. Must count them. Two turns so far. Twelve steps in a turn. Two times twelve: twenty-four. Third turn now. Three times twelve: thirty—
Kell smashed into the door in front of him without seeing it. He stumbled back, dazed.
= = =
Below, Brogun put his back against the main door, bracing his feet against the nearest step. Kednor was about to use his warhammer to bar the door when an axe bit into the wood from the other side. The paladin dragged his master away just before several more axes chopped through the wood where Brogun had been leaning. In seconds the door was completely gone and the crowd surged forwards, murder in their sapphire eyes.
= = =
Kell frantically pushed at the portal blocking his way. But it was of stout oak and locked as well.
What will you do now, human? This path is fruitless. Give up your hopeless quest and release me.
Kell sagged against the wall. The voice was right – this was hopeless. Even if he somehow got past this second door, he’d still have to face a whole town’s worth of people. He’d be cut to shreds in no time – just like Kednor and Brogun, who were probably already dead.
“No!” Kell shouted. “You cannot defeat me with despair!” Leaping up, he fished lockpicks out of his pouch and set to work.
= = =
Axes, pitchforks, and lit torches chopped, pierced, and burned Brogun and Kednor. The dwarves retreated up the narrow stairs. They had the advantage of higher ground and of holding a choke-point, but their restrained blows were making little headway against the mob.
“Screw this,” announced Brogun. He turned his axe in his hand so that the blade was properly positioned and swept it back and forth before him.
= = =
The lock clicked open and Kell thrust open the door immediately. More stairs. One turn. Two turns. Three turns.
After a fourth turn the stairs ended. On the ceiling above, a trapdoor gave entrance onto the Wyrmcall bell itself.
And what will you do if this door is locked? You left your lockpicks below. The voice chortled in Kell’s head and echoed dimly from the base of the tower.
For a moment, he hesitated. If the trapdoor was indeed locked – but that was what the Dragonstone wanted him to think. Kell pushed on the trapdoor above his head. It opened easily and he climbed up onto the platform. The great Wyrmcall was suspended from a massive oaken frame, its fine burnished copper reflecting the moonlight. Beside the bell, a coil of rope was attached to the crossbar: by lowering this line into the belltower, one could then pull on the rope to ring the bell.
Kell ripped off his pack and dumped its contents onto the platform. The Dragonstone rolled free of its bundle and came to rest just beneath the Wyrmcall.
You fool, the voice was exasperated, do you honestly believe you can destroy me with a bell? Pick me up and carry me back into town.
Kell ignored the voice. He wrapped the bell’s rope several times around his waist and tied it in a simple knot, then grasped the trailing line and looked downwards. Many levels below, his two friends fought a desperate defensive action, buying time to do what must be done: to destroy the Dragonstone.
Kell took a deep breath and jumped through the open trapdoor.
Elder-Basilisk
First Post
Gutsy move. I hope it pans out but I guess I'll have to wait until the next installment to find out.
Joshua Randall
Legend
Kell sails through the air. Unfortunately, he didn't tie the rope tight enough, so he plummets to his death many feet below. Meanwhile, the dominated townsfolk overwhelm Brogun and Kednor and turn them into ground sausage. The Dragonstone fully dominates Bellhold and, in time, all of Magnamund.
The End.
Obviously, this is a joke. What makes it extra funny (to me, anyway) is that the Lone Wolf game books have some truly gnarly "you're dead" paragraphs. For example:
Your knees shatter on impact and you drop like a stone into the darkness of the shaft, but the pain and shock soon fades into unconsciousness. As you hit the surface of an underground river, hundreds of feet below, you are unable to save yourself from death by drowning.
Your mission and your life end here.
Tune in next time when I write an actual update.
The End.
Obviously, this is a joke. What makes it extra funny (to me, anyway) is that the Lone Wolf game books have some truly gnarly "you're dead" paragraphs. For example:
Your knees shatter on impact and you drop like a stone into the darkness of the shaft, but the pain and shock soon fades into unconsciousness. As you hit the surface of an underground river, hundreds of feet below, you are unable to save yourself from death by drowning.
Your mission and your life end here.
Tune in next time when I write an actual update.
Joshua Randall
Legend
"Hear the tolling of the bells…"
“Hear the tolling of the bells… What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!”
NNNNNOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
A tremendous rolling *BONG* boomed forth from the Wyrmcall. Kell jerked to a painful stop at the end of the bell rope, then began swinging his body wildly to and fro in an effort to toll the bell. Absently, he noticed that his hands were bleeding heavily where they had slid down the rope.
*BONG* The Wyrmcall boomed forth again. Kell felt a stab of pain through his temples along with an overwhelming mental command to STOP! He laughed: his momentum was now carrying him back and forth. He could not stop.
Below, Brogun was screaming something incoherent in Dwarvish. The mass of townsfolk continued to push the dwarves up the stairs.
*BONG*
*BONG*
*BONG*
Kell’s mind was going. He closed his eyes. Nothing existed now except the sound of the bell.
= = =
It was utterly still, like a blanket of quiet had been placed over Bellhold.
In the east, the light of Magnamund’s sun broke over the foothills of the Durncrag mountains. As the rays reached the top of the church tower in Bellhold, they illuminated the many fragments of crystal that had been the Dragonstone.
A light wind blew up from the south, spreading the crystal dust across the tower’s platform. They glinted in the dawn sun. Then a sudden strong gust scattered the remains of Choth the Nadziran, known as Copperdeath, to the four winds.
= = =
DM’s note: Here endeth the adventure Of Sound Mind, with the Company of the Red Kestrel battered but triumphant. As I am way behind in my story-telling, I will summarize some of the key events of the campaign thereafter.
Otieno was raised by grateful priests of Kai upon their return to Bellhold. He chose to remain with the Company (as an NPC) for the time being.
Brogun received word from Zaccarias Zabar, the dwarven master-smith, that the waraxe he had commissioned was ready for pickup in the Durenese city of Ryme.
Kell met with superiors in the Herbalish druidical order. They were alarmed to learn of the presence of the Cener druid, Caligraf, in Bellhold, but satisfied that he had been eliminated. The Herbalish questioned Kell regarding his efforts in locating the missing Shard of Gareth, a fragment of the sacred First Tree. Kell sheepishly admitted he had made no progress, and resolved to accompany Brogun to Durenor, where the Shard had been lost.
So the party set off to the east, taking advantage of a huge rules blunder to make the trip a short one. (Somehow, I thought that wind walk was a 3rd-level cleric spell instead of a 6th-level cleric spell, and I allowed Brogun to cast it multiple times to speed their journey. Only several sessions later did I realize my mistake.)
Arriving in Durenor, they found the entire country in a state of barely suppressed panic. A series of bizarre and grisly murders had rocked the capitol city of Hammerdal, prompting the Knights of the White Mountain to clamp down on traffic in and out of their nation. Roving military patrols were a common sight, and everyone had to carry papers identifying themselves.
Brogun, who was officially barred from entering Durenor by a previous proclamation of Eluchir the Truthspeaker, snuck into the country long enough to retrieve his +1 waraxe from Zabar and to meet with Narakh in Hammerdal. (Again, the PCs made good use of wind walk to avoid the roving patrols.)
Meanwhile, Kell spoke with several Knights of the White Mountain guarding the entrance to the Tunnel of Tarnalin. He learned that animals in the nearby forest were behaving strangely and resolved to investigate.
Reuniting with Brogun, Kednor, and Otieno, Kell led the way into the forest. The group encountered a kakarmi, a shy semi-intelligent forest-dwelling creature no bigger than a raccoon. The kakarmi, after being coaxed out of hiding by Kell, informed the party that someone named Ilthian, who lived “at the center of the forest,” was gathering animals to her.
The Company of the Red Kestrel advanced into the forest, battling a group of plant creatures (advanced twig blights and needlefolk, courtesy of the newly-acquired Monster Manual II plus the 3.5 rules for monster advancement). Later that night, they were approached by the very person they were seeking out: Ilthian. She turned out to be a dryad of surpassing beauty (naturally). In her left hand, she carried what appeared to be an intricately carved shortspear.
The Shard of Gareth was within their grasp.
Edit: changed the font to something other than the dreaded Times New Roman.
“Hear the tolling of the bells… What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!”
NNNNNOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
A tremendous rolling *BONG* boomed forth from the Wyrmcall. Kell jerked to a painful stop at the end of the bell rope, then began swinging his body wildly to and fro in an effort to toll the bell. Absently, he noticed that his hands were bleeding heavily where they had slid down the rope.
*BONG* The Wyrmcall boomed forth again. Kell felt a stab of pain through his temples along with an overwhelming mental command to STOP! He laughed: his momentum was now carrying him back and forth. He could not stop.
Below, Brogun was screaming something incoherent in Dwarvish. The mass of townsfolk continued to push the dwarves up the stairs.
*BONG*
*BONG*
*BONG*
Kell’s mind was going. He closed his eyes. Nothing existed now except the sound of the bell.
= = =
It was utterly still, like a blanket of quiet had been placed over Bellhold.
In the east, the light of Magnamund’s sun broke over the foothills of the Durncrag mountains. As the rays reached the top of the church tower in Bellhold, they illuminated the many fragments of crystal that had been the Dragonstone.
A light wind blew up from the south, spreading the crystal dust across the tower’s platform. They glinted in the dawn sun. Then a sudden strong gust scattered the remains of Choth the Nadziran, known as Copperdeath, to the four winds.
= = =
DM’s note: Here endeth the adventure Of Sound Mind, with the Company of the Red Kestrel battered but triumphant. As I am way behind in my story-telling, I will summarize some of the key events of the campaign thereafter.
Otieno was raised by grateful priests of Kai upon their return to Bellhold. He chose to remain with the Company (as an NPC) for the time being.
Brogun received word from Zaccarias Zabar, the dwarven master-smith, that the waraxe he had commissioned was ready for pickup in the Durenese city of Ryme.
Kell met with superiors in the Herbalish druidical order. They were alarmed to learn of the presence of the Cener druid, Caligraf, in Bellhold, but satisfied that he had been eliminated. The Herbalish questioned Kell regarding his efforts in locating the missing Shard of Gareth, a fragment of the sacred First Tree. Kell sheepishly admitted he had made no progress, and resolved to accompany Brogun to Durenor, where the Shard had been lost.
So the party set off to the east, taking advantage of a huge rules blunder to make the trip a short one. (Somehow, I thought that wind walk was a 3rd-level cleric spell instead of a 6th-level cleric spell, and I allowed Brogun to cast it multiple times to speed their journey. Only several sessions later did I realize my mistake.)
Arriving in Durenor, they found the entire country in a state of barely suppressed panic. A series of bizarre and grisly murders had rocked the capitol city of Hammerdal, prompting the Knights of the White Mountain to clamp down on traffic in and out of their nation. Roving military patrols were a common sight, and everyone had to carry papers identifying themselves.
Brogun, who was officially barred from entering Durenor by a previous proclamation of Eluchir the Truthspeaker, snuck into the country long enough to retrieve his +1 waraxe from Zabar and to meet with Narakh in Hammerdal. (Again, the PCs made good use of wind walk to avoid the roving patrols.)
Meanwhile, Kell spoke with several Knights of the White Mountain guarding the entrance to the Tunnel of Tarnalin. He learned that animals in the nearby forest were behaving strangely and resolved to investigate.
Reuniting with Brogun, Kednor, and Otieno, Kell led the way into the forest. The group encountered a kakarmi, a shy semi-intelligent forest-dwelling creature no bigger than a raccoon. The kakarmi, after being coaxed out of hiding by Kell, informed the party that someone named Ilthian, who lived “at the center of the forest,” was gathering animals to her.
The Company of the Red Kestrel advanced into the forest, battling a group of plant creatures (advanced twig blights and needlefolk, courtesy of the newly-acquired Monster Manual II plus the 3.5 rules for monster advancement). Later that night, they were approached by the very person they were seeking out: Ilthian. She turned out to be a dryad of surpassing beauty (naturally). In her left hand, she carried what appeared to be an intricately carved shortspear.
The Shard of Gareth was within their grasp.
Edit: changed the font to something other than the dreaded Times New Roman.
Last edited:
Joshua Randall
Legend
The Cener Strike Back
Ilthian explained that some humble kakarmi had found the Shard of Gareth lying carelessly abandoned at the edge of the forest, near the road to Hammerdal. Hearing this, Kell glared at Brogun, who looked at the ground and scuffled his feet in embarrassment.
Clearing her throat to recapture the adventurers’ attention, the dryad sternly reprimanded them for their unnecessary slaughter of the plant-creatures. “But they attacked us!” protested Brogun. “Only because you were trespassing in their territory,” responded Ilthian. “You could have fled from them.”
“And we thank you for the valuable lesson, fair Ilthian,” interjected Kell. “Now. Are you aware that the Shard of Gareth is a holy relic of the Herbalish faith?”
Ilthian insisted that the Shard belonged to nature, and that as a creature of nature herself, she intended to keep it. Kell pressed his point, but the dryad was unyielding.
The back-and-forth conversation prevented the debaters from noticing the two Cener rangers sneaking up on them. The party was surprised and subjected to a volley of poisoned arrows, one of which struck Ilthian, dropping her immediately. Moments later an entangle spell engulfed the area, and the already thick underbrush began wrapping around feet and ankles.
The Company of the Red Kestrel was caught completely unprepared. Brogun had depleted his spells earlier in the day, and Otieno was reduced to attempting to cast ray of frost – an effort that failed anyway because of the entanglement. Kednor began trudging through the underbrush, relying on his armor to protect him from the continued arrow fire.
Kell crouched down near Ilthian and closed his hand around the Shard of Gareth. Instantly, he became overwhelmed with a sense of one-ness with the forest. In a lifetime of nature worship, Kell had never felt so close to this ultimate fusion.
He had also never felt a burning pain quite like that brought on by the two arrows that struck his midsection – or more precisely, by the poison coating the arrows that coursed its way into Kell’s bloodstream. The Herbalish scout suddenly found himself incredibly weak; the weight of his pack nearly bore him to the earth.
The Cener continued their relentless assault. More arrows struck Otieno, who quickly succumbed to the strength-draining poison. Brogun was struck as well, but his dwarven constitution allowed him to fight off the debilitating effects. He joined Kednor is trudging through the entangling area. The two made little progress, however.
Safely outside the area of the spell, one of the Cener unfurled and read a scroll of freedom of movement. Thus augmented, he dashed forward, easily evading Kednor’s clumsy attempt to stop him, and plowed into Kell.
Brogun finally burst out of the entanglement and charged the other Cener. The archer tried to drop his bow and draw a hand-weapon, but Brogun was too fast for him. With one mighty blow the dwarven cleric decapitated his foe.
Several dozen yards away, the first Cener grappled with Kell. The two struggled together for several seconds, but in his weakened state, Kell could not prevent the Cener from wrestling the Shard away from him.
With a sneer, the Cener kicked Kell in the face, then sped off through the forest.
Kell and Otieno lay completely helpless on the ground, their strength completely drained by the poison. Ilthian was likewise incapacitated. Brogun and Kednor, though unpoisoned, were unable to follow the fleeing Cener – their clumsy tracking efforts foiled by his pass without trace
The Shard of Gareth was now in the hands of their enemies.
Ilthian explained that some humble kakarmi had found the Shard of Gareth lying carelessly abandoned at the edge of the forest, near the road to Hammerdal. Hearing this, Kell glared at Brogun, who looked at the ground and scuffled his feet in embarrassment.
Clearing her throat to recapture the adventurers’ attention, the dryad sternly reprimanded them for their unnecessary slaughter of the plant-creatures. “But they attacked us!” protested Brogun. “Only because you were trespassing in their territory,” responded Ilthian. “You could have fled from them.”
“And we thank you for the valuable lesson, fair Ilthian,” interjected Kell. “Now. Are you aware that the Shard of Gareth is a holy relic of the Herbalish faith?”
Ilthian insisted that the Shard belonged to nature, and that as a creature of nature herself, she intended to keep it. Kell pressed his point, but the dryad was unyielding.
The back-and-forth conversation prevented the debaters from noticing the two Cener rangers sneaking up on them. The party was surprised and subjected to a volley of poisoned arrows, one of which struck Ilthian, dropping her immediately. Moments later an entangle spell engulfed the area, and the already thick underbrush began wrapping around feet and ankles.
The Company of the Red Kestrel was caught completely unprepared. Brogun had depleted his spells earlier in the day, and Otieno was reduced to attempting to cast ray of frost – an effort that failed anyway because of the entanglement. Kednor began trudging through the underbrush, relying on his armor to protect him from the continued arrow fire.
Kell crouched down near Ilthian and closed his hand around the Shard of Gareth. Instantly, he became overwhelmed with a sense of one-ness with the forest. In a lifetime of nature worship, Kell had never felt so close to this ultimate fusion.
He had also never felt a burning pain quite like that brought on by the two arrows that struck his midsection – or more precisely, by the poison coating the arrows that coursed its way into Kell’s bloodstream. The Herbalish scout suddenly found himself incredibly weak; the weight of his pack nearly bore him to the earth.
The Cener continued their relentless assault. More arrows struck Otieno, who quickly succumbed to the strength-draining poison. Brogun was struck as well, but his dwarven constitution allowed him to fight off the debilitating effects. He joined Kednor is trudging through the entangling area. The two made little progress, however.
Safely outside the area of the spell, one of the Cener unfurled and read a scroll of freedom of movement. Thus augmented, he dashed forward, easily evading Kednor’s clumsy attempt to stop him, and plowed into Kell.
Brogun finally burst out of the entanglement and charged the other Cener. The archer tried to drop his bow and draw a hand-weapon, but Brogun was too fast for him. With one mighty blow the dwarven cleric decapitated his foe.
Several dozen yards away, the first Cener grappled with Kell. The two struggled together for several seconds, but in his weakened state, Kell could not prevent the Cener from wrestling the Shard away from him.
With a sneer, the Cener kicked Kell in the face, then sped off through the forest.
Kell and Otieno lay completely helpless on the ground, their strength completely drained by the poison. Ilthian was likewise incapacitated. Brogun and Kednor, though unpoisoned, were unable to follow the fleeing Cener – their clumsy tracking efforts foiled by his pass without trace
The Shard of Gareth was now in the hands of their enemies.
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