Copperheads: Betrayal and Strange Runes and Burning Dead, oh my (short update 02/12)
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arwink
Clockwork Golem
Yip is moving before Blarth has slid off the elementals blade, tumbling beneath the second flailing sword-limb and hammering the stony hide with a flurry of blows. Pain darts through his paws as he makes contact with the granite surface, but he’s rewarded with a few flaking chips of stone flying free. The creature swings wildly at Yip, catching the kobold with a glancing blow. The other arm pulls itself free from Blarth's innards and swings high, the sharp edge whistling towards Blarth's head. The half-orc stumbles backwards, sword-hand clutching at his stomach, but his shield arm still moves with a swiftness born of instinct and keeps the elementals blade-limb at bay. Blarth can hear Geoffrey chanting, and then feels someone catching him as he stumbles backwards. A warm glow fills his body, and the rasping pain in his guts starts to fade a little.
“Amarin, Yip, it’s all yours,” Geoffrey orders. “I’m trying to keep Blarth alive.”
It proves a pointless request. Blarth is partially healed, and that’s all the half-orc needs to return to the fray.
“Blarth not happy,” the half-orc announces. He draws Luckringer and steps back towards the elemental. Drops of blood drain out of the wound in his stomach, but at least they're not being followed by intestines.
“Puny rock.”
His overhand strike shatters a large portion of the stone creatures chest and shoulder.
“Or we can just hit it,” Geoffrey shrugs, his voice laden with resignation.
Blarth and Yip both circle the creature, looking for a place to strike. Yip finds one quickly, his paws beating against the stone but doing little damage. The stone-blades lash out once more, sending Yip reeling and slicing open Blarth’s freshly healed wounds. Beside him, Geoffrey notices Amarin is concentrating and forming some kind of ectoplasmic construct, but it’s still half-formed and unlikely to ready in time to save Yip or Blarth.
Geoffrey readies his mace and recites the litany of duty and law, his holy symbol starting to glow blue against his breast. He steps forward as the chant reaches its crescendo, the blow glow creeping along his arm and surrounding his weapon.
“In the name of St Cuthbert, prepare to be destroyed!” Geoffrey shouts as he lashes out. His mace catches the elemental creature solidly, the blue destructive energy he’s channelling from his god slowly infusing the elementals body. Everyone one watches the blue lines forming through the body, hairline cracks that spread within the space of a few seconds, and then the creature crumbles into a pile of rubble. Geoffrey slumps slightly, sluggishly stumbling over to Blarth to administer more healing magic. Yip makes do with a potion and some long swigs from his hip flask.
“Yip not like forge,” he mutters. “Stupid rock. Silly weapons. Bad smith.”
“W-w-w-what are y-y-y-you doing here,” a nervous voice demands. Everyone turns towards the doorway, where a young man stands with a look of absolute terror on his face. He wears a scorched leather apron, and his skin is a patchwork of light burns and bruises.
“Who are you?” Geoffrey demands. He pulls himself to his full height, the subtle menace of his spiked armour and military bearing all it takes to terrify the intruder even more.
“I-I-I-I’m M-m-m-m-malden,” the stranger announces. “I’m the w-w-w-w-weaponsmith.”
“Evil more nervous than Yip remember,” Yip mutters.
“Amarin, Yip, it’s all yours,” Geoffrey orders. “I’m trying to keep Blarth alive.”
It proves a pointless request. Blarth is partially healed, and that’s all the half-orc needs to return to the fray.
“Blarth not happy,” the half-orc announces. He draws Luckringer and steps back towards the elemental. Drops of blood drain out of the wound in his stomach, but at least they're not being followed by intestines.
“Puny rock.”
His overhand strike shatters a large portion of the stone creatures chest and shoulder.
“Or we can just hit it,” Geoffrey shrugs, his voice laden with resignation.
Blarth and Yip both circle the creature, looking for a place to strike. Yip finds one quickly, his paws beating against the stone but doing little damage. The stone-blades lash out once more, sending Yip reeling and slicing open Blarth’s freshly healed wounds. Beside him, Geoffrey notices Amarin is concentrating and forming some kind of ectoplasmic construct, but it’s still half-formed and unlikely to ready in time to save Yip or Blarth.
Geoffrey readies his mace and recites the litany of duty and law, his holy symbol starting to glow blue against his breast. He steps forward as the chant reaches its crescendo, the blow glow creeping along his arm and surrounding his weapon.
“In the name of St Cuthbert, prepare to be destroyed!” Geoffrey shouts as he lashes out. His mace catches the elemental creature solidly, the blue destructive energy he’s channelling from his god slowly infusing the elementals body. Everyone one watches the blue lines forming through the body, hairline cracks that spread within the space of a few seconds, and then the creature crumbles into a pile of rubble. Geoffrey slumps slightly, sluggishly stumbling over to Blarth to administer more healing magic. Yip makes do with a potion and some long swigs from his hip flask.
“Yip not like forge,” he mutters. “Stupid rock. Silly weapons. Bad smith.”
“W-w-w-what are y-y-y-you doing here,” a nervous voice demands. Everyone turns towards the doorway, where a young man stands with a look of absolute terror on his face. He wears a scorched leather apron, and his skin is a patchwork of light burns and bruises.
“Who are you?” Geoffrey demands. He pulls himself to his full height, the subtle menace of his spiked armour and military bearing all it takes to terrify the intruder even more.
“I-I-I-I’m M-m-m-m-malden,” the stranger announces. “I’m the w-w-w-w-weaponsmith.”
“Evil more nervous than Yip remember,” Yip mutters.
arwink
Clockwork Golem
“Right,” Geoffrey announces. “You’re coming to talk with me. Amarin, Yip, you two figure out what that thing was guarding. Blarth, watch the door and make sure we aren’t disturbed.”
Malden pales visibly as Geoffrey issues orders, scratching nervously at the back of his hand.
“W-w-what are we t-t-t-talking about?” he asks, shaking with fear as Geoffrey strides over to him.
“Murder,” Geoffrey says simply. “And three men who claim they don’t remember doing it.”
“Mm-m-m-murder?” Malden squeaks.
“Oh, this is going to take forever,” Geoffrey says bitterly. He reaches for his holy symbol and mutters a command word, filling the area with the pale aura of absolute law and honesty.
“Do you know what this is?” Geoffrey asks, holding up the glowing holy symbol.
“N-n-n-no.”
“It’s the mark of a Justicar, and its magic demands honesty from all who speak in its presence.”
Geoffrey pauses, leaning closer to the frightened smith.
“Don’t attempt to lie,” he orders.
“I w-w-w-won’t.”
“You were the apprentice of Bjorn Harnotha?”
“Yes.” Malden frowns, his expression suddenly very nervous. “Were?”
“He’s dead,” Geoffrey says simply. “Killed while trying to betray the crown.”
“R-r-really?”
“Really.”
For a few seconds, Malden almost looks relieved. Then he catches sight of Geoffrey’s scowling face once more.
“You look happy about that.”
“Bjorn w-w-w-wasn’t a g-g-g-good master,” Malden stammers. “He k-k-kept secrets, didn’t t-t-teach me much. Told m-m-m-me to stay away some days because old friends were visiting.”
“What old friends?”
“I d-d-d-don’t know,” Malden wails. “Some old comrades, he s-s-said. V-v-veterans from his unit in the w-w-wars. W-w-w-we used to work for them a lot, making weapons. H-h-he h-h-hit me if I asked anything more than that.”
Amarin appears at Geoffrey’s shoulder, his expression filled with sympathy for the frightened boy. He reaches out to tap the cleric on the shoulder. When Geoffrey doesn’t notice the light gesture, Amarin tries hammering on the shoulder plate with a fist.
“What?” Geoffrey says, turning swiftly.
“Under the forge,” Amarin says. “It might be relevant. Gold, a box containing some reddish ore, a sword and this.”
Amarin holds out a note. Geoffrey snatches it from his hands and reads.
“Damn,” Geoffrey says.
“Something bad?” Blarth asks.
“Bloodsteel,” Geoffrey explains. “It’s a guantian ore, alchemically cursed. Slowly causes the person using it to fall into a rage.”
He turns and stares at Malden, still cowering against one wall.
“Do you know which weapons he made with this?”
Malden shakes.
“N-n-n-no,” he squeaks. “B-b-but we could check the ledger.”
“People forging cursed weapons tend not to keep records about it,” Geoffrey sighs.
“B-b-b-Bjorn would,” Malden explains. “M-m-m-military training, a-a-a-and he marked some blades and t-t-told me not to sell them unless he was t-t-t-there. I g-g-g-g-guess they’re probably the ones he u-u-u-used the b-b-b-b-”
“So most of them are still here?” Geoffrey asks, cutting into Malden’s stutter..
“N-n-n-no,” Malden says, his expression crestfallen. “W-w-w-without Bjorn here, I h-h-had to sell old stock. I d-d-don’t work f-f-fast enough to make a living, and it’s been m-m-m-months.”
“Damn it,” Geoffrey swears. “Grab me the blades you’ve got left, the ledger and anything that was in that forge. We have to go see Cammar.”
“We help the king?” Blarth asks. “Stop mercenaries dying?”
“It should do it,” Geoffrey says. “But the bad news is that there’s more of those swords out there, waiting for the owners to use them.”
Everyone rushes around the store, following the stuttering directions of Malden as he reads from the ledger. When everything is ready, Geoffrey shackles the smith with the power of his holy symbol and starts marching him towards the St Cuthberitte headquarters. As soon as he’s sure the frightened smith wont try to run, Geoffrey drops back beside Amarin.
“By the way,” he asks, trying to be descreet. “Exactly how much money did he have hidden with the ore?”
Malden pales visibly as Geoffrey issues orders, scratching nervously at the back of his hand.
“W-w-what are we t-t-t-talking about?” he asks, shaking with fear as Geoffrey strides over to him.
“Murder,” Geoffrey says simply. “And three men who claim they don’t remember doing it.”
“Mm-m-m-murder?” Malden squeaks.
“Oh, this is going to take forever,” Geoffrey says bitterly. He reaches for his holy symbol and mutters a command word, filling the area with the pale aura of absolute law and honesty.
“Do you know what this is?” Geoffrey asks, holding up the glowing holy symbol.
“N-n-n-no.”
“It’s the mark of a Justicar, and its magic demands honesty from all who speak in its presence.”
Geoffrey pauses, leaning closer to the frightened smith.
“Don’t attempt to lie,” he orders.
“I w-w-w-won’t.”
“You were the apprentice of Bjorn Harnotha?”
“Yes.” Malden frowns, his expression suddenly very nervous. “Were?”
“He’s dead,” Geoffrey says simply. “Killed while trying to betray the crown.”
“R-r-really?”
“Really.”
For a few seconds, Malden almost looks relieved. Then he catches sight of Geoffrey’s scowling face once more.
“You look happy about that.”
“Bjorn w-w-w-wasn’t a g-g-g-good master,” Malden stammers. “He k-k-kept secrets, didn’t t-t-teach me much. Told m-m-m-me to stay away some days because old friends were visiting.”
“What old friends?”
“I d-d-d-don’t know,” Malden wails. “Some old comrades, he s-s-said. V-v-veterans from his unit in the w-w-wars. W-w-w-we used to work for them a lot, making weapons. H-h-he h-h-hit me if I asked anything more than that.”
Amarin appears at Geoffrey’s shoulder, his expression filled with sympathy for the frightened boy. He reaches out to tap the cleric on the shoulder. When Geoffrey doesn’t notice the light gesture, Amarin tries hammering on the shoulder plate with a fist.
“What?” Geoffrey says, turning swiftly.
“Under the forge,” Amarin says. “It might be relevant. Gold, a box containing some reddish ore, a sword and this.”
Amarin holds out a note. Geoffrey snatches it from his hands and reads.
“Damn,” Geoffrey says.
“Something bad?” Blarth asks.
“Bloodsteel,” Geoffrey explains. “It’s a guantian ore, alchemically cursed. Slowly causes the person using it to fall into a rage.”
He turns and stares at Malden, still cowering against one wall.
“Do you know which weapons he made with this?”
Malden shakes.
“N-n-n-no,” he squeaks. “B-b-but we could check the ledger.”
“People forging cursed weapons tend not to keep records about it,” Geoffrey sighs.
“B-b-b-Bjorn would,” Malden explains. “M-m-m-military training, a-a-a-and he marked some blades and t-t-told me not to sell them unless he was t-t-t-there. I g-g-g-g-guess they’re probably the ones he u-u-u-used the b-b-b-b-”
“So most of them are still here?” Geoffrey asks, cutting into Malden’s stutter..
“N-n-n-no,” Malden says, his expression crestfallen. “W-w-w-without Bjorn here, I h-h-had to sell old stock. I d-d-don’t work f-f-fast enough to make a living, and it’s been m-m-m-months.”
“Damn it,” Geoffrey swears. “Grab me the blades you’ve got left, the ledger and anything that was in that forge. We have to go see Cammar.”
“We help the king?” Blarth asks. “Stop mercenaries dying?”
“It should do it,” Geoffrey says. “But the bad news is that there’s more of those swords out there, waiting for the owners to use them.”
Everyone rushes around the store, following the stuttering directions of Malden as he reads from the ledger. When everything is ready, Geoffrey shackles the smith with the power of his holy symbol and starts marching him towards the St Cuthberitte headquarters. As soon as he’s sure the frightened smith wont try to run, Geoffrey drops back beside Amarin.
“By the way,” he asks, trying to be descreet. “Exactly how much money did he have hidden with the ore?”
the Jester
Legend
Was that a stone spike??
arwink
Clockwork Golem
the Jester said:
Close enough to that it barely matters. I was looking for something nasty to use on a trapped forge, and the image of an elemental with sword-blades for arms came to mind. From there I searched old dragon mags for the sword-spikes stats, gave it a better crit range (wave to Blarth everyone), and the ability to merge with stone so it could hide in the forge-stone.
This was the 8th session since we'd started the campaign, and it was starting to click that for the first time just picking some of the more obscure creatures in the monster manual wasn't going to be enough to catch the players off guard. It's mostly Capellan's fault, and naturally the first adventure where I make a point of working around this is the one where he's absent
It does bring to mind one of the real lessons I've picked up from this campaign: You never know how lazy you are as a DM until another DM joins your group.
Last edited:
arwink
Clockwork Golem
“So you’ve arrested him for selling cursed weapons he didn’t know were cursed?” Amarin asks. “Isn’t that a little…unfair?”
Geoffrey grits his teeth, pulling his cloak closer to fend off the incessant questions as much as the crisp cold of the afternoon wind. Amarin’s horse keeps pace, the young psion looking worse for wear after three days of hard riding, but the discomfort isn’t enough to keep him from badgering Geoffrey with questions.
“The boy will be let go,” Geoffrey explains, “If and when High Justicar Cammar decides his role in this affair was entirely innocent.”
“Okay,” Amarin says. “And whose checking to make sure Cammar is right?”
“Cammar is the High Justicar,” Geoffrey explains. “His voice is the voice of St Cuthbert in these lands.”
“It’s not his voice that worries me,” Amarin says. “I don't like the way he thinks. I just think someone whose the voice of god should be a little more compassionate.”
Geoffrey sighs and tries not to listen, his training telling him that compassion is a luxury he cannot afford, but he begins to wonder if he believes that with quite the same force that he once did. Three days on the trail of a merchant named Teag, tracking the four swords that Malden sold off that could possibly bear the taint of Guantian alchemy. Amarin badgering him about the mission the entire way, Yip warming himself with quiet nips of alcohol and Blarth cheerfully singing as he urges an overburdened warhorse forward. He enjoyed it more than he thought he would, the constant travelling and need – it felt right in some way, as though the constant battle was forging him into the kind of cleric he should have been when he first converted, but it also led to some decidedly unusual thoughts when it came to duty and the righteous path of the Justicars.
Maybe, Geoffrey ponders, there is something to what…
“Fight,” Yip says suddenly.
Everyone reigns in their horses, ears straining to catch what the alert monk had already detected. After a few seconds, they hear it to – the sound of metal against metal, men screaming, horses whinnying in terror. It’s distant, probably a little over a mile away, but it’s there.
“Ride,” Geoffrey orders. “They could need help.”
He kicks the flanks of his horse, urging it forward. Blarth does the same, although his stallion moves slightly sluggishly with the weight, and Yip dances across the snowdrifts that line the road with the enchanted snowshoes taken from Bjorn Harnotha. Only Amarin hesitates for a second, a troubled expression coming across the youth’s face. An internal war goes on inside the young psion, conscience battling with fear. For all his desire to help whoever may be under attack, Amarin is keenly aware how unprepared he is for fighting creatures in the wild. Even the crossbow and morning star the group picked up for him in Bor isn’t enough to give him confidence if he's involved in an armed battle.
The internal struggle takes a few seconds before his conscience wins, and he tries his best to urge the horse forward. It takes a few clumsy kicks to get it to move, but his mare has less to carry than the others, and eventually he catches up with the speeding forms as they head towards the sounds of melee.
The caravan they find at the end of their gallop is truly in need of aid. As they round the edge of a hill and spot the row of wagons, the group can already make out the fallen forms of a dozen warriors scattered around the halted vehicles. There appears to be only two survivors, both of them taking refuge atop one of the wagons while enormous, catlike creatures stab at them with spears twice as long as a man. The survivors, such as they are, are visibly wounded and struggling to hold off the beasts, and there are few cat-like corpses among the scattered dead.
Everyone drops from the saddle, sure that their lack of experience in fighting from the saddle will work against them here. That cat creatures have size and reach, but any advantage of height from given by their mounts would be undone by the horses lack of experience with combat.
Yip barely pauses to allow his comrades to keep up, sprinting across the snow-covered ground. He reaches the first beast in the space of a few heartbeats, getting his first look at the tawny hair and the foot-long teeth hanging from the creature’s mouth. The creature whirls to face him, looming over him at three times the kobolds height. Yip just gives a bloodthirsty smile and jumps, twisting his lithe body in a wide arc and lashing out with one of his foot-paws. His kick connects with the creatures face, drawing a mouthful of blood and staggering it.
To his own surprise, Amarin finds himself hot on the kobold’s heels. He fumbles with a bolt for his crossbow, trying to remember how to load it and barely managing while running. He knows he has little chance of actually hitting one of the creatures with it, but perhaps…
…Amarin finds himself standing in a vast artic wasteland, ice and snow as far as the eye can see. Despite the frigid appearance, he doesn’t feel uncomfortable here, quite the opposite. He hears a snarl behind him, whirls to see a great sabre-tooth cat standing but thirty feet away from him. The creature is huge, nearly three men high at the shoulder, but its eyes glow with a dangerously intelligent light as it ponders him. Amarin is momentarily taken aback, he momentarily wonders how long its been since he was in a mindscape, then he finds himself wrapped in heavy layers of armour and wielding a huge sword. The cat lunges at him, but Amarin merely gestures and hammers it back with a thought…
…he looks at his opponents, searching out the psion among the giant cat-folk. He finds it in the leader, seeing the masked cat-man’s brief tremble of fear when he spots Amarin looking at him. Amarin stops running, mentally forming an image of a cat-like construct appearing in the air before him. The cat-folk leader reaches out with his mind, hoping to cloud Amarin’s awareness of his surroundings with a daze, but its mental force isn’t enough to overcome Amarin’s defences.
The other three attackers are clustered around Yip, their great size making it difficult for them to lay a hand on the swift kobold. Spears and long talons lash out as Yip’s dancing form, but only one light scratch sneaks past his defences before Blarth and Geoffrey thunder into the combat. Both arrive like rolling engines of destruction, spiked armour gleaming as their weapon-arms swing through the defences of the sabre-toothed catmen. Blarth staggers one of the beasts almost immediately, while Geoffrey follows up on the target of Yip’s initial assault. Yip uses the distraction caused by Geoffrey’s arrival to slip behind the creature, flanking it and hammering it with a series of rapid punches that target pressure points and vital parts. The cat-creature howls in pain, a line of blood running from its nose and a wheeze coming from its lungs.
There is a soft pop as the astral construct appears, still resembling a winged kobold. It flutters back and forth around Amarin, a bodyguard as he loads his crossbow and …
… Blarth suddenly manifests on the mindscape, a giant warrior with the physic of an ogre and carrying a glowing sword longer than most lances. Together Amarin and Blarth run towards the cowed spirit of the cat-creature psion, mentally picking apart its defences until its instincts are laid bare. Both are suddenly aware of its plans to attack, can read some of its movements as easily as it thinks it, and they draw back and circle in preparation for another assault…
…Amarin fires his bolt, coming within a hairs breadth of catching the enemy psion. He curses to himself, especially when the masked cat folk sprints the seventy feet between them and launches itself at Amarin with a vicious pounce. The construct lashes out with its tiny paws, but they barely seem to bruise the creature’s hide. Claws slice through Amarin’s cloak, but his momentary glimpse of the creature’s intent gives him just enough warning to roll out of the way of a fatal strike. Even so, he finds himself badly wounded by the sharp clews of the beast.
The other three creatures close on his comrades, all of them opening wounds, but they take heavy damage as a result. Blarth continues his assault on his first target despite a vicious rake across his arm, lopping the cat-creatures head from its shoulders. The blow follows through to send a second assailant reeling, just in time for Geoffrey to bludgeon it in the ribs with his mace. Yip circles wide, launching a spinning kick that catches both remaining cat-creatures off-guard. One of them falls to the attack, the other stumbling back in the snow after being clipped by the follow through. Everyone in the close melee can hear the panicked sound of combat occurring between Amarin, the construct and the cat-folk leader, Amarin feebly batting at it with his weak limbs and morning star…
…even as his form in the mindscape hammers the creature brutally. Amarin’s mental avatar fights with a singular purpose, a singular goal – break his opponents defences often enough that he can keep himself safe from the cat-creatures physical blows…
…and it seems to work. His flailing opens a shallow gash on the creature’s arms, but luck and mental victory manages to keep Amarin out of harms way as the sabre-toothed warrior slashes away with tooth and claw. One great arm lashes out towards the construct, destroying it with a rending hiss like air seeping out of a balloon.
Geoffrey looks towards the psion, painfully aware that there’s an angry giant of a cat-creature between him and the one-sided melee. Yip and Blarth have both taken positions on the far side of their current opponent, closer to the melee.
“Someone go help him,” Geoffrey orders, striking out at a cat-warrior. He catches the creature on the arm, distracting it just long enough for Blarth to finish it off. The half-orc spins, ready to run and take out the psionic cat-man, but he’s sure that Amarin cannot last the few seconds he’d need to cover the distance in his armour.
Yip runs, the snow kicking up in a series of small flurries as his shoes hit the ground. A dog-like snarl starts deep in his throat as he sees the giant creature preparing to strike Amarin down with a long-spear, its masked features twisting as it hissess dangerously. Yip can see Amarin’s pale face looking at the spear-tip in something approaching terror, and knows that there’s no chance for the psion to avoid the blow. His growl rising into a snarl, the kobold monk launches himself feet-first at the triumphant cat-creature. The air whistles past Yip’s ears for a split second before he feels himself impacting against something fleshy and resilient, a sharp crack filling the air. He twists as he falls, landing on all fours with his eyes locked on the form of the cat-creature before him.
It takes him a moment to realise that the cat-creature is lying on the ground, twitching slightly, and that Amarin is staring at the fallen form in something that approaches shock. Geoffrey runs up behind, his armour creaking softly with the movement, and the cleric hurriedly dispenses healing to everyone in the small group.
“Ah…Hello?” An uncertain voice calls from the caravan. “Good morning? My names Teag, and I owe you a debt of thanks.”
Geoffrey grits his teeth, pulling his cloak closer to fend off the incessant questions as much as the crisp cold of the afternoon wind. Amarin’s horse keeps pace, the young psion looking worse for wear after three days of hard riding, but the discomfort isn’t enough to keep him from badgering Geoffrey with questions.
“The boy will be let go,” Geoffrey explains, “If and when High Justicar Cammar decides his role in this affair was entirely innocent.”
“Okay,” Amarin says. “And whose checking to make sure Cammar is right?”
“Cammar is the High Justicar,” Geoffrey explains. “His voice is the voice of St Cuthbert in these lands.”
“It’s not his voice that worries me,” Amarin says. “I don't like the way he thinks. I just think someone whose the voice of god should be a little more compassionate.”
Geoffrey sighs and tries not to listen, his training telling him that compassion is a luxury he cannot afford, but he begins to wonder if he believes that with quite the same force that he once did. Three days on the trail of a merchant named Teag, tracking the four swords that Malden sold off that could possibly bear the taint of Guantian alchemy. Amarin badgering him about the mission the entire way, Yip warming himself with quiet nips of alcohol and Blarth cheerfully singing as he urges an overburdened warhorse forward. He enjoyed it more than he thought he would, the constant travelling and need – it felt right in some way, as though the constant battle was forging him into the kind of cleric he should have been when he first converted, but it also led to some decidedly unusual thoughts when it came to duty and the righteous path of the Justicars.
Maybe, Geoffrey ponders, there is something to what…
“Fight,” Yip says suddenly.
Everyone reigns in their horses, ears straining to catch what the alert monk had already detected. After a few seconds, they hear it to – the sound of metal against metal, men screaming, horses whinnying in terror. It’s distant, probably a little over a mile away, but it’s there.
“Ride,” Geoffrey orders. “They could need help.”
He kicks the flanks of his horse, urging it forward. Blarth does the same, although his stallion moves slightly sluggishly with the weight, and Yip dances across the snowdrifts that line the road with the enchanted snowshoes taken from Bjorn Harnotha. Only Amarin hesitates for a second, a troubled expression coming across the youth’s face. An internal war goes on inside the young psion, conscience battling with fear. For all his desire to help whoever may be under attack, Amarin is keenly aware how unprepared he is for fighting creatures in the wild. Even the crossbow and morning star the group picked up for him in Bor isn’t enough to give him confidence if he's involved in an armed battle.
The internal struggle takes a few seconds before his conscience wins, and he tries his best to urge the horse forward. It takes a few clumsy kicks to get it to move, but his mare has less to carry than the others, and eventually he catches up with the speeding forms as they head towards the sounds of melee.
The caravan they find at the end of their gallop is truly in need of aid. As they round the edge of a hill and spot the row of wagons, the group can already make out the fallen forms of a dozen warriors scattered around the halted vehicles. There appears to be only two survivors, both of them taking refuge atop one of the wagons while enormous, catlike creatures stab at them with spears twice as long as a man. The survivors, such as they are, are visibly wounded and struggling to hold off the beasts, and there are few cat-like corpses among the scattered dead.
Everyone drops from the saddle, sure that their lack of experience in fighting from the saddle will work against them here. That cat creatures have size and reach, but any advantage of height from given by their mounts would be undone by the horses lack of experience with combat.
Yip barely pauses to allow his comrades to keep up, sprinting across the snow-covered ground. He reaches the first beast in the space of a few heartbeats, getting his first look at the tawny hair and the foot-long teeth hanging from the creature’s mouth. The creature whirls to face him, looming over him at three times the kobolds height. Yip just gives a bloodthirsty smile and jumps, twisting his lithe body in a wide arc and lashing out with one of his foot-paws. His kick connects with the creatures face, drawing a mouthful of blood and staggering it.
To his own surprise, Amarin finds himself hot on the kobold’s heels. He fumbles with a bolt for his crossbow, trying to remember how to load it and barely managing while running. He knows he has little chance of actually hitting one of the creatures with it, but perhaps…
…Amarin finds himself standing in a vast artic wasteland, ice and snow as far as the eye can see. Despite the frigid appearance, he doesn’t feel uncomfortable here, quite the opposite. He hears a snarl behind him, whirls to see a great sabre-tooth cat standing but thirty feet away from him. The creature is huge, nearly three men high at the shoulder, but its eyes glow with a dangerously intelligent light as it ponders him. Amarin is momentarily taken aback, he momentarily wonders how long its been since he was in a mindscape, then he finds himself wrapped in heavy layers of armour and wielding a huge sword. The cat lunges at him, but Amarin merely gestures and hammers it back with a thought…
…he looks at his opponents, searching out the psion among the giant cat-folk. He finds it in the leader, seeing the masked cat-man’s brief tremble of fear when he spots Amarin looking at him. Amarin stops running, mentally forming an image of a cat-like construct appearing in the air before him. The cat-folk leader reaches out with his mind, hoping to cloud Amarin’s awareness of his surroundings with a daze, but its mental force isn’t enough to overcome Amarin’s defences.
The other three attackers are clustered around Yip, their great size making it difficult for them to lay a hand on the swift kobold. Spears and long talons lash out as Yip’s dancing form, but only one light scratch sneaks past his defences before Blarth and Geoffrey thunder into the combat. Both arrive like rolling engines of destruction, spiked armour gleaming as their weapon-arms swing through the defences of the sabre-toothed catmen. Blarth staggers one of the beasts almost immediately, while Geoffrey follows up on the target of Yip’s initial assault. Yip uses the distraction caused by Geoffrey’s arrival to slip behind the creature, flanking it and hammering it with a series of rapid punches that target pressure points and vital parts. The cat-creature howls in pain, a line of blood running from its nose and a wheeze coming from its lungs.
There is a soft pop as the astral construct appears, still resembling a winged kobold. It flutters back and forth around Amarin, a bodyguard as he loads his crossbow and …
… Blarth suddenly manifests on the mindscape, a giant warrior with the physic of an ogre and carrying a glowing sword longer than most lances. Together Amarin and Blarth run towards the cowed spirit of the cat-creature psion, mentally picking apart its defences until its instincts are laid bare. Both are suddenly aware of its plans to attack, can read some of its movements as easily as it thinks it, and they draw back and circle in preparation for another assault…
…Amarin fires his bolt, coming within a hairs breadth of catching the enemy psion. He curses to himself, especially when the masked cat folk sprints the seventy feet between them and launches itself at Amarin with a vicious pounce. The construct lashes out with its tiny paws, but they barely seem to bruise the creature’s hide. Claws slice through Amarin’s cloak, but his momentary glimpse of the creature’s intent gives him just enough warning to roll out of the way of a fatal strike. Even so, he finds himself badly wounded by the sharp clews of the beast.
The other three creatures close on his comrades, all of them opening wounds, but they take heavy damage as a result. Blarth continues his assault on his first target despite a vicious rake across his arm, lopping the cat-creatures head from its shoulders. The blow follows through to send a second assailant reeling, just in time for Geoffrey to bludgeon it in the ribs with his mace. Yip circles wide, launching a spinning kick that catches both remaining cat-creatures off-guard. One of them falls to the attack, the other stumbling back in the snow after being clipped by the follow through. Everyone in the close melee can hear the panicked sound of combat occurring between Amarin, the construct and the cat-folk leader, Amarin feebly batting at it with his weak limbs and morning star…
…even as his form in the mindscape hammers the creature brutally. Amarin’s mental avatar fights with a singular purpose, a singular goal – break his opponents defences often enough that he can keep himself safe from the cat-creatures physical blows…
…and it seems to work. His flailing opens a shallow gash on the creature’s arms, but luck and mental victory manages to keep Amarin out of harms way as the sabre-toothed warrior slashes away with tooth and claw. One great arm lashes out towards the construct, destroying it with a rending hiss like air seeping out of a balloon.
Geoffrey looks towards the psion, painfully aware that there’s an angry giant of a cat-creature between him and the one-sided melee. Yip and Blarth have both taken positions on the far side of their current opponent, closer to the melee.
“Someone go help him,” Geoffrey orders, striking out at a cat-warrior. He catches the creature on the arm, distracting it just long enough for Blarth to finish it off. The half-orc spins, ready to run and take out the psionic cat-man, but he’s sure that Amarin cannot last the few seconds he’d need to cover the distance in his armour.
Yip runs, the snow kicking up in a series of small flurries as his shoes hit the ground. A dog-like snarl starts deep in his throat as he sees the giant creature preparing to strike Amarin down with a long-spear, its masked features twisting as it hissess dangerously. Yip can see Amarin’s pale face looking at the spear-tip in something approaching terror, and knows that there’s no chance for the psion to avoid the blow. His growl rising into a snarl, the kobold monk launches himself feet-first at the triumphant cat-creature. The air whistles past Yip’s ears for a split second before he feels himself impacting against something fleshy and resilient, a sharp crack filling the air. He twists as he falls, landing on all fours with his eyes locked on the form of the cat-creature before him.
It takes him a moment to realise that the cat-creature is lying on the ground, twitching slightly, and that Amarin is staring at the fallen form in something that approaches shock. Geoffrey runs up behind, his armour creaking softly with the movement, and the cleric hurriedly dispenses healing to everyone in the small group.
“Ah…Hello?” An uncertain voice calls from the caravan. “Good morning? My names Teag, and I owe you a debt of thanks.”
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Mathew_Freeman
Adventurer
Excellent write up with the mental/physical combat mixed up like that. Very good work!
Funny, I'd kind of forgotten Blarth's Psychic Warriorness. I tend to think of him more as a straight fighter.
Funny, I'd kind of forgotten Blarth's Psychic Warriorness. I tend to think of him more as a straight fighter.
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