In the Valus - The Heroes of Marchford (Chapter 14 Continues - 12/24/08)

[Funeris]

Chapter 12: Bloodshed (Continued)

Cochly cursed—his swearing increasing in speed, tone and strength like an erupting volcano—as a curving tusk tore through his chain shirt and into his gut. “Damned son of an orc!” he swore, the tusk piercing another two inches with a sickly gurgle. Blood lined his lips, dribbled down and coated his beard.

With a grunt and another two inch plunge, he brought the head of his axe down. The blade pierced the thick hide of the fenboar’s head easily. Unfortunately, it only chipped the solid bone which housed its brain.

The dwarf sighed and shuddered.

Tobias was faring better. His greatsword was humming as the air passed over the keen-edged steel. The sword spun left and right, powerful strokes that hacked and sliced through another of the fenboars. After a few well placed blows, the beast dropped. One of its legs was separated at its knee and it breathed its last breaths heavily, blood filling its lungs.

But that left the third beast which came at the paladin from another angle. Tobias turned his attention while lifting his blade to deliver more justice.

Fitz rushed past Motega. The werewolf had disregarded the charging fenboars. Instead, he seemed focused more on tearing the kobold sorcerer into two.

Ceria’s cleric could not afford to delay. Gripping his scythe with one hand, Fitz charged forward and drew a healing wand. Cochly’s eyes were drooping; if the priest did not do something fast—and by something he meant offer some healing—Tobias would have to share the front lines with a dwarf-corpse.

The remaining Minetown patriots—Arad, Byk, and Cargyle—were plunking away at the enemies with their bows. It made little noticeable difference though. The centaur stood patiently at the end of the flames, waiting his chance and dodging the clumsy shafts. The arrows reflected easily off of the advancing armored Culite dwarf. And the patriots could not fire at the fenboars. Their limited skill could have been disastrous if they hit Tobias or Cochly.

Damn, Fitz’s mind screamed. Where is Devon? Another distraction could serve the greater good.

A blue discharge seeped into Cochly’s skin, spreading over his body. He swelled with a breath and muttered as his wounds sealed around the fenboar’s tusk, locking the two in a battle to the death. That one tap was all Fitz could manage as the Culite dwarf stepped in to engage the Heroes.

The cleric slid his wand into a pouch and gripped his scythe with two hands as the first axe swipe descended.

* * *​

Magnus lobbed another fireball at the half-orc on the ground. By now the mage knew Motega had survived the assault by the kobold sorcerer. He also knew his friends were hard-pressed and that he, the archmage[1], was needed to take down the sorcerer and assure victory.

He turned toward the battle, noting that the mounted man he had seen was actually a centaur. Magnus couldn’t resist.

A fireball blossomed around the creature as the mage puttered through the air, nearing Motega.

The werewolf’s head was inclined, his claws scratching at the visible sorcerer. The kobold was unleashing blast after blast of magic missile into the werewolf, but it seemed Motega’s rage would prevent its escape.

Magnus unleashed his own batch of magic missiles and smiled as each pounded into the sorcerer. Simultaneously, Motega snapped his head, tearing the reptile-man’s foot from its leg. The werewolf and the severed foot fell to the earth; the kobold snapped upward as if propelled by some elastic force.

* * *​

Cochly dropped his fenboar, turning the swing and clattering it heavily against the other dwarf’s armor. The armor dented slightly, a fresh scratch stretching across the Culite’s shoulder.

Tobias edged in next to Cochly. Together, they formed a solid wall of protection for Fitz, who quickly withdrew a step.

The two warriors slammed the dwarf with their attacks, their weaponry creating a war cadence in the early morning air.

* * *​

Magnus reeled backward. Black marks, from the kobold’s sorcery, had scorched the fibers of the mage’s robe. The kobold cackled madly as he swam upward through the air.

Magnus kicked off, accelerating upward to not be outdone. Ahead, the kobold veered suddenly, one reptilian talon grasping his head. A steady stream of blood was pouring from its leg, obviously a grievous wound.

Yapper, the sorcerer, slid his other talon into his pouch. His consciousness seemed to be slipping like sand through spread fingers. He needed the healing draught he now brought to his lips. Without it, he may not survive against these men. And that was saying something. Yapper was one of the preeminent members of the Blackhand Company which was one of the hardest bands of mercenaries on the face of the Valus.

He popped the cork and dropped the potion as three bolts of energy burned into his arm. With a growl, he spun to see the human mage closing. With his mind, Yapper pulled the fabric of reality; it coalesced into a bead of explosive fire.

Magnus realized his own doom. But if he was going, he was taking the enemy caster with him. He quickly unfurled another scroll and read the arcane phrase he had scribed.

Both mage and sorcerer were immediately engulfed in raging explosions of flame.

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 12: Bloodshed (Continued)

The three Blackhand orcs swarmed upon Tobias and Cochly, aiding Brother Wulffa, the Culite dwarf. Outnumbered, the warriors were forced to go on the defensive.

* * *​

Magnus hurtled away from Yapper’s fireball, the flames hungrily devouring the edges of his cloak. Aside from singed eyebrows, the mage was in one piece.

Yapper was not so fortunate.

The kobold sorcerer had taken the full brunt of Magnus’ fireball. While the flames had cauterized the dangerous wound on his leg, they had also roasted the poor lizard-man.

Without a living soul to guide the body, the corpse levitated in the air, waiting for the fly spell to wear off.

Magnus smiled his cocky grin. Then he turned to survey the battle below. Immediately, he focused his eyes on the four combatants that were wearing down Tobias and Cochly. If he adjusted his target just right, the mage’s thoughts trailed off.

A fireball slammed down amidst the brawl, setting the Blackhand members aflame. Because of his careful adjustment, the centaur was forced to backpedal but could not avoid having his face roasted.

Magnus whooped as he circled around to the east.

* * *​

Nearly broiled alive by the flames, a Blackhand orc darted around Tobias and charged Fitz. Tobias’ arm and blade—working as one—snapped out reflexively; it drew a red line across the orc’s charred flesh but did not stop him.

The paladin quickly reversed the blade’s motion, pivoting the hilt against his palms and darted toward another of the orcs. The barbarian fell back, not expecting the feint, as Tobias spun on his heel and chased after the other orc.

Brother Wulffa cursed under his breath as one of Cochly’s axe swings slid between the plates of his armor. “Finish this one!” he bellowed as he scurried after Tobias.

Fitz watched the raging orc pound toward him. He held his scythe in a defensive position, readied to attack at the last possible moment. As the orc closed, the Cerian priest stepped to the right and brought his blade in low. He was rewarded with a crack as the scythe bit deeply through flesh and bone.

The Blackhand orc pulled to a stop, blood oozing down his dirty boots. He stopped only a few feet from the wall of flames.

Until Tobias plowed into his back, the paladin’s greatsword stretched out to impale the foe. The orc coughed a fat glob of blood as the gigantic blade shred his spine and pierced through his chest. The paladin’s momentum carried him forward in a kick that thrust the Blackhand into the fire, to crumple.

“Tobias!” Fitz screamed.

The paladin whirled around, just in time to see Brother Wulffa close the distance. The dwarf impacted the paladin with the force of a dozen horses. With his solid arms wrapped around Tobias’ knees, they both plunged into the flames.

* * *​

Three darts of energy smacked into Bvarki. He was flung to the ground, rage filling his eyes. Enough is enough, he thought. Painfully scrambling to his feet, the half-orc drew his bow and nocked an arrow.

The mage had to die.

He stepped out of the brush he had fallen into only to see another red bead of light detonate right in front of his face.

* * *​

Al’baku stomped his horse hooves into the ground. His face, normally serene even if devoid of emotion, was blistered and scorched. The Rorn centaur had grown bored, and now desired the end of this battle.

He reached for his bow and drew an arrow.

The centaur turned toward the humans, the small, weak creatures that had been trying to strike him all night with their small, weak arrows. He nocked and pulled back, relishing the tremor in the mighty bow, the strength of his arms.

He exhaled.

The arrow whistled.

A human, Al’baku did not particularly care which, crumpled as the shaft drove into his chest. He watched with glee as that human fell backward, off his perch and into the courtyard.

Al’baku drew another arrow, nocking it and pulling back on the string again.

A roar drew his attention from the snipers toward the battlefield ahead. The dwarf dropped one of the two remaining orcs. Bellowing, the dwarf raised his axe to chop into the next.

Al’baku sighed. He readjusted his aim and realized that the remaining orc was in his line of sight.

“No matter,” he hissed as he released his hold on the tense string. The bow twanged, launching its projectile. The arrow grazed the orc, drawing a painful line of blood but continued onward to pound into Cochly’s stomach.

The dwarf shuddered, falling back a pace.

* * *​

Motega howled. His focus on the kobold mage had been total, complete. Now the creature dangled in the air, out of his reach. The primal part of his mind—now the dominant aspect—roared. His nose caught the scent of death though, and knew it was no longer a threat.

The beast turned toward the battle. Tobias was gone but the dwarf was still holding the line. One orc remained but more importantly the horse-man beyond that. Motega’s lips pulled up in a ferocious growl as he snapped into motion.

Within a half-second, he pushed against the ground, hurtling into the air.

The orc attacking Cochly stopped in fear as the werewolf came up behind the dwarf. Cochly thanked the gods as his axe bit into the orc’s side. Still in awe, that orc showed no reaction to the devastating blow. He was focused on the claw that sped toward his face.

By the time Motega landed, the orcs head was tumbling lifelessly—and still with a frozen look of shock upon its visage—across the burning ground.

The werewolf leaned back, howling at the dying night, the dawning light. Al’baku dropped his bow and drew his axe. He reared up, pawing at the air and crashed down with a heavy, determined thud.

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 12: Bloodshed (Continued)

Fitz screamed at the flames. Tobias had vanished inside along with that dwarf Culite. Inside the roaring fire, birthed by Magnus’ spell and his carefully designed oil slicks, the Cerian priest could hear metal against metal.

Inside that hellish environment, Tobias fought on. Fitz could not charge in, so he screamed. He had lost sight of the rest of the battle but he knew Motega could hold his own.

And then the sounds of battle mixed with crackling fire died.

Tobias fell. The paladin crumpled to the ground, his feet and half of his legs still in the flames. Smoke billowed from the holy warrior’s blistered body. The metal of his armor and his sword—still gripped tightly in his hand—was white hot with rage.

Fitz leaned down and grabbed the paladin. His hands screamed at his brain in protest but the priest ignored them. He pulled; with all his strength, he pulled. Fitz moved the heavy body two inches. His palms were beginning to blister. The priest released and fell back onto his ass. Determined, he stood.

He grasped the body again and tugged.

His eyes and mind were focused on the paladin. Fitz did not see the smoldering dwarf step from the flames, his double-headed axe practically bonded to his hands. He did not see the flesh-less skull swivel in his direction. Fitz did not sense the axe raise up high above the few stray, burned beard hairs and begin its deadly assault downward.

* * *​

Cochly dodged around the werewolf and the centaur, adding his axe to the fray. The two beasts—and to the dwarf, they were both beasts—were locked in a titanic struggle. The werewolf was clawing at the centaur’s throat and torso, tearing long strips of flesh and muscle from its body. Al’baku swung his axe and reared onto his hind legs to kick at the werewolf like some common dog.

The centaur was landing solid hits, too.

Several times, Cochly could hear Motega’s ribs shatter under the brutal assault.

The Rorn needed his help, though. Minetown needed Cochly. And so his blade bit into the centaur’s side.

Al’baku shrieked. Suddenly, the equine body pounded Cochly. The dwarf, though stout and strong, could not fight the surging strength and sheer mass of the centaur. He tried to duck, but the centaur pushed him into the flames and against the wall.

Cochly’s head slammed into the rough stone, fire licking at his beard and tasting his flesh.

Then the centaur’s body was gone and Cochly hit the ground rolling.

His eyes snapped open to see the centaur’s hoof snapping toward his face.

The world went black.

* * *​

Magnus screamed in joy. The persistent—and stupid, he thought—half-orc had somehow struggled to his feet after the second—or was it third?—fireball exploded in his face.

Somehow, the bastard had stood back up.

And reached into his pouch; he allowed his bow to fall uselessly to the ground. But Magnus would not let him drink another healing elixir—not again. One final ball of flame had sealed the half-orc’s fate.

Magnus screamed in joy[1].

* * *​

Fitz felt a sudden breeze. He stepped back just as the dwarf’s axe snagged the metal of his banded armor.

Falling backward, Fitz could feel the blood pouring from the wound. The damned dwarf was strong; he had ripped right through his armor! The Cerian priest attempted to grasp for his scythe, it had fallen uselessly to the ground. His entire right side was stunned; his arm useless.

Fitz did the only thing he could, he scrambled back as Brother Wulffa stepped forward.

The seared skull swiveled back and forth, following Fitz’s jerky movement. The blackened bone still had bits of charred muscle clinging to it, holding it to its stocky body. A few frazzled hairs jabbed angrily at the air; none were more than an inch or two in length. The dwarf’s eyes were burned as well, the irises fading into the sickly yellow-white orbs.

It laughed a hoarse, dry, cracked gurgle. It sounded rough. The Cerian priest noticed a brief burst of blood from the fried dwarf’s throat as it passed more air through its ruined esophagus.

“And now,” it rasped, “now you will taste the bitter bite of me’ axe. Cula Vak will enjoy the taste of yer soul, harvest priest. Jus’ as he enjoyed the angel worshipper’s.” It cackled again—more blood!—as it lifted its axe up for the final blow.

A white hot blade slammed through the dwarf’s mouth, destroying the stone-like teeth. Tobias grimaced, blood pouring from his blisters and his burned flesh. He jammed it further through the dwarf’s head. A blast of bloody spittle splashed Fitz’s face.

The paladin jerked the blade, severing the top of Wulffa’s skull from its neck. The skull, jawbone, and Tobias collapsed to the ground at the same time. They were followed immediately by the paladin’s blade and Wulffa’s corpse.

Fitz crawled toward Tobias, the healing wand now in his hand.

* * *​

Magnus descended toward the main battle. He saw Fitz tending Tobias near the church. Cochly was down—the dwarf’s head was crushed; his brains scattered in a gory streak across the dry earth. The mage shook his head sadly.

Motega was locked against the Rorn centaur, his massive talons shredding the horse-man’s back while the horse was trying to pull away.

Time to end this, he thought. The mage unleashed a series of magic missiles from his hand. They soared downward, impacting the centaur’s equine body.

Al’baku shrieked and reared up as the energy surged into his body. Motega’s used that moment to snap his lupine snout down on the centaur’s neck. Al’baku’s eyes stretched wide in distress as the Rorn lycanthrope grasped tighter and placed his feet solidly against his torso.

Motega pushed with his feet, wrenching the centaur’s throat free from its neck and propelling backward into a somersault. As the lycanthrope landed, the centaur’s body crumpled to the earth, lifeless.

A quiet descended onto the street except for the crackling flames. That quiet was suddenly shattered as Yapper’s spell wore out and the tiny reptile-man, all of maybe eighty pounds soaking wet, plummeted from his position above the city. The corpse slammed loudly into the overwhelming statue of Morduk, God of justice. Gravity bent Yapper’s body in half, an unnatural bend possible only through gratuitous shattering of vertebrae.

The mage made a low whistle. “Ironic,” he whispered, wearing his grin, “and yet fitting.” But even the resounding noise of shattering bones faded quickly.

Magnus glanced around, making sure there were no more enemies nearby. When he was sure, he turned to the north. There, he could see movement in the distance. He kicked off, charging forward to search for the remaining enemies.

* * *​

Tobias and Motega sat beside each other along with Arad, Byk, Devon—who had finally come out of hiding—, and Crazy Cargyle. Fitz quickly administered healing to the wounded.

“Where is that damned mage?” Tobias spit. His lips had split from the heat and dryness, despite Fitz’s aide. Overall, Tobias looked a mess. His long red hair had been incinerated by the flames; leaving only the charred flesh before and the fresh, pink skin now in its place. Even his eyebrows were gone.

“Who knows?” Motega murmured. The Rorn also was not looking too well. Although, most of the damage he had taken was diminished by his disease. He still nursed a broken rib or two while waiting for Fitz’s happy stick.

Arad, Byk, Devon, and Cargyle smiled to each other. Cargyle had been the worst off of the patriots—aside from those that were dead. Crazy Cargyle, as he was called or wanted to be called, had taken a direct and devastating hit from the centaur’s bow. As a result, he had missed watching the last moments of the tremendous battle.

“Stop smiling like buffoons,” Fitz rebuked. The four patriots jumped. “We did not lose our brothers for nothing. We did it for this town. And now, you’re just going to sit on your butts while your town burns down?!

“I don’t think so. Get up! Get up! Get up!!” the priest bellowed as he swept toward them. “Get some water, put out those fires!” he ordered. The patriots quickly dodged out of his way, hurrying to do his bidding.

Tobias and Motega chuckled.

And then the mage was suddenly among them, his young face pale from exertion. “We have to go!” They all looked at him questionably. “There’s another group,” he huffed, “north. They ducked into the mine. We have to get them before they escape.”

“How many?” Tobias questioned even as he stood and sheathed his sword.

“I’m not sure. They ducked into the cave. I hurled a fireball after them but didn’t hang around to see the result. Probably, at least, four or five.”

“Not so bad,” quipped Motega.

“And one of ‘em is an ogre.”

Fitz sighed.

“No rest for the wicked,” the Rorn stated as he checked his sword.

“Or the righteous,” added Tobias.

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 12: Bloodshed (Continued)

Motega cocked his head, listening closely at the entrance of the mine. “I don’t hear anything,” he whispered to his companions. The shadows of the mine, stretched back into a winding passage which obscured their vision.

“They’re waiting for us,” the mage stated coldly, a spell already forming upon the edges of his fingers, the tip of his tongue.

“We wouldn’t want to disappoint,” Tobias intoned sardonically. The paladin had already drawn his greatsword. The blade reflected the morning sun, creating an illusion—was it really an illusion?—of being encased in a shimmer of bright fire. “Mo’ and I will go first. Then the mage. Fitz, bring up the rear.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” quipped Magnus as the party moved into the entrance.

The passage descended quickly. The stone was rough, jagged and seemed to close in the farther they traveled, although this could have been a simple trick of shadow and light. The entrance had consisted of a small area with barely enough room for the four travelers to stand comfortably beside each other. The only exit from the entrance was a passage two men wide that slithered deeper into the earth, back and forth like a great serpent.

Motega and Tobias led the band wearily into the passage. Both knew that if a caster waited beyond, the passage could quickly turn into a death trap. Each moved quietly, eyes and ears open for the ambush they were expecting.

A few paces behind, Fitz and Magnus trailed. The cleric had his blade in hand. Despite moving forward, he continuously threw glances behind. The mage did not seem to care about an attack from the rear. His eyes were forward, an open scroll—no doubt another fireball—clutched in his hand.

Fitz sighed.

A doorway suddenly opened at the end of the winding tunnel. Motega’s arm shot up, silently signaling a halt. Within that gateway, flickering red-orange light cast its rays into the darkened hallway. It seemed a large chamber lie beyond. The exact dimensions were impossible to tell.

Warily, Tobias stepped forward.

Motega cringed, a soft, familiar sound reaching his ears: arcane syllables being woven together. He grabbed for the paladin just as a large form stepped to block the door. The creature was large, ugly, and smelled of death. It was an ogre.

It laughed. Tobias charged.

And then the tunnel was filled with poison.

Tobias struck the double doors which slammed shut after the spell was completed, after the roiling cloud of poison threatened to choke his companions to death. The poison was no different than normal air for the paladin, protected by his nearly inhuman fortitude. Behind though, Tobias could hear Magnus crash against the rock, a hacking cough decimating his lungs. Motega was to his left and slightly behind. The Rorn was holding up better than the mage, but he, too, was beginning to succumb.

Tobias slammed against the door with all his strength. It groaned against the force and shattered inward. As the paladin stepped into the room, a gigantic arm—attached to an equally huge ogre—crunched into his face, breaking his nose.

* * *​

Fitz felt Magnus collapse beside him. There was nothing the priest carried that could save the wizard from the poisonous fumes which filled the passage.

There was only one chance.

He lifted his scythe and intoned a prayer to Ceria. Feeling for the divine connection that was forged in the deepest part of his soul, the priest summoned one of Ceria’s blessings[1].

A wind poured into the tunnel, swirling around the priest who stood as still as a statue. The wind continued to cycle around his form, pushing the vapors away.

Fitz stepped toward the prone mage, bringing a gap of fresh air with him.

* * *​

Tobias reeled as another arm slammed into his back. He heard something pop—he thought it was a bone; maybe one of his—as he fell back. The poison continued to cloud the air, ruining visibility. But he did not need his eyes to know he faced two ogres. His broken nose and other wounds practically screamed it in his mind.

Slowly, the poison was filling the paladin’s lungs. If he did not escape the cloud, even his stamina would not protect him.

Tobias reached out with his senses, trying to find the ogres with his power. A brief, feral coldness brushed against the paladin’s senses. He ducked, just as the Rorn-wolf hybrid leaped over him.

Another fist pounded into the paladin, staggering him. No second blow landed. The other ogre had to be distracted by Motega.

Closing his eyes, trusting his senses, Tobias took a deep breath and charged through the cloud.

* * *​

Fitz let Magnus lean against him as they slowly plodded toward the double doors. The whirlwind continued to circle both, clearing the air. Fitz hoped he could hang on to the blessing long enough to reach clean air.

They passed through the doorway…

-------------------------------------

[1] – From the Valus sourcebook. Each cleric gains two abilities from their deity. One such ability is Cerian Buffeting, which allows the dispersal of “vapors, fumes, fogs, and the like”. These abilities are only accessible when the deity is ascendant.

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 12: Bloodshed (Concluded)

Tobias felt another attack pound into his back as he dove. The cloud of vapor opened up as the pain exploded through his body and wrenched his eyes open. The ground appeared, filling his vision, and attempted to embrace the paladin’s consciousness in a smothering darkness.

Somehow, Tobias managed to fold his armored body as he fell, allowing the metal to take the brunt of force and shift his momentum into a half-tumble-half-fall forward.

It did not save his battered body from the ogre’s complete attention and full attack.

The other ogre had fallen back, Motega tearing ferociously at its arm. Muscle and flesh were shredded by his razor fangs. Blood gathered in a puddle on the floor.

The ogre shook his arm back and forth, easily—but painfully—flinging the Rorn’s increased weight around. It was rewarded and punished for the act as the lycanthrope hurled through the air, along with all of the fleshy substance of its meaty arm. It bellowed in pain.

Tobias stood as his ogre backed off slightly. A shadow crept across his back. The paladin let nothing distract him as he channeled all of his healing energies into his own body, spending the daily boon from Reddel. He felt the air shudder as another meaty arm pummeled toward his back.

The paladin stepped toward the first ogre, bringing his blade up in an arc that severed its arm at the elbow. Pivoting, the blade was brought back down and into the arm of the largest of the ogres, the one that had crept—if such a word could describe an oversized, lumbering oaf—up behind the holy warrior. It screamed in rage even though the wound was only glancing.

“Fungum!” screeched a nasal voice from along the wall. The yell had issued from a wiry human clad only in a robe. Tobias’ eyes quickly darted back to his new target, the obvious leader of this band. Fungum cringed as if slapped, knowing the mage had just damned him to death first.

“Shut up, Milk!” He barked, spittle foaming from his mouth. “Just do yer’ damn job, mage!” The beast grinned, content in knowing that Milk’s life was now forfeit. And live or die, Fungum would not have to pay the ruthless mercenary.

That grin was wiped from the ogre’s face as Tobias’ blade punched into his stomach.

Fitz and Magnus struggled through the remaining few feet of the poisonous cloud. But the air did clear, leaving the pair to watch as Motega flew through the air. They watched Tobias—surrounded now by three ogres—fight for his life. They even heard the exchange between the largest ogre and the human.

Angrily, their heads darted toward the human. His hands were beginning to weave a familiar arcane pattern.

“Allow me,” Magnus grunted as he extricated himself from against Fitz. The mage rattled off a magic missile spell, his last for the day. The bolts flew true; they always did. With a sickening plop, they singed the flesh of the other mage.

Milk’s eyes crossed as his spell died. A few, faint tendrils of poisonous vapors had stretched from his hand but with the arcane magic shattered along with his consciousness, they drifted aimlessly and faded to nothing. His eyes narrowed on the two newcomers. His fingers and arms began to weave another spell.

“Motega!” Shouted Fitz.

The lycanthrope’s ears perked up, but his head, claws and teeth kept their attention on the ogre he was shredding. Both his claws ripped hungrily into the slow beast’s sides as he tilted his head downward and sunk his fangs into the brute’s knee. It squealed in pain.

The Rorn pushed forward with his claws and jerked away with his snout. The lumbering ogre fell to the ground, a bony piece of its knee tumbled across the floor.

“RORN! THE CASTER!!”

The ogre was not quite dead yet. Disabled, but not dead. Motega started toward it but shuddered as he asserted his will upon his inner demon. The lycanthrope spun, sighted the caster, and charged.

Tobias ducked barely away from Fungum’s swing. Unfortunately the ogre behind him brought its remaining fist into the back of the warrior’s head. Stars erupted in his sight.

Milk was forced to change the aim of his spell, centering it upon the beast that was now hurtling toward him. A beautiful explosion of fire filled Motega’s path, engulfing the lycanthrope in fire. Milk cackled.

Magnus smirked as his own fireball swallowed the other mage. He saw the dark form jerking and twisting in the dancing flames.

Milk rolled around as the flames died. Leaping up onto his feet, he began another spell, centering it again on Magnus. He felt the arcane energies bend to his will, felt them stretching out, forming another cloud of noxious fumes.

Until a lupine snout clenched down around his arm like a steel bear trap. His forearm snapped. His mind shrieked. And then a claw tore into his throat and heaved him backward. Milk felt the cold, stone wall rape the back of his head as life fled his body.

Fitz’s scythe slid into the fallen ogre’s throat, into Motega’s prey. The beast had been flailing about, grasping for the paladin. Well, the cleric ended that weak threat. He turned to watch Tobias spin and gut the one-armed ogre. Fitz smiled.

Then Fungum’s meaty hands closed around Tobias’ throat. The paladin struggled, his legs flailed as his face flushed red. Fitz stepped in…

“You will die puny man,” the ogre spit as the paladin’s heavy blade swung ineffectively at its meaty arms. “Fer killing my brother. Then your friends will die.” Fungum’s grip tightened.

…and Motega slammed into the creature. Tobias fell, crumpling against the earth as the ogre shifted to attack the new threat. The Rorn exploded into motion, a furious storm of pain, a maelstrom of teeth and claws against Fungum’s side and back.

The ogre backpedaled, trying to gather a little breathing space to rally an attack.

Fitz turned his attention to the fallen paladin. His wand leapt into his hand and he knelt over his friend. A diffuse blue glow spread into the paladin. Tobias still didn’t stir. Fitz concentrated and sent another shock of energy into Tobias. The paladin’s eyes flickered and he sucked in a sharp intake of air.

Immediately, Tobias grabbed his sword and stood.

“Wait, you need more healing,” Fitz commanded.

“Heal me while I move then. This isn’t over yet.”

A flush of red fell across all their faces as another of Magnus’ fireballs burst. He had aimed it carefully, enveloping half of the ogre but avoiding his compatriot.

Motega was beginning to wear. He was holding his position, toe to toe, with Fungum. Despite his supernatural reservoirs of strength, the Rorn still was not a front-line fighter. He was wearing down.

Tobias stepped in to flank, Fitz slightly behind, pumping another charge into the stubborn warrior. His blade bit deep into Fungum’s side, causing the ogre to grumble and curse. Blood flowed in torrents down the side of the blade, covering Tobias’ hands with a fetid scent.

Fungum allowed the paladin only the one swing. His arm jerked and pummeled into the holy warrior’s already broken nose. Tobias staggered back, Fitz catching him.

Motega’s jaws shut down on Fungum’s throat. A jet of blood spurted from between his jagged fangs. Some of the rank blood poured down the werewolf’s throat. He intensified his grip.

Fitz applied another of the wand’s spells into Tobias. The paladin’s eyes snapped open yet again, just in time to watch as Fungum grasped Motega’s throat with his meaty hands.

Each tightened their grips. Both of their eyes opened wide in fury and pain.

Each pulled away.

Fungum’s throat splayed open, spilling the remaining life-fluid into the air and onto the floor.

Motega’s throat also was torn open. Even in his death throes, the ogre would not release his grip.

They both collapsed throat-less and lifeless to the earth, the other’s body part entwined tightly with their hands or claws.

“MOTEGA!!!” Magnus shouted as he rushed to his friend. He was the first there, the first to watch the final processes of the Rorn’s body. The lupine hide fell from the lifeless body, leaving a pile of hair under the cooling corpse. His cold, brown eyes were locked in a ferocious stare that now engulfed the ceiling of the mine. His mouth too, covered with blood and gore, was frozen in a bestial grimace.

Fitz knelt against the body, knowing what he would find. He tried the wand anyway. The blue energy touched the body but seemed to evaporate. He shook his head.

A jarring sound snapped Fitz’s and Magnus’ eyes from the scene. Tobias’ blade pierced Fungum’s skull and several inches of the rock floor beneath. The paladin wore a storm upon his brow, a fury that longed to be released. He shoved against the blade again, impaling it several more inches into the floor.

The ogre’s brain matter leaked from the wound, seeping slowly across the floor.

Without a sound, Tobias moved away from the body of Motega toward a door in the far end of the chamber.

“Motega would want to know what was behind this door,” he murmured as he kicked the locked door open.

* * *​

Magnus, Fitz and Tobias quietly set about their work. Each body, except Motega’s, was stripped of its gear and accoutrements. They quickly inventoried the items and stuffed them in their satchels. Even one of the mushrooms from the rear room had been added to the inventory. The mushroom, a strange brown growth with black splotches, had to be what the Culites were after.

There was nothing else in the damned room aside from a small body of water.

Hefting the weight onto their shoulders, they next bent to retrieve their fallen friend. Carefully wrapped and carefully carried, they made their way toward the outside world.

Darkness had claimed the heavens by the time they had finished the ascent. A bright, full moon was accented by the soft twinkle of distant stars. The stagnant heat of the rainless summer was suppressed by a cooling breeze.

They stepped out and were engulfed in the cacophonous howls of a chorus of wolves. A dozen—at least!—werewolves stepped from the brush surrounding the mine. They were hybrids, bordering on nine feet tall and laden with corded muscles covered by dark furs.

Each held their head up, allowing their music to soar up into the heavens.

The last to step forward was the largest at nearly ten and a half feet in height. He moved slowly, purposefully toward the heroes. With each step, the beast receded revealing more of the man beneath. His fur and then hair held a silver sheen—showing both his age and rank among the pack. Even as the beast faded within the human flesh that was its prison, the Heroes thought the man appeared supernaturally large and fit. His sheer girth did not diminish. His fierce eyes demanded a fearful respect.

His face was Motega’s. “Kun,” he stated regally, his head lifted proudly.

“Kun,” Magnus returned. He allowed his shield to turn, revealing Motega’s mark.

The regal man-wolf nodded. “That symbol is not given lightly. You are marked as a Rorn-friend. Remember what that means.” Then, he snapped his fingers.

The two lycanthropes behind him tossed two corpses, horadrel archers, to the earth. “You should be more thorough.” He motioned at Motega’s body. “We will take my son.”

They all nodded as several of the lycanthropes moved to grab the dead body. They set him upon the earth and stripped the leather from his body. With inhuman speed, Motega’s gear was set into neat piles until only a naked, destroyed body rested on the earth.

“Death is birth, birth is death,” Motega’s father spoke enigmatically. “He will have no need of this gear.” One of the werewolves beside Motega slit open his own vein, allowing the fresh blood to mingle with the earth beneath. Using the dirt and blood mixture, a symbol was etched onto Motega’s pallid flesh.

“Your path to the city is clear,” the Rorn’s father spoke. “Do not wander from the trail tonight.”

As the last word faded, the lycanthropes vanished back into the brush, into the shadows silently. They became the night.

Magnus shed a tear.

They all did as they walked slowly, stubbornly south back to Minetown.

 

[Funeris]

All those reposts should bring us current, folks (in both my SHs). Thanks to Yeti for managing to download this thread prior to the board crash. It helped to fill in the one or two posts I wrote at work and did not have saved to a Word File.

~Fune

 

[TheYeti1775]

All those reposts should bring us current, folks (in both my SHs). Thanks to Yeti for managing to download this thread prior to the board crash. It helped to fill in the one or two posts I wrote at work and did not have saved to a Word File.

~Fune

*Taking a Bow*
Thank you Thank you......

After reading through some of the PHB II, I'm going to have to recommend it to Funeris, because there are many things in there that would fit our characters here to a tee.


Yeti

 

[Funeris]

SH Sampler

Alright Boys and Girls,

I want to add my SHs to the Story Hour Sampler. So, I need to select one post which is the Greatest Post in the Entire Thread TM.

But you all are the readers. So, tell me...which post was your favorite? Which do you think should be nominated for the task?

Thanks,

~Funeris

 

[TheYeti1775]

Bumping it up so he remembers to post more today.

Yeti

 

[Funeris]

Chapter 13: Family, Responsibility, and Voyage

The bodies had rested like slabs of wood in that small church. Heroes, villains, and those that defied an easy category amounted to a pile of organic matter which filled the tiny structure from wall to wall, door to door. One body, the most deserving Hero, did not rest in the heap. It would have been disrespectful to place the remains with the others.

Motega was not some unnamed hero or villain. He had been family. But his body had been taken, sparing it the disregard it would have collected on the wooden floor.

They had rested on the floor of the church until high noon. Until Magnus summoned another burst of flame to fuel a pyre. Friend and foe alike were devoured by the flames; those that had escaped a fiery death the first time around.

Cochly, the honorable dwarf craftsman, was fed to the pyre. His axe was wrapped carefully and sent by messenger toward his homeland. Magnus had written down the valiant details of his death, enclosing it in the package.

Timmons, the demanding priest, was fed to the pyre. His gear—just a wand Fitz had leant him—was returned to the Heroes’ stocks. The money the priest had demanded in rightful payment was found that morning by Magnus under a fresh spot of earth in the church’s rear yard. That too rejoined the Heroes’ gear.

All of the villains were thrown haphazardly into the hungry flames. Tobias had grunted with exertion when he hefted the centaur onto his shoulders. Magnus ordered the paladin to halt. Tobias had grunted again; his shoulders were straining. The mage made a cursory bit of notes regarding the Aradeeti tattoos that covered the Rorn’s body before allowing the paladin to feed the fire.

One by one, the bodies faded to ash leaving only a heavy odor of singed hair and burnt flesh behind.

* * *​

Three tankards sat, filled to the brim, untouched on the cluttered table. It was well after noon and the remaining three had sequestered the Inn for their own uses. Unable to find ‘Honest’ Abe, one of the remaining townsfolk—a young girl of maybe thirteen with long, blonde hair—rushed around to serve them.

They had disallowed any interruptions from the townsfolk. This was their Inn now, at least for the day. They had lost enough to convince the people to leave them be. If that had not done it, their heroics that morning should have sufficed.

All of the tables had been pushed to the center of the floor. There, upon the makeshift banquet table, rested all of the spoils of war. The pile was huge with armor and weapons, arrows, a few scrolls, a few potions and others of the miscellaneous items men carried to battle. A crumpled portrait of a homely brunette rested on the side; a picture of a loved one, no doubt.

Death touched everyone.

Motega’s gear was piled around Magnus’ position, next to one of the full tankards; next to two empty glasses previous filled with a strong whiskey. Similar glasses rested next to Fitz and Tobias, all empty. A decanter rested on the center of the table, also empty. Previously it had been the home of the strongest whiskey the town had ever produced—a homebrewed concoction named “Drake’s Breath”. Now, like the Heroes, the decanter was empty.

“We’re not getting rid of any of it,” Magnus blurted. “It’s ours!” He nearly knocked over the full tankard when his arm twitched in agitation. It would have spilt upon the newest writ for the King—describing their victory.

“We can’t carry it all,” Tobias advised. He kicked his head back—still ragged and pink from the devastating flames—destroying the last shot of whiskey.

Fitz, the voice of reason, had remained quiet all morning. He, too, sipped down the last gulp of his whiskey. But without anything meaningful to add to the exchange, the voice of reason rested.

“You’ve got muscles, you can carry it all,” Magnus assured.

“Even with your magically enchanted haversacks, I doubt we could carry it all. We have to leave some of this for the town.”

“We’ve already paid them,” the mage growled.

“What happened the last time we left a town ill-prepared?” Tobias screamed. His fists slammed into the table as he stood. “Do you even remember?! The town was destroyed!”

“They rebuilt.”

“Many lives were lost. I will not see that fate befall another town. Our enemies would fall upon this place once we have left to destroy it—only to spite us.”

“It is just a bunch of weapons,” Fitz murmured. Tobias paused. “Weapons in an untrained hand will do no good; just as a mage cannot wield a blade to harvest wheat.”

“It’s okay,” Magnus said. “You’re right. We have to give them something.” Tobias let his face drain of anger. He was exhausted. The paladin sat down, drawing the tankard across the table. “Motega’s gear is not left behind,” clarified Magnus.

“Agreed,” Fitz and Tobias added in unison.

Magnus’ eyes fell to the gear surrounding him. His eyes watered. Embarrassed, he reached for the tankard and pulled it to his face. “Do we even know where we’re going yet?” His eyes settled again on the gear. Piled next to Motega’s armor was the shield he had wielded, the shield Motega had painted a Rorn symbol onto with his own blood. The mage, although unsure of when exactly after the battle, had taken an adamantine dagger and carved the symbol deeply into the metal disc. It would never fade. The symbol was permanent now, a part of the shield as it was a part of Magnus.

Tobias’s head shook. Magnus did not notice.

“The Baronet’s, I’d suggest,” Fitz said. “I have no love for Rhelmsmen that abandon their people.”

“Justice must be dealt,” Tobias stated grimly. “He has failed his responsibilities. I will aide you in delivering justice, priest.” The familiar flash of holy retribution filled the paladin’s eyes. Fitz merely nodded in acquiescence.

“It is all his fault,” Magnus added. “If he had taken care of the Culites when they arrived Motega would still be alive. If he had sent his guards, when we requested, Motega would still be drawing breath.” Magnus’ eyes darkened with rage. “We can take care of him now.”

All three, as one, stood.

“The gear?” Magnus queried.

“Take just what you need. The rest will wait,” Tobias said as he drew his sword. The paladin lifted the tankard with his left. He tossed it to the table empty and useless.

The young girl had been running about in the kitchen, preparing a simple meal. At least, that is what they had thought. She stood now near the door, peering through a nearby window. Her face was pale as the moon.

“What is it girl?” Tobias demanded. His grip tightened on the blade.

Her mouth moved soundlessly as she stumbled back. Fitz drew his scythe. Magnus reached for a scroll.

The door flung open; Tobias’ blade lifted high.

A silhouette filled the doorway. It stumbled in, naked, bruised, soaked and dirty. Motega grinned as his companions’ faces dropped in surprise[1].

“Y-y-you were dead!” Fitz exclaimed.

“Shut your mouth priest before Tobias thinks you’re one of those Galar child-touchers.” Motega stretched his arm, popping several vertebrae in his back. They could make out all the fresh, pink scars, including the one that covered his entire neck. The Heroes even noticed a few tattoos they wish they had not ever seen. “It’ll take more than that to kill a Rorn.” Quietly he murmured, “Just a right of passage.”

Magnus’ face, previously confused, began to beam.

“You didn’t sell all my sh*t did you, mage?!” Magnus quickly shook his head. “Good, I’ll need it. Where we going?” The Rornman smacked his lips at the young girl, who quickly fell away a pace. Motega strutted past, unfettered. He grabbed his armor and began donning it quickly. “Get me a drink, I’ll not let my family drink without me,” he ordered. The girl scurried off quickly.

Motega’s eyes fell upon the scored shield and he smiled. “Where we going?” he demanded again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

[1] – Motega was dead! Wait, what the f*ck are you doing?

Heh. Well, I embellish battles a bit (except for the number of fireballs Magnus dropped) because they would otherwise be extraordinarily boring—for both me to write and you to read. Besides, I don’t take great combat notes. So, Motega actually died due to an AoO from the ogre, Fungum. But he had forgotten to add his +4 (mobility) to that…which would have meant Fungum would have missed. It took Destan and Hobbit_Killer a week or two to figure that out.

After which point Motega rejoined our party. Hobbit_Killer had prepared another character in the meantime…which makes an appearance in a few updates and becomes a recurring NPC.