TheYeti1775
Adventurer
Isn't it time for an update around here.
Yeti
Yeti
In the Valus - The Heroes of Marchford (Chapter 14 Continues - 12/24/08)
TheYeti1775
Adventurer
Bump,
Bump,
Bump.
Bump,
Bump.
TheYeti1775
Adventurer
Where ya at Funeris, the people are waiting for the Mad Mage.
Funeris
First Post
Chapter 14: Gurnag's Head
An inconstant drizzle spattered against the looming crags of rock groping around the rocky staircase. Far below, two maybe three hundred feet below, the small dinghy smacked against the jagged outcropping that passed as a dock. Above, Gurnag’s Head loomed, a squat creature of stone broken by time and weather and disuse.
Drake ducked low, the monster’s fey song unable to lure him into its razor talons. His first sickle nipped at the yellowed skin of her belly, parting the flesh with its kiss. His right arm leapt down, that sickle carving under and around the ankle before he pulled his arm taut.
The harpy tottered backward, pounding the ground. Drake drove the first blade into her thigh in spite.
Another of the monsters twirled past him.
The Rornman was there, a wall. He was angry silver cutting deep and biting hard. That harpy cried out.
Orbs of whirring light leapt over Drake’s head. He watched their impact against another of the ghastly nude bodies diving toward the crumbling staircase. The mage, Drake knew. He cast a look back and paid a price of blood.
The Rhelmsman mage winked.
Behind Magnus, the priest called down a blessing from the harvest goddess. He was slowly climbing the stairway, heavy armor encumbering every step.
Drake turned back to his bloody work. His first blade cleaved through the harpy’s arm at its wrist; the second drove through the bottom of her jaw and into her skull. As her eyes fluttered lifelessly away, another of her sisters slid by the Gordian. His sickle snapped out, clipping her heel and forcing her to kiss the stairs below.
Motega was quick to straddle the form, driving a dagger into its beating chest. Fetid blood spurted onto the Rornman.
Magnus watched Drake while reaching for more magical artillery. The fire danced across his knuckles, coalescing into a single bead of energy. The bead blossomed, just beyond the Gordian, blasting two of the harpies in the sky. Their broken and charred forms plummeted.
Silence descended upon the group as quickly as the harpy’s song had filled it.
“Almost to the top,” Drake spit as he kicked a body over the ledge.
The priest panted, leaning against a wall of rock.
“You’re not too bad with those sickles,” Magnus commended.
Drake grunted. “You’re witchery seemed to work as well.” With a measuring glance, Drake turned back to the stair. His next step elicited an exhausted sigh from the cleric.
An inconstant drizzle spattered against the looming crags of rock groping around the rocky staircase. Far below, two maybe three hundred feet below, the small dinghy smacked against the jagged outcropping that passed as a dock. Above, Gurnag’s Head loomed, a squat creature of stone broken by time and weather and disuse.
Drake ducked low, the monster’s fey song unable to lure him into its razor talons. His first sickle nipped at the yellowed skin of her belly, parting the flesh with its kiss. His right arm leapt down, that sickle carving under and around the ankle before he pulled his arm taut.
The harpy tottered backward, pounding the ground. Drake drove the first blade into her thigh in spite.
Another of the monsters twirled past him.
The Rornman was there, a wall. He was angry silver cutting deep and biting hard. That harpy cried out.
Orbs of whirring light leapt over Drake’s head. He watched their impact against another of the ghastly nude bodies diving toward the crumbling staircase. The mage, Drake knew. He cast a look back and paid a price of blood.
The Rhelmsman mage winked.
Behind Magnus, the priest called down a blessing from the harvest goddess. He was slowly climbing the stairway, heavy armor encumbering every step.
Drake turned back to his bloody work. His first blade cleaved through the harpy’s arm at its wrist; the second drove through the bottom of her jaw and into her skull. As her eyes fluttered lifelessly away, another of her sisters slid by the Gordian. His sickle snapped out, clipping her heel and forcing her to kiss the stairs below.
Motega was quick to straddle the form, driving a dagger into its beating chest. Fetid blood spurted onto the Rornman.
Magnus watched Drake while reaching for more magical artillery. The fire danced across his knuckles, coalescing into a single bead of energy. The bead blossomed, just beyond the Gordian, blasting two of the harpies in the sky. Their broken and charred forms plummeted.
Silence descended upon the group as quickly as the harpy’s song had filled it.
“Almost to the top,” Drake spit as he kicked a body over the ledge.
The priest panted, leaning against a wall of rock.
“You’re not too bad with those sickles,” Magnus commended.
Drake grunted. “You’re witchery seemed to work as well.” With a measuring glance, Drake turned back to the stair. His next step elicited an exhausted sigh from the cleric.
TheYeti1775
Adventurer
Good work once again.
Funeris
First Post
Chapter 14: Gurnag's Head (continued)
A sidelong gust sent a scatter of rain through the open door. A few small windows allowed the gray outside to seep into the chamber, cooling the already frigid stone.
Motega poked a blade into a nest, shifting the hay and refuse. His sharp eyes caught upon a few small bones. Fingers, from the shape and quantity. He moved to the next nest, stirred its contents.
“What do you know about Dekk?” Magnus posited.
Drake pressed his booted foot down. Mewling gurgles escaped his prey while he sheathed a sickle and withdrew a jagged dagger. “He’s a wizard. I do not trust him.” Magnus grinned while Drake continued, “I do not know if he is more interested in the acquisition of power or in the Lady herself. He appears to serve the Lady faithfully.”
The dagger plunged through sinew and muscle, notching into bone. Muffled shrieks slipped past the Gordian’s booted foot. A twist broke the hollow bone and allowed the knife to shear through the rest of the small wing. He tossed it carelessly to the side. Drake grabbed the next wing.
“Dekk and I have not had much reason to speak. I cannot tell you what flowers or candies he likes if that is your intent, wizard.”
“Hah. A mercenary with a sense of humor, lucky us,” Magnus grumbled. “He is a Carrik mage and so my mind is wary.” Fitz touched the wand to another of Magnus’ wounds. The mage tightened for a moment.
Motega brought an amulet, the only useful item hidden in the nests, to Magnus. The mage glanced over it quickly, tracing the magic auras with his eyes and deposited it in his haversack. He returned to the questioning. “He’s been working for the Lady for how long?”
“He has been at her side as long as I.” Drake released the pin with his boot but snapped his arm below her jaw, his thumb digging into her throat. She thrashed against the Gordian impotently. He had already severed her fingers and toes at the second joint, removing all of her natural weapons except for one.
“It has been six turnings of the moon. I believe I was at the Lady’s side maybe a tenday more than he.” The dagger slipped just under the skin of the harpy’s throat. Blood gurgled behind the dagger’s path.
Motega glowered. Fitz watched curiously.
“What does it matter? We are here to retrieve the key and their bodies.” Drake wiped the blood from the dagger.
“Who is at the center of this plot is important,” Magnus admonished. “These are crimes against the court of Rhelm. Crimes that will be punished.”
Fitz leaned toward Motega. His eyes were locked on last organ Drake had tossed toward his gruesome pile. He whispered, “Is that her…”
“Vocal chords,” Motega affirmed. “That bird will never sing.”
Drake poured a healing draught down the harpy’s throat. Slowly, the streams of blood subsided. He looped a heavy rope around her arms and neck, securing several knots before tying the rope to a solid pillar.
“Seriously, what are you doing with that harpy?”
Drake smiled at Magnus. “Some men have strange tastes. I am going to profit from their desires.”
“She…she is only a child,” Fitz stammered.
“She will provide more years of service that way—and a heftier profit for me.” The Gordian smiled.
Motega shook his head. He brought everyone’s attention back to the task at hand. “We have a choice to make. Up or down?”
“There seemed to be a body impaled on the flagpole on top of the tower,” the priest reminded. He shifted his eyes to the staircase going up.
“Two votes for up,” the Rornman stated.
“Up,” both Magnus and Drake agreed. Blades at the ready, the four moved up the staircase.
A sidelong gust sent a scatter of rain through the open door. A few small windows allowed the gray outside to seep into the chamber, cooling the already frigid stone.
Motega poked a blade into a nest, shifting the hay and refuse. His sharp eyes caught upon a few small bones. Fingers, from the shape and quantity. He moved to the next nest, stirred its contents.
“What do you know about Dekk?” Magnus posited.
Drake pressed his booted foot down. Mewling gurgles escaped his prey while he sheathed a sickle and withdrew a jagged dagger. “He’s a wizard. I do not trust him.” Magnus grinned while Drake continued, “I do not know if he is more interested in the acquisition of power or in the Lady herself. He appears to serve the Lady faithfully.”
The dagger plunged through sinew and muscle, notching into bone. Muffled shrieks slipped past the Gordian’s booted foot. A twist broke the hollow bone and allowed the knife to shear through the rest of the small wing. He tossed it carelessly to the side. Drake grabbed the next wing.
“Dekk and I have not had much reason to speak. I cannot tell you what flowers or candies he likes if that is your intent, wizard.”
“Hah. A mercenary with a sense of humor, lucky us,” Magnus grumbled. “He is a Carrik mage and so my mind is wary.” Fitz touched the wand to another of Magnus’ wounds. The mage tightened for a moment.
Motega brought an amulet, the only useful item hidden in the nests, to Magnus. The mage glanced over it quickly, tracing the magic auras with his eyes and deposited it in his haversack. He returned to the questioning. “He’s been working for the Lady for how long?”
“He has been at her side as long as I.” Drake released the pin with his boot but snapped his arm below her jaw, his thumb digging into her throat. She thrashed against the Gordian impotently. He had already severed her fingers and toes at the second joint, removing all of her natural weapons except for one.
“It has been six turnings of the moon. I believe I was at the Lady’s side maybe a tenday more than he.” The dagger slipped just under the skin of the harpy’s throat. Blood gurgled behind the dagger’s path.
Motega glowered. Fitz watched curiously.
“What does it matter? We are here to retrieve the key and their bodies.” Drake wiped the blood from the dagger.
“Who is at the center of this plot is important,” Magnus admonished. “These are crimes against the court of Rhelm. Crimes that will be punished.”
Fitz leaned toward Motega. His eyes were locked on last organ Drake had tossed toward his gruesome pile. He whispered, “Is that her…”
“Vocal chords,” Motega affirmed. “That bird will never sing.”
Drake poured a healing draught down the harpy’s throat. Slowly, the streams of blood subsided. He looped a heavy rope around her arms and neck, securing several knots before tying the rope to a solid pillar.
“Seriously, what are you doing with that harpy?”
Drake smiled at Magnus. “Some men have strange tastes. I am going to profit from their desires.”
“She…she is only a child,” Fitz stammered.
“She will provide more years of service that way—and a heftier profit for me.” The Gordian smiled.
Motega shook his head. He brought everyone’s attention back to the task at hand. “We have a choice to make. Up or down?”
“There seemed to be a body impaled on the flagpole on top of the tower,” the priest reminded. He shifted his eyes to the staircase going up.
“Two votes for up,” the Rornman stated.
“Up,” both Magnus and Drake agreed. Blades at the ready, the four moved up the staircase.
Funeris
First Post
Chapter 14: Gurnag's Head (continued)
The stench of the corpse had been scoured away by time. The perfume of the harpies’ nests on the higher level of the fortress had not been. It wafted lazily through the portal as Drake and Motega wrenched the body from the flagpole..
“That is the Lord Pendour,” Drake confirmed. He ran a finger along the fine, silver etchings of the lord’s scabbard.
Motega rummaged through Pendour’s clothing. Desiccated flesh sloughed off beneath the Rornman’s touch. He smirked in disgust.
“So,” Magnus posited, “this is the Lord Pendour Carnelloe and he died as was divined by—”
“Righter Phazwick,” Drake finished.
“Right,” Magnus continued. “He was killed by harpies or that is at least what they want us to believe.”
“He has a few lacerations on his palms, forearms and face,” added the Rornman. “The size is right for harpies.”
“Harpies, at least the ones we’ve crossed, could not have lifted Lord Pendour and dropped him to his death on a flagpole. Not while the man, despite his age, was armed. That is to say nothing of his other missing companions.” Magnus stroked his chin in consideration.
The belt clasp opened easily. With a quick pull, the scabbard fell into Drake’s hand. He weighed it momentarily, then stood and tossed it to Motega. “There were four others. Righter Thairon, the family wizard Maccab, and two veteran man-at-arms, Matlick and Rorinald. These harpies would not have stood long against that force.”
“For once, we agree,” Magnus chirped. “Something else is going on here.”
Fitz lifted his eyes from Pendour’s body. “Maybe there is a connection to Minetown. There were large, clawed and winged infernal beasts in that attack.”
“I don’t like that you may be right,” admitted the mage. “We think we’ve stepped into a pile of dung only to look around and realize we’re stumbling around blindly in a latrine. Can you speak with dead?”
“Not today. Take the head and my Goddess can bless us with the ability to ask in the morning.” Fitz turned from the scene.
Drake hacked through the lord’s neck with ease. Wrapping the head in a bit of cloth, he deposited it in a sack. “We may find the other bodies below.”
Motega stood and nodded in assent. “Hopefully, we’ll find that key, too. It wasn’t on him.”
The stench of the corpse had been scoured away by time. The perfume of the harpies’ nests on the higher level of the fortress had not been. It wafted lazily through the portal as Drake and Motega wrenched the body from the flagpole..
“That is the Lord Pendour,” Drake confirmed. He ran a finger along the fine, silver etchings of the lord’s scabbard.
Motega rummaged through Pendour’s clothing. Desiccated flesh sloughed off beneath the Rornman’s touch. He smirked in disgust.
“So,” Magnus posited, “this is the Lord Pendour Carnelloe and he died as was divined by—”
“Righter Phazwick,” Drake finished.
“Right,” Magnus continued. “He was killed by harpies or that is at least what they want us to believe.”
“He has a few lacerations on his palms, forearms and face,” added the Rornman. “The size is right for harpies.”
“Harpies, at least the ones we’ve crossed, could not have lifted Lord Pendour and dropped him to his death on a flagpole. Not while the man, despite his age, was armed. That is to say nothing of his other missing companions.” Magnus stroked his chin in consideration.
The belt clasp opened easily. With a quick pull, the scabbard fell into Drake’s hand. He weighed it momentarily, then stood and tossed it to Motega. “There were four others. Righter Thairon, the family wizard Maccab, and two veteran man-at-arms, Matlick and Rorinald. These harpies would not have stood long against that force.”
“For once, we agree,” Magnus chirped. “Something else is going on here.”
Fitz lifted his eyes from Pendour’s body. “Maybe there is a connection to Minetown. There were large, clawed and winged infernal beasts in that attack.”
“I don’t like that you may be right,” admitted the mage. “We think we’ve stepped into a pile of dung only to look around and realize we’re stumbling around blindly in a latrine. Can you speak with dead?”
“Not today. Take the head and my Goddess can bless us with the ability to ask in the morning.” Fitz turned from the scene.
Drake hacked through the lord’s neck with ease. Wrapping the head in a bit of cloth, he deposited it in a sack. “We may find the other bodies below.”
Motega stood and nodded in assent. “Hopefully, we’ll find that key, too. It wasn’t on him.”
TheYeti1775
Adventurer
Such a bloodthristy group weren't we.
"Take his head" I'm sure I was much more adamant about it.
"Take his head" I'm sure I was much more adamant about it.
Funeris
First Post
We were bloodthirsty, but really, the 'Marchford group' has nothing on the 'Blade of Phoee group' and neither can compare to my current batch of players.
With Marchford, we were just taking a head from a guy that was already dead. My current group prefers the kill first ask questions later method. The funny thing about that is not one of them is a divine caster :|
Go figure. *shrug*
Ah...such good times were had with this game. Its sad that we're drawing ever nearer to the premature end...
~Fune
With Marchford, we were just taking a head from a guy that was already dead. My current group prefers the kill first ask questions later method. The funny thing about that is not one of them is a divine caster :|
Go figure. *shrug*
Ah...such good times were had with this game. Its sad that we're drawing ever nearer to the premature end...
~Fune
Funeris
First Post
Chapter 14: Gurnag's Head Cont'd.
Motega had taken point again, but, Drake had followed quite closely.
The staircase wound down beyond the thick foundation of the tower and further still than the tubes that disposed of waste. It crawled downward until the walls became natural and jagged, vicious teeth unable to close on their prey.
The darkness did not hamper Motega’s vision the way it would a normal man. He slinked ahead of the rest, on the edge of Fitz’s divine light. Drake moved cautiously, two steps behind, one hand grazing the natural wall.
The stairs abruptly ended, opening into a natural cavern. A fiery glow and warmth embraced Motega and Drake. The light, though dim, revealed signs of craftsmanship on the walls. Runes in a jagged hand scarred the rock. Their very sight caused Drake’s flesh to crawl. Demonic visages, frozen in stone, watched greedily from the walls.
They had only a moment to absorb the environment as a dagger flashed angrily. Motega and Drake spun away from the small man and his small blade. Dark eyes sunk into his skull just beneath a mop of unkempt, brown hair. Beady eyes raced between the two wearily. His nose twitched; his lip curled into a smirk. The brown rags draped across his wiry body were stained by urine and feces.
Motega caught a familiar but rotten scent. The tiny man smelled of power and carrion. The meaning hit him just as the tiny man pivoted and leapt.
Drake’s sword snapped out, biting a chunk out of the man’s shoulder. Before he was two steps farther away, Drake could swear the wound had vanished from the man’s hide. “Enemy!” The Gordian roared, to alert those still on the staircase. He charged after the foe.
Motega spit, “Lycanthrope!” Drake was already gone, already in pursuit. Possibly, the Gordian was already in the trap. The Rornman shook his head disdainfully as Fitz and Magnus finally descended the stairway.
“By the Gods,” Fitz cursed at the décor.
“Don’t think they had much to do with this, priest,” Magnus quipped. “Where’s our ignorant fool?”
“Hurry,” Motega ordered, already in motion. “He’s chasing a lycanthrope.” Magnus chuckled as he fell into step behind the Rorn.
The natural cavern slowed their pursuit while its unnatural features fought to catch their eyes and attentions. As they rounded a bend, narrow fissures pock-marked the walls. Drake’s sword clattered against the stone lips of a crevasse. The Gordian cursed in his native tongue and took two steps back. Lowering his head, he dove into the hole.
“Idiot!” Motega cursed. “His weapons will do nothing.” A sharp grunt and more metal against stone clattering emphasized his point. The Rorn looked at Magnus, “Do we have any grease?”
Magnus’ lip quirked at a dirty joke, but the Rorn’s shooting up a foot in height wiped the explicit words from his mind. Motega’s eyes yellowed; bones popped inside his body. “I—I believe I’ve got you covered,” the mage confirmed.
“Exactly,” Motega grunted. “Grease me. Then count to ten.” A sharp snapping realigned the Rorn’s spine just as a thick covering of hair sprouted on his face. “Then fire it up.”
Magnus’ brow knitted. A thin sheen of grease covered the wolf-man hybrid that was Motega. The Rorn slid into the crevasse, his new bulk pressing past the lips of stone only thanks to the grease.
“One.”
The light was not as good in the small cave for Drake. Thankfully, the man’s eyes seemed to glow like embers. He brought the sickle up just as two vicious teeth snapped at his face. The man’s teeth clamped shut around the metal. His fingers, claws now, opened wounds across Drake’s arms.
“Move!” The voice was Motega’s, though different. A rough hand, also clawed, the Gordian noted, pushed him toward the wall. Eyes burning with the fires of hell peered out of a face half belonging to the Rorn.
Motega’s arms shot out, raking across the wererat’s chest. The tiny creature backpedalled, unable to avoid the ravaging blows. The scent of blood filled the cramped space.
“Five.”
Drake smiled to himself, taking the new offensive opportunity. He struck low, sickles biting for tendons near the ankle. If the man-rat-thing would fall, Drake would assure the wounds did not heal.
His blades cut too high and he swore.
Motega’s right arm spread open the flesh along the wererat’s left thigh. His teeth clamped around its arm, breaking the bones in the forearms. A taste of rot exploded in his mouth. The wererat squealed in pain.
“Ten.” Magnus grimaced and tossed a bead of energy into the fissure.
Motega’s ear twitched, hearing the count. Drake’s blades flashed out again but did not connect as Motega threw himself bodily into the Gordian.
Light and fire filled the chamber.
Motega had taken point again, but, Drake had followed quite closely.
The staircase wound down beyond the thick foundation of the tower and further still than the tubes that disposed of waste. It crawled downward until the walls became natural and jagged, vicious teeth unable to close on their prey.
The darkness did not hamper Motega’s vision the way it would a normal man. He slinked ahead of the rest, on the edge of Fitz’s divine light. Drake moved cautiously, two steps behind, one hand grazing the natural wall.
The stairs abruptly ended, opening into a natural cavern. A fiery glow and warmth embraced Motega and Drake. The light, though dim, revealed signs of craftsmanship on the walls. Runes in a jagged hand scarred the rock. Their very sight caused Drake’s flesh to crawl. Demonic visages, frozen in stone, watched greedily from the walls.
They had only a moment to absorb the environment as a dagger flashed angrily. Motega and Drake spun away from the small man and his small blade. Dark eyes sunk into his skull just beneath a mop of unkempt, brown hair. Beady eyes raced between the two wearily. His nose twitched; his lip curled into a smirk. The brown rags draped across his wiry body were stained by urine and feces.
Motega caught a familiar but rotten scent. The tiny man smelled of power and carrion. The meaning hit him just as the tiny man pivoted and leapt.
Drake’s sword snapped out, biting a chunk out of the man’s shoulder. Before he was two steps farther away, Drake could swear the wound had vanished from the man’s hide. “Enemy!” The Gordian roared, to alert those still on the staircase. He charged after the foe.
Motega spit, “Lycanthrope!” Drake was already gone, already in pursuit. Possibly, the Gordian was already in the trap. The Rornman shook his head disdainfully as Fitz and Magnus finally descended the stairway.
“By the Gods,” Fitz cursed at the décor.
“Don’t think they had much to do with this, priest,” Magnus quipped. “Where’s our ignorant fool?”
“Hurry,” Motega ordered, already in motion. “He’s chasing a lycanthrope.” Magnus chuckled as he fell into step behind the Rorn.
The natural cavern slowed their pursuit while its unnatural features fought to catch their eyes and attentions. As they rounded a bend, narrow fissures pock-marked the walls. Drake’s sword clattered against the stone lips of a crevasse. The Gordian cursed in his native tongue and took two steps back. Lowering his head, he dove into the hole.
“Idiot!” Motega cursed. “His weapons will do nothing.” A sharp grunt and more metal against stone clattering emphasized his point. The Rorn looked at Magnus, “Do we have any grease?”
Magnus’ lip quirked at a dirty joke, but the Rorn’s shooting up a foot in height wiped the explicit words from his mind. Motega’s eyes yellowed; bones popped inside his body. “I—I believe I’ve got you covered,” the mage confirmed.
“Exactly,” Motega grunted. “Grease me. Then count to ten.” A sharp snapping realigned the Rorn’s spine just as a thick covering of hair sprouted on his face. “Then fire it up.”
Magnus’ brow knitted. A thin sheen of grease covered the wolf-man hybrid that was Motega. The Rorn slid into the crevasse, his new bulk pressing past the lips of stone only thanks to the grease.
“One.”
The light was not as good in the small cave for Drake. Thankfully, the man’s eyes seemed to glow like embers. He brought the sickle up just as two vicious teeth snapped at his face. The man’s teeth clamped shut around the metal. His fingers, claws now, opened wounds across Drake’s arms.
“Move!” The voice was Motega’s, though different. A rough hand, also clawed, the Gordian noted, pushed him toward the wall. Eyes burning with the fires of hell peered out of a face half belonging to the Rorn.
Motega’s arms shot out, raking across the wererat’s chest. The tiny creature backpedalled, unable to avoid the ravaging blows. The scent of blood filled the cramped space.
“Five.”
Drake smiled to himself, taking the new offensive opportunity. He struck low, sickles biting for tendons near the ankle. If the man-rat-thing would fall, Drake would assure the wounds did not heal.
His blades cut too high and he swore.
Motega’s right arm spread open the flesh along the wererat’s left thigh. His teeth clamped around its arm, breaking the bones in the forearms. A taste of rot exploded in his mouth. The wererat squealed in pain.
“Ten.” Magnus grimaced and tossed a bead of energy into the fissure.
Motega’s ear twitched, hearing the count. Drake’s blades flashed out again but did not connect as Motega threw himself bodily into the Gordian.
Light and fire filled the chamber.
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