Chapter 1
The doors to the Wet Boot were thrown open. A male child, no older than eleven, dashes in. As he passes the doors, he pivots, obviously looking for someone, and crashes into
a table.
"Rorik!" An older gentleman in fine garb shouts. "Calm down, boy. What's the meaning of this intrusion?"
"Sir....Edam..." Rorik stands up and rubs a new bump above his brow. "On the.....ridge....there's a....a.....a....."
"Spit it out, boy, for the love of Morduk." Sir Eddam sets his drink down and moves toward the child.
Rorik gulps in a mouthful of air causing him to appear as a fish-out-of-water. "On the ridge....there's a...."
"a.....monster."
************************************************************************
It was an unseasonably cold morning for the first day of Gal. A crowd, sprinkled like sores upon the hillside, gathered around the...thing. As many town-folk as there were, there were just as many foreigners.
Stretched upon the grasses was a beast, easily the size of two men. It looks half arachnid and half man. Armored plates, the color of milk, encase its body. A huge tail, as long as it is tall, lies beneath its crumpled form. At the end of the tail is a stinger as fat and
round as a dwarf's head. Its eyes have no lids; black pupils stare blankly upward at the morning sun.
Rorik, an unkempt child, prods the corpse with a stick. Gasps erupt from the crowd but they do not stir the creature. Rorik squats down and grabs a claw. He lifts and grunts, "heavy" before dropping it.
Quite obviously, the corpse has been lying there, beneath sun and moon, for several days. Maybe even weeks. Yet, not one fly buzzes near it. Not a maggot, not a worm. Nothing.
"Don't touch it, Rorik," hisses one of the crowd. The boy stands, now uncertain, and drifts backward to join the others.
A silence, as thick as tar, falls upon the crowd.
"Give way!" the order shatters the momentary silence. A soldier wearing the colors of Rhelm pushes through the crowd, followed by Sir Eddam. They both stare at the foulness soiling the earth.
"So, Rorik, who found it?" Eddam questions.
Rorik begins to answer but is silenced by another man.
"I did." The crowd looks upon the answerer. A bearded man with several varmint traps dangling over his shoulder steps forward. "I thought it best to tell folk down at the Boot."
"I wish ye would'a told me first, Trunt." Eddam sighs. "Has anyone sent for the priest?"
"Brother Nulm was told," a woman replies. "But this morn marks a new month, one that is holy to Galar, his God's enemy. Nulm refuses to leave his church. 'E says 'tis unlucky tidings and that we shouldn't be coming close to it."
"Mayhaps, mayhaps. Has anyone ever seen...something like this?"
Silence is his answer. Eddam turns toward the soldier.
"Captain Wallach, place two of your men here as guard. I don't want no one touchin' it."
The armored soldier nods. "As you wish, mayor."
Eddam rubs his eyes wearily. "Alright, then, this is over. Back to your homes and hearths. All of ye, please. Talk about it as much as you like, but do yer talkin' in the Boot or elsewhere. Not up here on the ridge."
The crowd begins to disperse. Many hesitating, catching one last glimpse of the creature, before heading downward toward Marchford.
************************************************************************
That evening there was a town meeting, held within the common room of Marchford's only tavern and inn, the Wet Boot. Sir Eddam, the town's old mayor, stands with his
back to the bar facing the worried countenances of his townspeople.
"Silence." The people answer his request, many take their seats, and soon the only sounds are the crackling logs within the hearth.
"If yer here, then no doubt ye heard about the thing found up on the ridge. None of us are sure what it is, but it is dead. We rolled it over this afternoon and found a few wounds in its back. Sword strokes, most likely."
The mayor looks about the room. "Brother Nulm won't leave his chapel, but he says the description sounds like a creature found in the deserts across the waters. A scorp..." Eddam pauses, "what did he call it?" Eddam looks to the soldier next to him.
"A scorpion."
"Right." The mayor sweeps the common room with his gaze. "A scorpion-man. Nulm ain't never heard of no scorpions that looked like a man, though. Says it's an unlucky thing to find near our town. I don't know if he be right or wrong. I s'pose time'll tell."
The crowd erupted in murmurs and whispers until a half-orc, busy wiping down the bar questioned, "Whut ye gonna do 'bout it?"
"Well, Oggut," Eddam replies after a moment's hesitation, "I would like to see if there's more of them in those hills. We should tell the Earl at Dun Beric, but I would like to give him more information if there's more to be had."
The half-orc half-laughs and half-grunts. "Who, then, is going into them hills?"
Eddam shrugs. "Captain Wallach can't spare his men." The mayor gives the soldier at his shoulder a pointed glance. "So I was thinking maybe some of you trappers and hunters could scour the hills."
"Like hell," swears a big man dressed in buckskin. "Let the Earl's men do it."
Eddam nods. "Mayhaps, mayhaps. But that's a day over and a day back, at best. And nothing's to say the Earl will agree to send us some of his own scouts. We must look after our own."
Oggut rests both elbows on the bar. "If not Wallach's men, and if not them from Dun Beric, then who?"
Eddam removes a leather pouch from his cloak and places it on the bar. "There are some of you," and at this his eyes drift toward a few of the foreigners before surveying others within the room, "who have no homes here in Marchford. You have no fields to till, no families to watch. I have coins, good silver, to pay."
"How much?" comes a voice from the back of the common room.
"Three hundred silver. Per person. Paid if they bring back information - good information - on what these things are and where they come from."
A low murmur washes over the crowded common room. "Three hundred silver is no small sum," is heard, as well as, "Marchford can't afford that."
The mayor waits for the whispering to subside before continuing. "I'll give anyone who wants to go four days. Starting tomorrow. Come back with good information, and you'll be paid."
"Captain Wallach and I will set up in the corner, over there, with quill and parchment." The mayor waves a hand toward the crowd. "If anyone feels so inclined, then come see me."
************************************************************************
"I am Nimrodel." She says, her voice bearing only a hint of a bell-like tone - a slightly raspy tenor with an unusual accent shaping the words in a tongue clearly not her native language. Eyes like pale chips of blue ice survey the other volunteers, the mayer, and Captain Wallach in turn. Her ears appear to be elven, drawing upwards to sharp points. Both ears poke through a mane of hair, as starkly white as the bleak depths of winter, as simply even as the snow-shorn branches of a frost-rimed forest. Her leathers are travel-worn and fit somewhat awkwardly on her lean, rangy frame. Her features could be called beautiful but are only the reflection of the symmetry of her face and form - there is no warmth to her eyes, no life in her step - this woman possesses all the charm of a frozen lake.
In the brief pause after her introduction, she watches as her name is scrawled upon Captain Wallach's parchment. "It is as you say," the elf woman continues. "There is little here for me. I will meet your task."
It is not as if I'll grow rich doing odd jobs for Biminy. Nor will I make any headway finding the one I seek, she thought to herself.
Calm. Nimrodel stilled the fingers drumming upon her axe's haft. Discipline, she reminded herself, as those fingers clenched at her side.
"Perhaps," She began haltingly, "we ought to consider the ridge where the creature was found. It would seem that there are others nearby who have encountered this creature and slain it. Mayhaps we should speak to these folk, whoever they may be, first. If only to find out what they know of these...things."
"Aye," Eddam says. "It sounds as if you have a good place to start. But, methinks you will be in need of companions. One person is probably too few for this task."
Nimrodel steps to the side of the table to allow other volunteers to come forth.
Next to step forward was a young man, well, barely a man. Not even old enough for facial hair yet. His hair was long, wavy, and fire red and contrasted sharply with the studded leather armor, caked in mud, that he wore.
Closer inspection would reveal dried mud, caked to his face and arms as well.
Strapped to his back was a Great Sword that rested awkwardly beside a short bow and a full quiver. Both weapons also were slightly covered in dirt and appeared used.
At six-foot-two he towered over Captain Wallach's table. No emotion showing on his face, eyes colder than ice.
"I, too, will go." His voice was soft but slightly distant.
"Well...er..." the captain looked at the mayor thinking, no boy should go. And this one is much more a boy than a man. But the mayor just shrugged.
The captain responded, "I do not think this is a task safe for...one so young."
The boy's face flushed a slight shade of strawberry-red. "My path is one of honor and valor. If you would try to step between my fate and I, then I challenge you. I’ll fight you to the death. Mayhaps I'll die but you'll not enjoy the rest of your days as a cripple. I will show you I am no boy."
Silence again descended on the tavern as all eyes turned to Captain Wallach, whose face was turning beet red.
The captain grumbled, "Fine, and your name?"
"Funeris Bellator," the man-child answered. The name was scribbled upon the parchment.
Then, Funeris turned, and skulked over to an empty table along the wall where he could sit, watch, and silently gauge the other individuals that might become his companions.
Third, a short, scrawny male teenager in old dark brown studded leather steps forward and stood at attention.
"I am Ember and I will take your task as well," he states simply. "I believe my skills could be of some use with those going into the hills."
With military precision he wheels right and seeks a place to sit where he can see the others.
Besides the old studded leather an old but well cared for steel shield is slung over his shoulder. A shortspear is held on his right and a large dagger hangs from his belt. Oddly, his left-hand fingers tap repeatedly on several small pouches (adorned with arcane marks)
that dangle from a shoulder belt.
Captain Wallach didn't even bother asking this youth if it were wise for him to join the quest. He sighed and scratched the name onto the scroll.
Ember turned toward the elf and man-child, "I agree that talking to the locals where the beast was found would be an excellent starting point. If the body is fresh enough then perhaps its tracks may also be fresh, perhaps a hunter or ranger could attempt to track this creature's path. And even if the track were lost, it would give a general direction to head toward."
"I also suggest we might inquire with the mayor about the services of a pony or mule to carry food and water for the four days. No use wearing ourselves out if there may trouble tomorrow or the day after."
Not waiting for a response, Ember slid his chair back against the wall and watched Captain Wallach's table.
"I'll track."
Having travled the Marches for a few months now, Motega was used to the stares and whispers by now. The Rorn people were not common, not trusted, in the Valus and Motega new that the tattoos upon his face and animal skins and bones worked into his leathers only added to their mistrust.
No matter, he meant these people no harm. In fact, even though his weather beaten face did not show it, he was still a young warrior set out from his homeland in the mountains of the south looking to find adventure to achieve honor among his people.
Motega left his mark and returned the mayor's scowl with a friendly nod. He wondered to himself if these people would be any more at ease if they new that his name meant "new arrow" given to him by his grandfather signifying his youth and inexperience with the longbow slung across his back.
He adjusted his handaxe on his belt and offered a smile to the fire haired boy just as a shout of "Baby Eater!" came from the crowd.
Tomorrow will be a long day, he thought.
As the crowd looks over those that had signed so far, a man, neigh a boy with light brown hair and green haunted eyes steps up nervously. His simple well-worn traveler's clothes barely hung on his thin, tall frame. He seemed to try to shrink from view as the eyes of the tavern peered toward him.
The youth nearly bumps into the signing table before executing a swift spin, stopping along the side. The Captain starts to reach toward him with the quill, when the boy swiftly ducks his arm, and pulls the quill from his hand.
"No, it's alright, I've got it." The boy smiles and jots his name on the scroll.
Some of the stone masons, in the corner, surprised that this man stepped forward began to murmur. The youth had worked with them previously, a hard worker to be sure, but one to venture off into the unknown?
"Magnus, Magnus Ender," he stammers out. "I sign up to help because they," and he gestures toward the volunteers, "might need protecting...", a few chuckles from the crowd are heard.
The captain leaned and whispered to Sir Eddam, "Look at his eyes."
As the Mayor looks upon this nervous boy he can see his eyes are cold and hard, even as his body nervously twitches.
Magnus heads toward the group appearing to grow more confident with every step. Reaching out his hand, "Hi, I'm Magnus..."
As Magnus introduces himself to the party, he constantly peers around the room, often glancing over his own shoulder. Then he maneuvers his back against a wall.
"So, uh, I know a little magic." He beams at the group and adds, "I prefer the school of Abjuration." The group stares blankly at him as a bead of sweat breaks upon his brow. "Uh, that's defensive magics...Anyway, my real interest is architecture. So, if we come upon any ruins, I'll be quite the valuable asset." Again, he was answered with blank stares. "And, I'll be able to tell you all who crafted it and when it was crafted and..." his voice drifted to less than a whisper.
Her quarterstaff lightly rapping on the floor, the woman strode to the mayor's table. At first glance, her face, framed by luxurious auburn hair and inset with deep blue eyes, appeared expressionless. But closer reflection revealed a serenity that bespoke wisdom far beyond her twenty-some years. Her sturdy boots, leather armor, deep green cloak, and scimitar slung across her back cried out ranger, but the quarterstaff, wooden shield and a peculiar aura about her gave everyone in the room pause.
Murmurs exploded among the crowd as they realized the presence of a druid.
"I am Calyx. I believe my skills may be of use in this undertaking." Her choice of words, whether or not she intended the effect, stirred more than a few more whispers in the room.
She surveyed the array of brave volunteers. A brief smile flickered across her face as she contemplated the Rornman, while the arcanists elicited an equally brief frown. Calyx found the arcane magicks a bit distasteful, but they too have their place in the world.
Without another word, she gave a warm nod and slight curtsy to the assembled group and moved to join them and await further direction.
Captain Wallach, Marchford's garrison commander, closed the book on the table in front of him and stands. After asking the mayor for permission to address the crowd, he turns in your direction.
"You heard the major, you signed the book. The task is yours. Four days. In four days, if we don't hear from you, then we'll assume yer dead or moved on to better things. Fair enough?"
He grabs the book and tucks it under one arm. "You can take an advance from your payment, if you wish, to purchase any gear you might need. One of you asked about a mule - that can be arranged, if you wish. In any event, we won't be advancing more than one hundred princes."
"I can give you an escort, if you'd like, for the first few miles. Our command doesn't extend beyond that. Regardless, I will be on the ridgeline at dawn. If you plan to pray, better do so tonight or before the sun comes up.
"May ye keep yer heads on yer shoulders."
With that, Wallach pushes through the crowd and walks out the Boots' doors. The mayor begins to quietly converse with Oggut, the half-orc bar keep, and a cluster of villagers.
The Druid's frown brings shivers to Magnus, their fearsome feral reputations preceding them. And this one was a girl at that. Magnus starts pacing slightly against the wall, wondering what he has got himself into. Was it the drink that gave him the courage to stand up and sign his name?
No, he had barely touched his ale this night. It could be poisoned, he thought. And, his usual dart game wasn't being played. All-around the creature had disturbed life. Everyone was talking about the bug-man, and what was to be done about it.
But he wasn't as worried about the dead creature as he was about what could have possibly killed it.
Funeris interrupted the silence. "Well, I suggest we take the guide, for as long as we can have them."
Although he had been silent for the majority of the night, content just to watch his now companions, Funeris spoke. He adjusted an annoying strand of hair that apparently longed to be eaten. Suicidal, as it were.
"We should also take the coin in advance at least to the limit they'll allow. And purchase any gear or items we'll need for this little adventure. Better it not come out of our own pockets, for mine are not deep."
With his piece said, Funeris whipped his great sword out deftly and began to polish it, trying to remove all of the caked mud.
Nimrodel casually flipped an errant strand of white hair from her cheek and considers.
She nods to Funeris' suggestion. "The advance should not be wasted. We could buy a few items we may need for our journey."
"Why don't we split up, get the gear we need, and meet on the ridge in the morning." Murmurs and nods noted acceptance and the group disbanded for the night.