Zoverai
First Post
Iron Kingdoms: Buried Treasure
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Introduction:
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The old man sat hunched over the table in the converted barn trying to get his precious scrolls in to semblance of order. All around him were men and women from various walks of life in Western Immoren and on a different evening the uncommon mix of patrons in the improvised tavern would have set his curiosity on fire. However, this night he was only interested in one thing and if he could just get the accursed scrolls to stack up neatly then he might make it out alive without getting set on fire himself or worse.
A small grey skinned creature the height of a child passed his table in the corner of the barn-cum-tavern and the old man was vaguely aware of it asking him what he wanted to drink. Snarling angrily at having yet another distraction the old man hissed at the over-worked gobber and sent it scurrying off back to the bar. "As Morrow is my witness", the old man exclaimed with an exasperated sigh, "if I do not finish the cataloging of these scrolls tonight then they will never end up in the right hands."
"Ah, worry not about it my Lord" said the grizzled veteran sitting on the opposite side of the table. "Me and the lads here will sort out any muckers that try to stick their oar in before all's well and dandy. There's some strange folk in this here cow shed, but we'll set them aright if trouble comes a knocking. When you're ready, just give us a shout and we'll parcel out them scrolls to your acquaintances."
The old man spared a brief glance at the retired soldier and rewarded him with a faint smile before turning once again to comparing the markings on the scrolls with the notes in his iron-bound tome. Within moments the old man became lost once again in his work, completely oblivious to his surroundings. He did not notice the retired soldier signal to several others around the tavern using a subtle sequence of hand gestures, nor was he aware of the wall of people that soon formed up in the corner of the barn chatting and drinking as if without a care in the world.
Across on the other side of the tavern a tall woman wearing long captain's boots, blue and purple stripped trousers and a Khadoran naval officer's jacket sat staring intently at the old man and his scrolls. She noticed that his corner of the barn was beginning to get more crowded and when her line of sight became obscured, a small frown marred her otherwise beautiful face. She tugged off the bandanna holding back her black wavy hair and began tapping her booted foot. The Ogrun standing nearby shifted nervously as he watched his mistress, keenly aware that she was showing signs of boredom and irritation. Whilst loosening the battle blade in its scabbard the Ogrun cast a wary eye over the other patrons in the barn and the massive warrior began a silent count down in his head waiting for the bloodshed to begin.
Two tables away a pair of dwarves sat engrossed in conversation. The older dwarf whose braided beard was streaked with grey nodded sagely as the younger and more colourfully dressed dwarf talked animatedly whilst waving his arms in the arm for added emphasis. The younger dwarf wore a broad rimmed hat with a purple feather stuck in the side and sported a brass belt buckle the size of a small shield. The older dwarf wore more somber colours and when he was not tugging on his beard, he was busy caressing the huge rune carved battle axe resting on his knees. Piled up next to their table were several large packs bound with thick rope, but none of the other patrons showed any interest in getting close to them.
Closer to the bar stood a group of Trollkin arguing and joking loudly as they downed one pint after the next. One of their cadres was a head shorter than the others and his skin was much paler. With a tankard of ale in one hand and brandishing an antique gun in the other hand, the young Trollkin was trying to impress his comrades with tales of his recent escapades. Whilst many of them were listening avidly and clapping him on the back, one of the other Trollkin who had a large wrench resting on his shoulder was trying to peer over the crowd at the old man and his scrolls in the corner.
When a burly sailor staggered past on the way to the bar and pushed the wrench wielding Trollkin roughly aside the others all fell silent and glared at the drunken sea dog. The man gathered his wits for long enough to mutter a hurried apology, before he staggered off to the other end of the bar. The fat gobber serving at behind the bar had just handed over a tray of tankards to one of the serving wenches when he witnessed the narrowly avoided confrontation between the drunken sailor and the Trollkins.
The fat gobber mopped his brow with a dirty rag and let out a heavy sigh of relief that ended rather abruptly when he glimpsed a Satyxis sneak in to the barn. The horned woman wore a cloak to disguise some of her alluring features and appeared to be trying to keep a low profile, but when the fat gobber heard several of the other gobbers let out wolf whistles he knew that trouble was mere moments away. Grabbing a wooden spoon and metal hammer he began tapping out a rhythm on a couple of metal pans and washboard as he tried to match the foot stamping of the woman with her Ogrun bodyguard.
Shortly after the fat gobber had started the Trollkin standing close to the bar hushed their raucous banter and laughter to pause to listen to the drumming coming from behind the bar. As if a blanket of silence had been draped over the previously noisy tavern, the other patrons in the barn stopped talking as well leaving only the fat gobber and the booted woman making any sound over the noise of distant waves crashing against the beach. She stopped tapping her foot immediately and her Ogrun bodyguard let out a low threatening rumble in his chest. Just as the bodyguard was about to make a move towards the bar one of the other gobbers began hammering on a beer barrel with a spanner, matching the rhythm coming from behind the bar. When a third and fourth gobber joined in with improvised instruments of their own, a murmur of suspicion carried through the crowd.
Several long and tense moments passed as the gobbers carried on with their percussion music that many of the patrons began to recognize as an adaptation of a famous pirate jig. The booted woman smiled when she recognized it too and took up tapping her foot once again to match the music. With a roar of joy one of the Trollkin began an energetic shuffling dance that caused a number of the humans nearby to back off in surprise. The other Trollkin began clapping to the beat and when the younger dwarf with the broad hat pulled out a flute to play along, the older dwarf got up to join the Trollkin in his dance.
The spontaneous music that sprung up from behind the bar and was carried around the large barn appeared to leap from one patron to the next infecting each one with a desire to join in with the music. The only person who seemed unaffected was the old man who was too engrossed in his scrolls to notice his surroundings. The woman who had been tapping her foot got up from her chair and began stamping out a rhythmic pattern of beats and accents that took the music to the next level. A great big cheer went up from the crowd as the rhythm picked up its pace and the fat gobber hit the beat with all his heart.
Suddenly the barn doors exploded inwards and as a rain of splinters and shattered planks fell on to the crowd accompanied with the stench of an open grave billowing in to the tavern. When the dust began to settle a tall cloaked figure materialized within the doorway that drew back its hood with a rotting hand. The metallic rasp of blades being drawn from scabbards could be heard from within the crowd as the undead creature lifted its head to gaze with pin pricks of green light in its ruined eye sockets at the startled and angry patrons. The joyous atmosphere created by the music and laughter had evaporated within an instant to be replaced with one of grim anticipation and fear.
“Someone,” began the walking corpse as it spoke in a deep voice that seemed to emanate from beneath the ground. “Someone forgot to invite us to the party.” Numerous other undead could be made out through the hazy fog as they marched up from the beach towards the barn at the edge of the smuggler’s town. The pale light of the moons cast an eerie light across the bay and the undead seemed to rise from beneath the waves of fog and water carrying rusted swords and axes.
“No!” shouted the old man as he came to his senses. “No, no, no!” He repeated hysterically as he began to frantically gather the parchments strewn across the table.
“Yes,” the undead apparition chuckled in reply as its lips stretched in to a rictus grin. From beneath its cloak the creature grabbed a small black skull and flung it across the barn in a high arc. The black skull left a trail of stinking ash and the flying incendiary caused the crowd to leap in to action. The veteran jumped on to a chair to try to intercept the skull, but he was knocked aside as the younger dwarf rushed to the side of his older companion. The Trollkin roared as one and charged towards the entranceway and the approaching undead horde. Caught up by the rush many of the humans joined in and when the old sea god shouted: “To the ships!” The charge became a stampede.
Just then the skull struck the old man and a cloud of black choking necrotite ash filled the barn plunging all in to darkness. The old man’s death wail was cut off mid-way as his body broke apart in to a tangle of dry skin and bones. Tables and chair were knocked over in the rush to flee from the barn and fires erupted along the walls. The neatly stacked scrolls were flung up in to the air, but few paid it any mind as they charged out of the barn towards the bay where their ships had been moored only hours before. “To the ships!” the sea dog shouted again as he was trampled by the crowd surging through the broken entranceway.
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Introduction:
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The old man sat hunched over the table in the converted barn trying to get his precious scrolls in to semblance of order. All around him were men and women from various walks of life in Western Immoren and on a different evening the uncommon mix of patrons in the improvised tavern would have set his curiosity on fire. However, this night he was only interested in one thing and if he could just get the accursed scrolls to stack up neatly then he might make it out alive without getting set on fire himself or worse.
A small grey skinned creature the height of a child passed his table in the corner of the barn-cum-tavern and the old man was vaguely aware of it asking him what he wanted to drink. Snarling angrily at having yet another distraction the old man hissed at the over-worked gobber and sent it scurrying off back to the bar. "As Morrow is my witness", the old man exclaimed with an exasperated sigh, "if I do not finish the cataloging of these scrolls tonight then they will never end up in the right hands."
"Ah, worry not about it my Lord" said the grizzled veteran sitting on the opposite side of the table. "Me and the lads here will sort out any muckers that try to stick their oar in before all's well and dandy. There's some strange folk in this here cow shed, but we'll set them aright if trouble comes a knocking. When you're ready, just give us a shout and we'll parcel out them scrolls to your acquaintances."
The old man spared a brief glance at the retired soldier and rewarded him with a faint smile before turning once again to comparing the markings on the scrolls with the notes in his iron-bound tome. Within moments the old man became lost once again in his work, completely oblivious to his surroundings. He did not notice the retired soldier signal to several others around the tavern using a subtle sequence of hand gestures, nor was he aware of the wall of people that soon formed up in the corner of the barn chatting and drinking as if without a care in the world.
Across on the other side of the tavern a tall woman wearing long captain's boots, blue and purple stripped trousers and a Khadoran naval officer's jacket sat staring intently at the old man and his scrolls. She noticed that his corner of the barn was beginning to get more crowded and when her line of sight became obscured, a small frown marred her otherwise beautiful face. She tugged off the bandanna holding back her black wavy hair and began tapping her booted foot. The Ogrun standing nearby shifted nervously as he watched his mistress, keenly aware that she was showing signs of boredom and irritation. Whilst loosening the battle blade in its scabbard the Ogrun cast a wary eye over the other patrons in the barn and the massive warrior began a silent count down in his head waiting for the bloodshed to begin.
Two tables away a pair of dwarves sat engrossed in conversation. The older dwarf whose braided beard was streaked with grey nodded sagely as the younger and more colourfully dressed dwarf talked animatedly whilst waving his arms in the arm for added emphasis. The younger dwarf wore a broad rimmed hat with a purple feather stuck in the side and sported a brass belt buckle the size of a small shield. The older dwarf wore more somber colours and when he was not tugging on his beard, he was busy caressing the huge rune carved battle axe resting on his knees. Piled up next to their table were several large packs bound with thick rope, but none of the other patrons showed any interest in getting close to them.
Closer to the bar stood a group of Trollkin arguing and joking loudly as they downed one pint after the next. One of their cadres was a head shorter than the others and his skin was much paler. With a tankard of ale in one hand and brandishing an antique gun in the other hand, the young Trollkin was trying to impress his comrades with tales of his recent escapades. Whilst many of them were listening avidly and clapping him on the back, one of the other Trollkin who had a large wrench resting on his shoulder was trying to peer over the crowd at the old man and his scrolls in the corner.
When a burly sailor staggered past on the way to the bar and pushed the wrench wielding Trollkin roughly aside the others all fell silent and glared at the drunken sea dog. The man gathered his wits for long enough to mutter a hurried apology, before he staggered off to the other end of the bar. The fat gobber serving at behind the bar had just handed over a tray of tankards to one of the serving wenches when he witnessed the narrowly avoided confrontation between the drunken sailor and the Trollkins.
The fat gobber mopped his brow with a dirty rag and let out a heavy sigh of relief that ended rather abruptly when he glimpsed a Satyxis sneak in to the barn. The horned woman wore a cloak to disguise some of her alluring features and appeared to be trying to keep a low profile, but when the fat gobber heard several of the other gobbers let out wolf whistles he knew that trouble was mere moments away. Grabbing a wooden spoon and metal hammer he began tapping out a rhythm on a couple of metal pans and washboard as he tried to match the foot stamping of the woman with her Ogrun bodyguard.
Shortly after the fat gobber had started the Trollkin standing close to the bar hushed their raucous banter and laughter to pause to listen to the drumming coming from behind the bar. As if a blanket of silence had been draped over the previously noisy tavern, the other patrons in the barn stopped talking as well leaving only the fat gobber and the booted woman making any sound over the noise of distant waves crashing against the beach. She stopped tapping her foot immediately and her Ogrun bodyguard let out a low threatening rumble in his chest. Just as the bodyguard was about to make a move towards the bar one of the other gobbers began hammering on a beer barrel with a spanner, matching the rhythm coming from behind the bar. When a third and fourth gobber joined in with improvised instruments of their own, a murmur of suspicion carried through the crowd.
Several long and tense moments passed as the gobbers carried on with their percussion music that many of the patrons began to recognize as an adaptation of a famous pirate jig. The booted woman smiled when she recognized it too and took up tapping her foot once again to match the music. With a roar of joy one of the Trollkin began an energetic shuffling dance that caused a number of the humans nearby to back off in surprise. The other Trollkin began clapping to the beat and when the younger dwarf with the broad hat pulled out a flute to play along, the older dwarf got up to join the Trollkin in his dance.
The spontaneous music that sprung up from behind the bar and was carried around the large barn appeared to leap from one patron to the next infecting each one with a desire to join in with the music. The only person who seemed unaffected was the old man who was too engrossed in his scrolls to notice his surroundings. The woman who had been tapping her foot got up from her chair and began stamping out a rhythmic pattern of beats and accents that took the music to the next level. A great big cheer went up from the crowd as the rhythm picked up its pace and the fat gobber hit the beat with all his heart.
Suddenly the barn doors exploded inwards and as a rain of splinters and shattered planks fell on to the crowd accompanied with the stench of an open grave billowing in to the tavern. When the dust began to settle a tall cloaked figure materialized within the doorway that drew back its hood with a rotting hand. The metallic rasp of blades being drawn from scabbards could be heard from within the crowd as the undead creature lifted its head to gaze with pin pricks of green light in its ruined eye sockets at the startled and angry patrons. The joyous atmosphere created by the music and laughter had evaporated within an instant to be replaced with one of grim anticipation and fear.
“Someone,” began the walking corpse as it spoke in a deep voice that seemed to emanate from beneath the ground. “Someone forgot to invite us to the party.” Numerous other undead could be made out through the hazy fog as they marched up from the beach towards the barn at the edge of the smuggler’s town. The pale light of the moons cast an eerie light across the bay and the undead seemed to rise from beneath the waves of fog and water carrying rusted swords and axes.
“No!” shouted the old man as he came to his senses. “No, no, no!” He repeated hysterically as he began to frantically gather the parchments strewn across the table.
“Yes,” the undead apparition chuckled in reply as its lips stretched in to a rictus grin. From beneath its cloak the creature grabbed a small black skull and flung it across the barn in a high arc. The black skull left a trail of stinking ash and the flying incendiary caused the crowd to leap in to action. The veteran jumped on to a chair to try to intercept the skull, but he was knocked aside as the younger dwarf rushed to the side of his older companion. The Trollkin roared as one and charged towards the entranceway and the approaching undead horde. Caught up by the rush many of the humans joined in and when the old sea god shouted: “To the ships!” The charge became a stampede.
Just then the skull struck the old man and a cloud of black choking necrotite ash filled the barn plunging all in to darkness. The old man’s death wail was cut off mid-way as his body broke apart in to a tangle of dry skin and bones. Tables and chair were knocked over in the rush to flee from the barn and fires erupted along the walls. The neatly stacked scrolls were flung up in to the air, but few paid it any mind as they charged out of the barn towards the bay where their ships had been moored only hours before. “To the ships!” the sea dog shouted again as he was trampled by the crowd surging through the broken entranceway.
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