Middle World/Lakelands 1: Main Group

[Raven Crowking]

Thirteenth Game

They woke in the morning. After breaking their fast, they went into the market to sell some of the extra equipment the party had acquired. Manveru and Eden also wanted to see if the amber beads they had recovered from the ancient tomb near the Serpent Vale had any value.

In the Lower Market, Desu found himself browsing near a half-orc. Dressed as a priest of Amatheon, the other heavy muscles and a low brow that seemed reminiscent of Krog. “Pardon me,” Desu said, “but you have a familiar look. Are you any relation to the Zandos?”

“I am Gork Zando.”

“I was a friend of Krog Zando.”

“Krog! He is my brother! Tell me how he fares!”

“Alas,” said Desu, “but Krog is dead. He was torn to pieces by wolves, though he fought valiantly. In the end, Krog found something too mighty for even his appetite.”

When Desu returned to the North Road Inn, he discovered that others of his company had met with an elf, Gammon Oakleaf by name, who claimed to be a friend of Darwin Ravenshield. It was soon decided that Gammon and Krog could join with the group, taking the place of those who had departed.

They were uncertain what to do next. Some wanted to travel again to Selby-by-the-Water. Gammon wished to pay his respects to Darwin, who rested in the Dry Catacombs there. Desu wanted to go north to those caves known as the Dragon’s Lair. The tentacled creature he had met therein had struck his fancy, and he wished to meet it again.

“But we need to rest,” said Manveru, “and to recover our strength, ere we seek another adventure.”

It was agreed. Gork and Locke went fishing upon the Selwyn River that day. With good fortune, they caught a sturgeon heavier than either of them. On the 17th of Showermont, Gammon went to Caer Selwyn, the Baron’s Keep in Long Archer, to see if there was any task that might be accomplished, but he was rebuffed by the guards posted there, for the Open Court was held upon Mardays.

Nift thought that he could do better, and tried the Keep on the 18th, which was a Sunday. As with Gammon, he was told to await the Open Court. That night, and for the next few nights, Nift played in the North Road Inn, ostensibly to defray the cost of his stay, but he was off on both Sunday and Marsday. Thankfully, on the Hearthday his playing and songs were very well received indeed, and Nift was told that he would be welcome to play again at the North Road Inn.

Neither Gammon nor Nift attended the Open Court that week, where the Lord Baron Archer heard many tales of orcish depredations from forester and farmer alike. Travelers claimed that the orcs were becoming more warlike. Merchants had been attacked along the roads east and north.

That Landsday, it was not long before the group discovered a notice posted in several places along the stalls of both Upper and Lower marketplaces. It read:

By Order of Lord Karl
Archer, Baron of Long Archer,
Protector of the Dale of Selwyn:

Let it be known that Orcs once more threaten forestry and
homesteading beyond the walls of Long Archer Town.
Travelers are herby given notice to be wary.

A bounty has been placed on Orcs – half a gold crown per
ear, to be presented through the Chancellery of the Exchequer
each Marday at the Oak Pavilion in the Lower Market.

Orcs and those with Orcish blood are hereby restricted from
entering the Town Gates during hours of darkness, or being
abroad during hours of darkness, upon pain of imprisonment
or death.

Signed this day, Being the 21st day of
Showermont in the Common Year 421

Lord Calder Brookman

Provost of the Baron’s Forest​

​

Gork seemed sorely puzzled by what he was seeing. “What does this mean?” the half-orc asked aloud. “Do I have to leave town?”

“It means that you cannot be abroad at night,” Desu told him. “You may otherwise stay in the town.”

“Oh,” said Gork. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Locke confirmed. “We should go orc hunting. No offense, Gork.”

“None taken.” Gork seemed rather enthused by the idea. “We should get a cart. And a donkey.”

“We could pretend that we were travelers on the road,” Desu added. “That may well draw out our prey.”

With a plan in mind, they went back into the Lower Market to purchase equipment. With donkey and cart in tow, they exited the North Gate before the third hour after noon had passed.

There were still foresters out harvesting trees north of Long Archer, but there were fewer than normal, and those were accompanied by contingents of guards. The guards scrutinized the group – Gork in particular – as they passed, but clearly did not see them as a threat. It took three hours to get well beyond the guarded areas, and into places where orcs might be more easily encountered.

Indeed, it did not take long once they had entered true wilderness, for the north road was watched. A group of six orcs with greataxes came silently through the trees. In that desperate combat, the silence of the orcs was uncanny.

“Why won’t they speak?” yelled Locke.

“Their tongues must be cut out!” Desu yelled back.

That proved not to be the case. When they examined the dead orcs, they saw that their tongues were intact, though tongue and gums were stained a dark blue hue.

“Zurgâsh,” said Gork.

“What do you mean?”

“Zurgâsh. Blue fire. It is a drug that enhances rage, but those who take it become mute. For a time, at least.”

“I have heard something of this,” Nift said, “though I had heard it called dumbwode instead. It is said that orcs keep it in clay pots to bolster their guards and warriors. That is why orcish guards oft rely upon gongs, bells, drums, or similar devices, though they may be enraged, or lack the wisdom to use them. For, while if dumbwode prevents speech, it is said also to have other, long-term effects upon those who use it. They are said to grow foolish and weak of will, throwing their lives away without fear or remorse. As were these.” He indicated the orcs they had slain.

Quickly, then, they cut the armor off the orcs and piled it into their cart. They then gathered the orcs’ weapons, and began the process of cutting the ears from the dead. This seemed to cause Gork no discomfort – indeed, he participated in it.

They were nearly done when yet more orcs set upon them. Some of these bore short bows while others bore greataxes. The leader, one of the bowmen, had several clay pots upon his person, from which he scooped a greyish paste that he distributed among the axemen while the archers engaged. The axe weilders took a portion each, chewed it, and spat out what remained. Now silently, they rushed raging into the party.

That second battle in the forest was even more desperate than the first, for the party was already wounded, and the archers posed an additional challenge. At last, though, the group succeeded in slaying their foes. Again they despoiled the bodies. And, once more, as they finished, they heard something coming toward them through the brush.

Locke turned and drew forth his greatsword. “If this be another battle,” he said, “we are through.”

The party prepared tensely, but the thing that came through the trees was larger than any orc….

 

[Raven Crowking]

Fourteenth Session

The party drew weapons and prepared to fight, expecting another contingent of zurgâsh-taking orcs. It became quickly clear that the thing making its way through the trees was larger than any orc. Nearly eight feet tall and shaped like a young willow tree, the being had supple bark for skin and long leafy stands instead of hair. As the party scrambled back, it began to sing softly, and the song soothed them. They calmed, and sheathed their weapons.

“A treant,” said Desu. “Who are you?”

“I am Longfall the Windsinger,” the creature replied, its voice the calm sound of the wind through the willows. “If you are enemies of these” – it swept one long arm toward the despoiled bodies of the orcs, where they still lay upon the battlefield “ – then I say to you that I fear greater evil is abroad than it now seems. Pixies I have found decapitated and piled in the forest, and where their heads are I do not know, but it would take a being of vile evil to do such a deed.”

“Do you have an idea who might be responsible?”

“I do not know with certainty for all things, but seek the the Bonewardens. Eastward beyond the Alder Stream they dwell.” It swept one long arm east.

“Very well,” said Locke. “We will look for these Bonewardens.”

“Thank you,” said Desu. “We need to return now, or Gork will not be let past the town gates.”

They took their leave of Longfall the Windsinger, who was already striding away, north and west – the direction from which the orcs had come. Hurrying back toward Long Archer, they made the North Gate, and the North Road Inn only just in time.

In the morning, they sold the orcs’ armor and weapons in the markets, though being orc-make, they did not command a generous price. They tried to turn in the orc ears, but it was Smithsday, and the Chancellor of the Eschquor was not at the Oak Pavillion.

They considered waiting the four days, but Locke said, “Let us just go and seek out the Bonewardens.”

In the Lakelands, travel by ship was often deemed by men to be superior to travel on foot. Now they learned the obvious truth of that suposition. Even on the often-used roads neares Long Archer, they found the going slow and hard. Often, they were forced to help push the cart out of a rut, for it had rained somewhat of late, and the road was muddy.

Unbeknown to the travelers, there lived in that area a witch who called herself Dame Gretel. Indeed, Desu and Locke had met that witch earlier that year, though they did not then recognize her for what she was, and at her behest they fought an ogre and his son. When those creatures fled, Desu had returned a reluctant donkey to the witch, and received what he believed to be turnips in return. They were not turnips, but had been glamored to appear so by the witch.

When they fought the ogre then, it had been wounded. The witch had killed its mate. Rather than allow its son to be killed, it had fled. The pair had survived by raiding farms along the edges of the wilderness. That night, they saw the fire of the party’s campfire, and came to take what they could. Whether or not they recognized Locke and Desu would never be known, for they were swiftly cut down, and the leathern sack containing their loot was thrown onto the party’s cart.

The next day was foggy, and the group traveled enshrouded in damp mist. As evening approached, a phantom – a grey lady, seemingly made of fog – came from the shadowed mists. Her cold touch seemed to damage them, although it made no perceptible wound save a white mark like frostbite. They tried to prepare with her, but the grey lady glided through the mist like a wind, touching and retreating before a return blow could land.

Gork stood away from the group, and raised a wooden disc inscribed with an oak tree and crossed sheaves of grain – the holy symbol of Amatheon. “Begone, foul being, back to the Pit from whence you came!”

The phantom glided forward again, laying her freezing caress along Locke’s shoulder.

“Very well!” growled Gork. “If you will not obey me, I shall send you to the pit myself!” As the phantom swept by, Gork stepped in with his scythe, cutting through the phantom in his holy fervor. Although the grey lady was seemingly made of mist, her mouth opened wide with surprise, and her form broke up into the fog.

“Well done, Gork,” said Nift.

Gork grunted. “Now, perhaps, we will be able to find a place to sleep. I could use a quiet night.”

That night was not destined to be quiet. During his watch, Nift heard something rummaging in their cart. Creeping quietly to the area, he saw that a skunk had found one of their bags. With its sharp claws and teeth, the skunk had ripped a hole into the leather bag, and was eating something within. In truth, it had found a hunk of hard, moldy cheese. It had been in the ogre’s sack, which they had failed to check.

Nift tried to speak to the skunk in the beast tongues that he knew. This was not unwise, for he had already encountered a fox that could talk, and the shadowy wolves of the river ruin could speak as well. However, this seemed to be nothing more than an ordinary skunk.

Nift tried to shoo the skunk away. It turned, facing him. It stamped its front feet aggressively – an action which a druid or ranger would have interpreted as a warning. When Nift continued to try to shoo it away, it turned and raised its tail.

Nift fled…but not far. He went to his piled gear and retrieved his crossbow. Loading it, he took careful aim at the skunk and fired. He succeeded in killing the skunk, but at terrible cost. The skunk released its musk as it died. The spray caught the cart and the goods piled within it, befouling them with its odor. Even throwing the skunk’s body into the bushes did little good.

Within two hours, forest ants began to arrive. These were large ants – each as large as a small dog, at about two feet in length, colored a reddish brown hue. Perhaps attracted by the skunk smell, they attacked with pincers and stinger, holding fast and stinging repeatedly. When the second wave of ants was defeated, the group hurriedly packed up their camp and moved.

Luckily, it was nearly dawn. Manveru, who had taken to riding in the cart and traveling on the efforts of the donkey’s labor, chose instead to walk.

 

[Raven Crowking]

Fifteenth Game

The road continued to travel more or less eastward, taking the easiest way around hills or outcrops of bare stone. The group was averaging about 16 miles a day when they kept moving – faster than some of the heavily laden peasants and farmers they passed, but slower than the occasional mounted rider who passed them.

Much of the land they were passing through had been clear-cut for farming, and there were places where sheep or goats grazed. The farmhouses were thick-walled with narrow windows. Despite these fortifications, they saw signs of violence – burned farmhouses and the charred remains of orcs and men.

It was cold in the morning. They pushed forward anyway, letting the motion of walking warm them.

Around midday, the clouds grew heavy, and by late afternoon the first fat drops fell from the sky, accompanied by a roll of thunder. They could see an old farmhouse ahead – sound looking, but seemingly deserted. Away from the road behind it was a wide well, capped with stone. Bits of bright cloth fluttered like banners from a thorn tree overlooking the well.

While some of the group huddled near the cart, Locke and Desu went to fill their waterskins at the well. Laying on the well’s stone lid was a silver comb, which Desu took. The stone lid was difficult to push open, but when they had managed it, they filled their skins and bottles. The well water seemed cool and clear, forming a pool that they could easily reach. The stone lid had obviously kept the water fresh.

As Desu watched, what looked like a severed head floated to the surface, rolled over, and submerged again.

“Maybe I won’t be drinking that water after all,” he said.

While they had been examining the well, the rain and wind had abated somewhat, but now it grew stronger yet, presenting a danger to Desu’s animal companions. They decided to hazard the farmhouse.

It was a simple, two-room affair with a wooden floor. The roof leaked a little, but not too much, and rats had taken to nesting in the thatching. There was a jumble of old furniture – mostly broken, but enough to make the house reasonably comfortable.

They used some of the broken pieces to make a fire in the grate. The fireplace flue was not completely clear, and some of the smoke came back into the room, curling about the ceiling and making the air a little thick. They were just getting comfortable when the door opened, and a half-orc stepped in.

The group looked up, startled. “Who are you?” asked Nift.

“Forgive me,” the intruder replied. “It is wet out, and I saw the signs of your fire. I am Firestar Dragonwing, paladin of Mardan and Odnasept.”

“Mardan I know,” said Gork. “Who – or what – is Odnasept?”

“Odnasept is the combination of all dragon deities into one perfection of being, the Creator of Worlds, Serpent of Beginning and End, the Infinite Dragon, the Great Unity. Odnasept is a champion of law and good, and a friend to the Seven Good Gods.”

Gork grunted. He knew well that the world had been created by the battle between the Elder Gods and the Great Titans. Odnasept sounded like an aspect of the Beast Lord of Reptiles to him. Nor had he ever heard of a half-orc who was a paladin. Such things simply did not occur in the world he knew. Still, this Firestar seemed decent enough.

Soon, they were talking as old friends. The group learned that Firestar was the product of a rape. His father was an orcish chieftain, and his mother a Lakashi woman. He was traveling from Long Archer, looking for deeds to accomplish. Locke explained that the group had been asked to seek out the Bonewardens, and thus end the current threat caused by orcs in that area.

The connection wasn’t really clear. “We were given the mission by a talking bush,” Locke explained. “Of course, I am a follower of Badur, Judge of the Dead, which would seem to make me a Bonewarden myself.” He shrugged. “We shall see when we find them, I guess.”

When the thundershower stopped, less than an hour later, the entire party – now including Firestar – went back to the well. They wished to see for themselves the severed head that Desu had reported.

As they watched, the head floated to the surface of the water. It’s long golden hair was matted about the face, and the flesh was half calcified. It appeared to be a young warrior of perhaps twenty winters, comely once, but now bloated and hideous.

“I’m definitely not drinking that water,” Desu said. Both he and Locke began emptying their skins. There were small streams enough near the road.

The decapitated head’s eyes opened, and he spoke:

“Wash me, Comb me, Pleat my golden hair.
Lay me gently on the green bank to dry.”​

“The comb!” Desu cried, retrieving it quickly. He pulled the severed head up out of the well and began trying to pull the comb through its wet and matted hair. At last, when Desu deemed the job was done, he set the head on the green bank to dry. Though the grass was wet, the sun had come out again.

“The red haired lad can never eat his fill,” the head said, “but feed him enough and he’ll be a friend to thee.”

“What?” said Eden.

“Hurm,” said the head.

“Did he say Hrum?” asked Nift, who was familiar with the group’s history.

Another head rose – this one even more hideous than the first. “Wash me, comb me, pleat my golden hair,” this head said. “Lay me gently on the green bank to dry.”

“That is my brother, Beorn,” the first head said. “And he is harder to please than I.”

Desu again tried to groom the head to its liking, but this head was not so easily satisfied. When Desu placed it on the bank, it caught its reflection in the well and flew into a rage.

“You have left my cheeks all blotted with mud! May dirt fall in your eyes ‘til a beggar gives you alms!”

No sooner was the curse spoken than it occurred. Desu found himself half-blinded with dirt and soot. Quickly, Nift stepped forward and began complimenting the head’s appearance. After a time, the head stopped frowning, and retracted its curse. As Desu’s vision cleared, it spoke: “Knock on the house of bone, but enter not. He who dwells there would sell his soul for a drop of the good red wine, had he a soul to sell. He will try to give you many a treasure, but hold fast ‘til he gives you the stick he keeps behind his door.”

The second head looked up at Nift. “The three brothers that dwelt in that house had a sword wondrously sharp. Watch the first rat you see. Reach without fear into the hole it chooses, and you’ll draw forth the blade.”

“Excellent!” said Eden greedily, and she ran into the house with Nift. Each saw a different rat; each rat ran into a different hole. As Nift drew out a keen longsword, cunningly wrought, Eden hesitated. “I was not addressed,” she said, “and something bad will no doubt happen unless I master my greed.”

Nift approached Firestar, and presented the blade to him.

“It is too large for me,” Nift said. “I deem it will be put to better use in your hands.”

“I thank you,” said Firestar. “This is indeed a princely gift.”

By this time, the third head had arisen, and it was more terrible than the first two put together – not only had this warrior been decapitated, but also his skull had been split wide.

“That is our brother, Glam-Morgan,” the other two heads said. “And he is the most difficult of us all.”

“Wash me, Comb me, Pleat my golden hair.
Lay me gently on the green bank to dry.”​

Again, the head was displeased with Desu’s ministrations, though Manveru did his best to help Desu groom the head.

“You have plaited my hair too tight on the left and too loose on the right!” Glam-Morgan’s head complained, referring to the sides where his head was split. “May your hand be struck with palsy whenever you draw blade, ‘til the tears of a saint washes it away!”

Now, this was not a terrible curse for either Manveru or Desu, who tended to use non-bladed weapons. Nonetheless, again Nift was able to charm the head into retracting its curse. Indeed, he was able to make the head quite jolly. It offered them advice.

“Fear not to pay thy debts, though the aspect of the collector be terrible to behold. That which you are bound to do is that which you must do.” The head then turned to Nift. “Wait by the hanged man where the crossroads meet. When the raven plucks out its right eye, grab quickly that which falls to the ground.”

They could see neither crossroads nor hanged man in the immediate vicinity. When questioned, the heads would say nothing more, save “Hurm” from the first head, “Hum” from the second, and “Hoom” from the third. The heads lay drying on the bank, enjoying the sunshine, until Desu stuck his hand into Glam-Morgan’s split skull. Then they all hopped back into the well. Glam-Morgan’s skull squeezed tight, and he nearly pulled Desu in to drown.

The group continued on their way.

They were now moving into wilder lands. The farmhouses and woodsman’s cots became fewer and farther between. Still, the road was good, as it was often maintained at the command of the Baron Archer.

In the late afternoon, they came across a contingent of six orcs, well armed and strong, with pots of zurgâsh and bows. For a few tense moments, the two groups stood their ground, choosing their positions.

“We do not wish to fight you,” Firestar said in the Dark Tongue. “Step aside, and we will be on our way. Or better yet, do you know of the Bonewardens?”

The orc lieutenant passed out dabs of grey paste to the warriors. The orc captain stepped forward. “What is your business with the Bonewardens?” he asked with narrowed eyes.

“We are seeking them.”

The orc captain sized up the respective might of his troops, and of those they faced. “All who would pass here must pay a toll,” he said at last.

“Really?” said Locke. “And what do you expect us to pay?”

The orc captain began to answer, but at that moment their attention was drawn to the sound of two boars crashing through the woods to the north, toward their position. They were huge, ancient creatures. Their massed muscles were pulled over a frames more the size of black bears than boars. Their tusks were long and wickedly sharp. Spikes of bone protruded from their skulls, protecting their mean little eyes.

Desu reached into the Green. Around the boars, the vegetation came to life, twisting around their limbs, restraining them. But the boars were too strong. They pulled against the entangling foliage. Their charge was slowed, but not stopped.

Other feuds were, for the moment, forgotten. The natural fury of the beasts made them a common foe. The orcish archers stepped back, and began firing upon the boars, but the orcish warriors enraged by zurgâsh charged foolishly toward the foe, and were snared by vine and fern. The stronger boar pushed easily toward the orcs, and sliced them to ribbons while they tried to bring their axes to bear. One orcish warrior went flying into a tree, and moved no more.

Still, the orc archers were able to send arrows into the large animals. As often as not, though, they glanced off – or broke upon – the boars’ tough hides. The adventurers, the orc captain, and the lieutenant prepared to meet the creatures as they arrived. One of the boars charged into the cart, killing the donkey. With Gork leading the attack, the adventurers cut into the first boar while the second decimated the orcs. With the first boar slain, they turned their attention to the second, and were able to slay it as well, for it had been heavily wounded by the orcs.

Only one orc – one of the archers – remained standing. He looked at the adventuring party. They were sorely wounded, but they were all standing. It was not difficult to imagine how he would fare in combat against them.

“You have proved your valour in combat,” the orc said. “You may go forward without paying a toll.”

 

[Raven Crowking]

“You have proved your valor in combat,” the orc said, speaking in the Dark Tongue. “You may go forward without paying a toll.”

The group looked at him in surprise.

“You think so?” said Gork, answering in the same language.

“I am Ragmar of the Black Skull tribe. I am only a soldier – I do not ask why I fight; only who, and what spoils are mine. I do not beg quarter. I am an enemy of your people. You will do what you must. I only ask, come one at a time, and let us dance a while before the final darkness.”

“We aren’t going to kill you,” said Firestar. “Leave this area, harming none, and you are free to go.”

The orc, Ragmar, blinked. “Truly?” When the party seemed to make no move to attack him, he lowered his weapon. “Then I will tell you this: I have no love for the Bonewardens you seek. They are found beyond the river…” he waved back the way he had come “…and to the north. They are deep in the councils of our chieftains, yet I fear it is unwise to trust in them. They drag down the honor of our people.”

“I hope you don’t mind if we cut off these orcs’ ears,” Locke said.

Ragmar shrugged. “Not if you treat the fallen with honor. We also despoil the bodies of those we defeat, but thereafter they should be buried or burned, that their spirits may descend to Morgâsh.” Orcs believed that their dark gods created the Fortress of Morgâsh to harden their spirits with dark fire until the end of time, when, led by demons, they would assail the heavens and throw them down in the final battle of the world.

The slain orcs had three short bows between them and a total of twenty-seven arrows remaining. They had five great axes and five suits of scale mail. One of the orcs had been carrying a clay pot of zurgâsh – there were five doses remaining. These the party took, along with the orcs’ ears, throwing the spoils onto their cart. Each orc also had a bundle containing food for three days (some form of greasy grey meat and rough bread), a wineskin filled with a pungent elixir (an alcohol of fermented mushrooms and meat, called morwine), and a bedroll. These the party left to be burned along with the orcs’ bodies.

Ragmar took a drink from his own bottle. It was very easy to get drunk with morwine, but it also removed fatigue and made one feel the pain of his wounds less.

They left Ragmar to mourn his companions in whatever manner he chose. When they finally rested that night, the reddish-brown forest ants again attacked them, during the second and third watches of the night.

“This is going to keep happening until we do something about the skunk stink,” said Desu.

In the morning, they woke up and began to break camp, pausing only long enough to eat something and pack their goods. Although they were growing accustomed to it, the smell of skunk still lingered on their cart and equipment, and may have at least been partly responsible for drawing creatures like the dire boars and the giant ants to them, as Desu had supposed. Skunk spray could linger for weeks, or even months, and they feared that they were destined to have some exciting times ahead!

In any event, they were quickly packed and moving.

At last they were passing away from the areas that had been cleared for timber and farmland. As you moved into the deeper forest, two great trees formed an arch over the road, as though to mark the boundary between settled lands and the wilderness. It was moving toward evening, but not yet twilight.

At various places along true roads in the Lakelands – such as that which they followed – travelers’ caches had been created to aid the desperate wanderer in the wild. These could be recognized as tall cairns of stone, often containing necessary supplies within them. These were free for the use of any who needed them, but it was incumbent upon travelers to make up for any loss at a later date.

Indeed, when travelers found an empty cairn they were responsible for leaving supplies if they could – for the untamed wilderness was vast and unexpected needs arose. These cairns were maintained by all, for the good of all, as a matter of honor and necessity. Typically, they contained a knife, blankets, and the means to create fire as a bare minimum.

They were also sureties that travelers were on the right road. The party sought sign of such a cairn as they traveled through the wilderness, but there seemed to be none.

After traveling for a few hours, they noticed that the new-budded leaves of spring had become thick and green, and there were blossoms in some of the trees. Although it was the cusp of nightfall, the air was still warm and sweetly scented. They occasionally catch glimpses of hidden forms darting among the tree branches – tiny humanoids, clad in leaf and moss, with or without tiny dragonfly wings. The occasional tittering reached their ears.

As true twilight came, the path – for the road had become a path – took them to a clearing where they could easily make camp.

Manveru looked about at the trees, and found a thicket of thorn trees beside the camp. He had the power, as a druid, to step into the Green and pass through such areas without harm. He wished to meditate without distraction, so now he used this power, stepping off the path into the thorny thicket, and disappeared from sight.

Soon after Manveru had gone, the rest of the group was approached by a slender gnome with ruddy skin and curly red hair that seemed to move as though by a breeze. He was dressed in red breeches and a bright yellow jacket. He wore no armor, but they could see a sickle hanging from his belt.

“Who are you?” they asked.

“You may call me Bryne of Lig,” the small man said. “Have you any food to share with a weary traveler?”

“I think we have enough to spare,” Nift said. They took out a share of food, and gave it to the small gnome. Instantly, it was consumed.

“Do you have any more?”

At first the party was reluctant to waste their supplies upon this being they did not know. Then one of them realized that this must be the “red-haired lad” the first calcified head in the well had told them about, and they gave Bryne of Lig more food. And more food.

When he had eaten enough for many days, Bryne of Lig smiled at them. “That was but a modest repast, but it needs repaying,” he said. “And so, I will tell you something to your benefit, and perhaps a bit more. Aware of it or not, you have Passed Over, and there are rules you need to be aware of. For you are no longer in the Middle World, but the Otherworld, which you may call the Spirit World or Faerieland, as you will. To aid you in your journey, I will tell you three things:

“First, even the most gracious of creatures can prove fell to the greedy or rude. Mind your tongues and your manners here, for the Good People are not all Good, nor even all People. Gifts and insults must be repaid in kind, so be wary.

“Second, neither eat nor drink, but of that which you bring with you. To taste the fruits of the Faerie Realm is to court disaster.

“Finally, and above all, stay on the path. The path will always go where you need to go, though it will take its own time in getting there.

“Now, because you will forget, or because you will stray, or because you will be tricked from your proper course, I will teach you this rhyme. Thrice you may call it, and if I hear I will come to aid you as best I am able. Call it a fourth time, and you will owe me a debt, which I shall surely reclaim. Ready?

“Come Bryne of Lig, Come Bryne of Lig,
By Branch and Bough and Tinder Twig.​

“Let me hear you say it.”

They repeated the words several times. Bryne of Lig was patient with them, repeating the rhyme until he was certain that they had it memorized. “Good,” he said at last. “Then I shall depart as I came, with a hop and a pop and a burst of flame.” He leapt into the air, and disappeared in a flash of light and fire.

While they had spoken to Bryne of Lig, summer came into the trees, though the day did not seem to have progressed at all. They found that they could rest, and rest seemed to relieve fatigue, but any hurts they had taken remain as they were – neither healing nor growing worse. They were in a land of eternal twilight; the dawn would not come so long as they remained there. As magic in the Lakelands was tied to the passage of time, they realized that they had to make do with what spells they had, and what healing they carried.

It was then that Eden realized that disaster had already struck – Manveru had left the path! As soon as she spoke, the rest of the group realized the truth. They called for Manveru. He did not answer. Whether he did not hear them, or could not reply, they didn’t know. They knew only that they could not leave the path to search for him, or they would never find it again.

Immediately, they fell to arguing. Some said, “Call Bryne of Lig” and some said “No.” Some said it was Manveru’s fault for stepping off the path in the first place, though he could hardly know that they were in Faerie when he did so.

At last Firestar decided the matter: “Argue what we may, we cannot simply abandon him to his fate, and I am ashamed of you for even thinking it.”

They called Bryne of Lig. It was harder than they thought, for indeed despite his making them repeat his rhyme; some thought he was “Brian of Leg”.

Meanwhile, Manveru had found himself in a thorn thicket indeed. Miles of thorn trees stretched around him in all directions, without end. He could not find the path. When he called, he heard nothing in response, save the titter of diminutive fey hiding in the branches overhead.

Luckily, Manveru was a druid, and it took him a long time to panic. He had just reached the conclusion that he would be unable to find his way back by any means, and thus would never see his companions again, when a little red-haired man stepped from behind a thorn tree.

“Would you like me to take you to your friends?” Bryne of Lig asked.

“Yes.”

“Then take my hand.” With Bryne of Lig’s aid, Manveru was able to walk quickly through the trees and into the clearing where his friends awaited. “That is one favor repaid,” said Bryne of Lig. “Now I shall go as I came, with a hop, and a pop, and a burst of flame.”

Many in the group could not help remonstrating Manveru for his carelessness in stepping off the path, though he had not known they were in Faerie at the time. Chief among these were Eden and Nift. In the case of Nift, this proved ironic indeed, for in the events that followed Nift failed to heed any of the warnings the party had been given.

After a time, they grew used to seeing lights and figures dancing in the trees, and off the path. Although the trees were once strong and vigorous with summer green, those leaves now turned red and gold as though the autumn was coming. The fall of them washed the path, rustling around their feet. The trees were heavy with succulent fruit, and berries were growing thick on the vines.

They had, of course, heard stories of folk who wandered into Faerie young, and came out ancient, though seemingly little time had passed. They had also heard tales of those who spent a single night in faerie revels, only to discover that the world had changed when they returned, and their grandchildren assumed them dead a century before.

Whether the changing of the seasons here had any relevance to what was going on in the Middle World they could not tell. But it was troublesome. And still, the eternal twilight went on.

About three days seemed to have passed, and their path was going into ever-higher country. The waterskins that they filled before entering Faerie were much lighter; they were beginning to use the last mouthfuls available. There were many small rills and natural fountains, crossing or beside the path, where they could refill them. However, they remembered Bryne of Lig’s warning, and went on, parched instead.

Crouched in the wooded hills, they at last come to a house that was beside their path. Indeed, the path allowed them to continue up into the hills, or to go directly to the small cottage.

The last leaves had fallen, and there was a chill in the air. There seemed to be no fire burning, for no smoke came from the chimney. The wind tasted thick, as though snow were about to fall.

They went up to the cottage. Firestar felt the evil coming from within emanating out in waves. In answer to their knock, a thin, old voice answered: “The door is unlatched. Enter freely, and of your own will.”

This was the House of Bone. It was covered by a glamour that makes it appear to be of stone, but when they looked closely, they could discern that the “stones” were in fact the bones of men, animals, and giants.

They walked forward, and pushed the door open.

The interior of the house was shrouded in cold and darkness, as though winter itself dwelt therein. They could see a white cat curled up before the dead fireplace; it looked up at them with glowing green eyes.

“Come in, come in,” the ancient voice called from a farther room. “And close the door behind you.”

“Thank you,” called Locke, “but we are quite happy here.” They chose not to enter, for they remembered the warning of the second head in the well. They were polite, for they remembered the warning of Bryne of Lig.

From a further room came the Old Bone Man, cold and white of skin, skeletally thin. His eyes glowed with a red fire. “Please, come inside.”

“No thank you,” said Nift, shivering in his summer attire. “It is quite beautiful out here. You should come out.”

The Old Bone Man made no move.

“We have wine!” They held out a bottle that they carried.

“That is not the good red wine,” the Old Bone Man said. His voice was as dry as the winter wind. He looked up at them with his red eyes, and they could clearly see his desire.

“He’s a vampire!” said Firestar, recoiling in horror. The Old Bone Man just grinned at him. “He wants our blood! We should not deal with this thing.”

“But we want the stick,” said Desu.

“There are many things I would trade for the good red wine. Name your desire.”

But, before they could begin negotiating in earnest, a fey mood struck Locke. As a jest, he said, “Spin around three times and bark like a dog.”

“Done!” the Old Bone Man cried with glee. He spun around thrice, and barked. “Now, give me what is mine.”

Locke scowled, for his jest had turned sour. “Very well,” he said. He took his dagger and sliced his arm, letting the blood drip into a cup. He gave it to the Old Bone Man, who drank it with relish.

“Now, about the stick…” began Desu, but the Old Bone Man merely laughed.

“I have gained what I wished,” he said. He tossed the emptied cup out of the House of Bone, and closed the door.

 

[Raven Crowking]

Seventeenth Game

For a while they stood there, stunned. For a moment’s jest, they had lost an object that they believed they needed. After all, were it not some item of power, something they would need on their journey, why would the Three Heads of the Well have told them how to obtain it?

Desu gave voice to what they were all thinking: “We need that stick.”

“Fine,” said Nift. He threw back his cape and marched toward the door. He rapped smartly on the door, but got nothing for his troubles but a muffled voice telling him to go away. Instead, he reached down and pulled the door open.

The white cat flew at him, landing on his face, clawing and spitting. It was cold…so very, very cold. As it clawed at Nift, its breath was like ice. Had Nift been alone, he would have been in severe trouble. Yet he was not alone. Firestar Dragonheart reached in and pulled the cat off Nift, cutting it in twain with the magical sword Nift had given him. They threw the dead cat off the trail, and then turned toward the door. It had closed, perhaps of its own accord.

Now, knowing better their danger, they made quick plans to open the door. Eden prepared a spell, while Gork, Locke and Manveru made their weapons ready. Desu looked grim. Firestar stepped forward, and threw open the door once more.

This time, no mere cat faced them, but the Old Bone Man himself. The very sight of him seemed to paralyze them with despair. “If you will not leave me in peace,” the Old Bone Man said, “you shall never leave at all.” He breathed out a cold wind upon them, and all it touched felt the strength run out of their limbs. Laughing coldly, the Old Bone Man reached behind his door and pulled forth a rune-covered ash staff, shod at either end with knobs of cold iron.

Firestar and Gork leading the way, the party entered the House of Bone – which the Three Heads had told them not to do – with their weapons swinging. Trying to find a more secure position, Nift stepped to the side of the door outside, and off the path. Instantly, he was gone. Inside, weapons seemed to have little effect upon the Old Bone Man. Steel seemed barely to bite in his cold, hard flesh.

Outside, it fell to Eden and Desu to call forth Bryne of Lig once more.

“Come Bryne of Lig, Come Bryne of Lig,
By Branch and Bough and Tinder Twig.”​

“What is it you need, my friends?” said the small, fire-haired gnome, who had appeared seemingly from nowhere.

“Can you bring back Nift, who has strayed off the path?” asked Eden.

“A simple thing,” said Bryne of Lig, and he stepped off the path, returning almost as swiftly with Nift in tow. “That is twice I have aided you,” he said. “I owe you a third time…shall I take care of yonder for you?” He inclined his head toward the House of Bone. The clamour of serious combat came from within.

“No,” said Desu. He was worried that they might yet need to call upon Bryne of Lig’s aid another time, and he was concerned with what the small fey would want as a reward if they had no more favors owing.

“Then I shall come as I came,” said Bryne. “With a hop, and a pop, and a burst of flame.” He leaped into the air and burst into flame, disappearing into a little spark.

Within the House of Bone, Firestar had a sudden premonition that the Old Bone Man was about to use the ashen staff…and that if he did so, not a one of them would survive. “The staff!” he shouted, and redoubled his efforts.

Risking all, Gork grabbed at the staff. Gaining hold of it, he strained his mighty muscles, trying to wrest it from the Old Bone Man, whose eyes now blazed with red light. With a twist and a heave, Gork pulled the staff free. He stumbled backward with the sudden release.

“Run!” shouted Firestar. “I will cover your retreat!”

They ran, back to the fork in the path, and up the slope. Even with the danger behind them, they refused to relinquish their cart. Luckily for them, the Old Bone Man did not pursue them beyond where the road forked. Even so, Firestar was sorely wounded. They had little magical healing left, and they well knew that wounds would not heal naturally so long as they remained in Faerieland.

The path continued to climb into the mountains beyond the House of Bone. As the path grew steeper, it became increasingly difficult to pull the cart. Eventually, it required two people, and they were forced to go with extra care, or the cart would go crashing down the steep slope.

It felt as though five days had passed from the time they had fled the House of Bone to the time they approached the top of the pass. It had been growing steadily colder as the elevation rose, until their spring clothing no longer provided adequate warmth. Outside Faerieland, it would have been cold enough that freezing to death would have become a real concern. Here, they found themselves moving more slowly, and their reflexes were dulled. At least at the top of the pass, when the cart was released, it did not immediately begin to skid down the path, as the snow impeded its progress.

In that place, they were attacked by an invisible ice faerie, but they made short work of it.

From the top of the pass, the path descended sharply, and soon they found themselves in warmer lands. As the steep slope gentled, winter seemed to give way to spring, then spring flourished fully. There were many tiny rivulets beside the path, and fruit was growing. Hungry, and not at all certain that the warnings of Bryne of Lig were to be taken seriously, Nift tried some of the fruit. He found it delicious indeed, but none of his companions would share his discovery with him.

Coming off the mountain, they saw ahead of them two huge longstones, each fully five feet wide and five times as tall, one on either side of the road. As they approached, a giant figure stepped from behind one of the stones. It was a knight clad in emerald green plate mail, bearing a huge greataxe. The creature was easily as tall as an ogre.

“You all may pass,” it said, “save you, and you,” pointing to Desu and Locke.

Firestar paused to concentrate, seeking to know if the creature before him was evil. He could sense nothing foul about it.

“Why not?” asked Locke.

“You have consumed my kin,” the Green Knight said. “You have eaten the heads of pixies, and the stench of it is foul upon you.”

“No we haven’t!” said Desu. “I never ate pixie heads!”

“What proof do you have?” asked Nift.

“Do not insult my honor,” said the Green Knight. “What need I with proof?”

“I do not mean to insult you,” said Firestar, “but how do you know they have eaten pixie heads?”

“Servant of the Gods, how do you know that I am not evil?” the Green Knight rejoined. “In the same way, I know that they consumed my kin.”

“You need proof!” Nift said. “Who are you to accuse them of anything?”

The Green Knight lifted his greataxe and took one step forward. Nift ran quickly, hiding behind the wagon.

“Insult me again,” the Green Knight warned, “and I will take thy life.”

A sudden remembrance came to Desu, and he shuddered. A pile of turnips in that seemed for a moment to become a jumbled pile of tiny heads, that he stewed with boar’s meat and consumed. Only he and Locke remained from that time, when he had met the old crone whose donkey they rescued.

“I would make things right,” he said. “What must we do?”

“One of you must undertake this challenge: three blows with this axe I will allow you to take. If I live, in a year and a day you must come to me, and I will be granted three blows in return.”

“Does it matter who does what?” Desu asked. “Must the one who takes the blows be the one who receives them?”

“I care not, so long as one of you does this thing.”

“You can’t make them do that!” said Nift. “You have no right!” He scurried away again when the Green Knight turned his attention his way.

“Your life is forfeit,” the Green Knight said.

“Very well, said Locke, in an attempt to forestall anything worse from happening. “I will accept your challenge.”

Locke took the great axe from the Green Knight, who knelt on the path before him. His first blow barely cut into the Green Knight’s massive neck, but his second blow did better. On the third blow, the Green Knight’s head rolled to the ground.

Nift came out of hiding.

The emerald-clad knight rose to his feet, his nine-foot height shortened by the loss of his head. Unerringly, the creature lifted his head by the hair and turned it face the travellers. “I will see you in a year and a day,” the Green Knight said to Desu and Locke. Turning the head to where Nift stood open-mouthed at the figure's rising, he added, “You I will see far sooner.” The green figure stepped behind one of the massive longstones and disappeared, leaving a scent like ozone behind.

 

[Odnasept]

How sweet it is

Reading the intricately-realized quality of your campaign world just makes me want to play again all the more, to have some level (2 or 3 presumably, yet one may dream) of effect on it (hopefully for good this time, as opposed to for awesome (what with the whole Bael Ebrous/Soul Striker thing)).

On a similar note, that last session has always been one of my favourites (along with the Next One, the Cyclopean City, Firestar's Becoming a Dragon, Siluria and the Giant Psionic Silurian Fish, etc.) and has me wondering: was that THE Old Bone Man? The one people offer sacrifices to? If so, then it really was alot like the Gandalf vs Balrog (whom John and I like to call Lessgoth because it's not as powerful as Morgoth or Gothmog) Isaidflyyoufoolswhyareyoustillhere thing! That foe was WAAAAAAAAAAY beyond any of us (which would explain the power of the staff)!

Anyway, if you would like, I can always scan in my map of the Bonewardens' Dragonskull Dungeon for the group (we could even compare it to Locke's). Did I mention I look forward to when we can get everyone here and play again?

 

[Raven Crowking]

Eighteenth Game (Part One)

The group passed beyond the longstones into a rocky, sloping land, which gave way to forest all around. Nift looked about nervously as he passed the stones, afraid that the Green Knight might be hiding behind the stones. He was not. They passed safely beyond, still following the path. Clumps of small trees – poplar and jack pine – grew amid the abundant heather to either side. The tiny flowers scented the air. It was spring where they were, and the drone of the honeybees was loud.

After a short time – it seemed less than half an hour – the travellers became aware of another party approaching them, coming the opposite direction on the same path. The other party seemed to glow with a soft greenish-yellow light in the twilight. It was a large group, at least two dozen figures on cream-colored or black horses and many more tiny figures that flitted like living lanterns amid their party.

As they drew closer yet, Firestar could see that the riders looked like very tall and slender elves – he realized that they are taller than the average human. The elven-looking people were dressed all in black and gold. The males wore doublet and hose, with rapiers hanging from their belts, while the females were dressed in fancy gowns, wasp-waisted with black-and-yellow hoop skirts that made them seem rather bell-like. Their skin was a pale hue, like new butter, and their hair was either as black as a raven's wing or as golden as honey dripping from the comb. The tiny fairies flitting about them seemed much of the same sort, though smaller. The drone of their wings made an audible buzzing, even when the riders were still one hundred yards away.

By unanimous consent, the adventurers came to a halt, and waited for the wondrous company to approach. They drew no weapons.

When the faeries were a dozen yards away, it was clear that the fey party centered around a tall and regal-looking woman, whose black hair was worn up in a hive bound by a golden diadem glittering with shiny black jewels. She glanced at the adventurers blocking the path with a rather vacant stare, then went back to doting the mortal child she carried on her horse.

The child could not be more than five months old, but her eyes as she glanced at the adventurers showed interest and cunning far more than one would expect from a person in her middle age.

One of the males stung his horse slightly with his long spurs, coming toward the adventurers with a quick movement. He was dressed in black hose and a yellow jacket. His black hair was worn long, with a sharply pointed beard and moustaches. Like the other faeries, he was tall and elfin, with pointed ears and a narrow waist.

As he addressed the adventurers, Firestar realized that the faerie’s eyebrows swept forward into tall antennae – a feature he then realized was common among the riders and their diminutive swarm.

“Make way for Queen Beatrice,” the faerie knight said. “Clear the path.”

“Um,” said Desu, “would it be okay if we went to the side of the path, and you went around?”

“I am Sir Humm-a-Buzz, the Queen's Champion. If you will not yield the path, select a champion from among your number, and I shall duel him for the right of way. If your champion fails, you shall leave the path. If I fail, our Rade shall disperse, yielding the path to you.”

“What if we put a rope across the path?” Locke asked. “Maybe we could hold the rope, and find the path again that way?”

“I don’t think so,” said Desu.

“Good Sir,” said Nift, addressing the faerie knight. “We mean no disrespect, but we can’t leave the path….”

Sir Humm-a-Buzz frowned. “If you have no taste for honorable combat,” he said, “I shall have my warriors” – he indicated the hundreds of tiny fairies about the party – “drive you from the path. I shall grant you a moment to consider, and to choose your champion.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” said Desu. “We cannot leave the path. Firestar, do you think you can yet fight?”

“I am sorely wounded,” Firestar replied, “but I will attempt it, if I must.” Having taken the brunt of the Old Bone Man’s attacks, it was doubtful that he would have lasted long against the slender fey.

“I can fight,” said Locke. They used the very last of their healing magic upon him to prepare him for the battle.

“Should we call upon Bryne of Lig?” someone asked, but the idea was quickly voted down. They somehow knew that they would need aid a third time from that one, and that the aid they would need would be more dire than that which they needed now.

Sir Humm-a-Buzz dismounted, and his squire led his horse back to the faerie Rade. Queen Beatrice's eyes no longer seemed so vacant – she looked on with interest, as did the changeling child at her breast. Sir Humm-a-Buzz swished the air a few times with his rapier, limbering his arm.

“Lay on then,” he said, “'til one of us falls, or is dead, or cries mercy upon the other. Prepare for my sting!”

As Locke and Sir Humm-a-Buzz fought, Nift quickly checked the strings on his guitar and began to play. Almost instantly, a swarm of tiny, angry faeries surrounded him, flitting about with miniscule rapiers drawn.

“What? I just…” he started. Then, realizing that they knew he hoped to inspire Locke with his playing, he allowed his fingers to falter on the strings.

Locke and Sir Humm-a-Buzz exchanged taps with their sword. Sir Humm-a-Buzz’s blade was slender in comparison to Locke’s weapon, but the faerie knight was quick. Locke drew first blood, but Locke was bloodied more often as the rapier stung him again and again. At one point, Sir Humm-a-Buzz unfolded transparent, wasp-like wings as he leapt back to avoid Locke’s cut. The fey turned side-stepped another cut and stabbed Locke again.

Locke stumbled back, tired and hurt. He was bleeding from a score of wounds.

“Enough,” he said.

Queen Beatrice clapped her hands lightly. The droning buzz of the flying fey quieted almost immediately. “Well fought,” she said in a voice like warm honey. “We are amused. Yet time tarries not, and the first stars have appeared in the sky. We must away.”

“Wait a minute! Is there some way that we could…” Desu began.

“Have you no honor?” Sir Humm-a-Buzz said angrily. “Your champion has lost. Cede the path, or I shall have my warriors sweep you from it.”

Sullenly, the group surrendered the path. As they stepped off it, they expected to be whisked away, separated in Faerieland. Perhaps lost forever.

But it was not so. Looking back the way they came, they could see that the mountain of the Old Bone Man was gone. Where it had been there was now a low, rocky hill, treeless but for a single large, leafless oak at its crown. The path went back, seemingly to the hill, which was surmounted by a henge of dark shadows standing out against the darkening sky. For the sky was indeed darkening, and the stars were winking into sight. The long twilight was over.

Sir Humm-a-Buzz called for his horse. He mounted, and then inclined his head toward Locke. "Well fought," he said. The faeries tapped spurs and made their way along the path toward the two longstones, which now seemed weathered and bent, no longer the proud stones they appeared in Faerieland. As the riders passed between the stones, they faded out like old paint, until at last they vanished completely.

The company spoke briefly, and then decided to continue travelling along the path to the north. Soon it became clear that both Gork and Nift were in trouble. Gork was racked with chills, and he was coughing cold phlegm from his lungs. “It is the staff,” Desu declared. “The one we got from the House of Bone! I will not touch it!”

Nift’s affliction was different, for he had eaten Faerie fruits, and now he suffered their loss. He recalled how he had eaten fruits plucked from that twilight land where summer ripens at all hours. He began to pine and pine away; he would eat no mortal food but sought Faerie fruits by night and day. Finding them no more, he dwindled and grew grey.

For four days they travelled northward. Gork grew colder and weaker. Pines and evergreens began to dominate the forest. Nift refused to eat. At one point, they spotted what must surely have been a sabre-toothed tiger crouched beside the trail ahead. Desu tried to befriend it, but it growled and ran off instead.

Frightened for Gork, they tried to summon Bryne of Lig. When he did not come, they reasoned that he would only respond if they were in Faerieland. They would have to travel back to the place where Locke had fought Sir Humm-a-Buzz.

“What about me?” asked Nift. “I fear I am dying also. I ate and ate my fill, and yet my mouth waters still; you cannot think what apples my teeth have met in, pellucid grapes without one seed, and sugar-sweet their sap.”

“But you are not dying yet,” Desu returned. “If we do not save Gork soon, he will be beyond our ability to save at all.”

 

[the Jester]

Good stuff! I like it.

 

[MK-Ultra]

Sixth Session


“What he meant was, pleased to meet you,” said Locke smoothly, stepping up. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Eh, I remember sixth session, way back when . . .
Sure this version may sound better, but I'm quite proud of the real story of Krog and Forent's conversation:
Krog: Are you made of steak?
(Forent's fumin' an' cursin')
Desu: Uh, He meant to say It would be a miSTAKE . . . to, uh, challenge you to a drinking contest.

Two statements from two great PC's. Krog's belying an uncharacteristic knowledge of cuts of meat. And Desu, humble, quiet man who can smoothly defend his comrades. 'Cept when they spend 3 freakin' hours deciding to open a door!!! Looking forward to that, hehehe . Oh man, crazy staff of winter antics . . .

Hey you! keep up the good work with the stories!

 

[Richard Rawen]

Again ! ? !

Well Damn and BLAST! Once again a great story unfolds only enough to lure your interest... and no more.