[Midnight] Escape from Shadow

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Hush little baby, don’t make a sound,
Or the priest will come with an orc and hound.

And if that orc and hound don’t hear.
The eyes of the priest will draw ever near.

And if that priest passes over you,
We will live to see the day anew.

--- A lullaby for Sarcosan children in the Last Age
​

It has been nearly a century since the land of men fell to the orcish armies of the Shadow. The dwarves are holed up in their mountains, under siege with no where else to go. The elves are fighting a losing guerilla war on several fronts, trying to protect their forest home from invasion. The breeding pits of Izrador belch forth legions of orcs, the dark lord’s faithful search and destroy any who carry the spark of magic, innumerable halflings have been enslaved, gnomes and men have turned to the Shadow, dwarves are killed on sight, and elves are twisted to the dark lord’s cause.

Hope has fled the continent of Eredane.

Welcome to MIDNIGHT.


For information on the campaign structure and character guidelines, visit the Talking the Talk: OOC Thread.

For character sheets of those found in the campaign, living and dead, visit the Rogue’s Gallery: Character Thread.

 

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Posting Requests, Guidelines and Requirements

All posts are to be written in third person, past tense, narrative. I hope for this thread to be written in novel style, so I request that everyone playing to please maintain this consistency.

Please use proper english grammar, punctuation and spelling. I am not an English Nazi, so I won’t kick you out of the game if you spell color, colour. But please make it readable with quotation marks around dialogue, capitalization at the beginning of sentences, etc..

Thoughts are to be written in italics: I guess I’ll just have to go over there, he thought to himself.

Please use the following color codes when speaking languages. Because of the large number of different languages, and the varying abilities of people to communicate, it will be easier to keep track if we are all on the same page with what language the characters use. You may also include modifiers in the text to explain what language your character is using, but pleas always include the color, as well.

Black Tongue (darkred)
Colonial
Courier
Erenlander (orange)
Halfling
High Elven (cyan)
Jungle Mouth
Norther (olive)
Old Dwarven (blue)
Orcish (red)
Patrol Sign
Trader’s Tongue (yellow)
​

Combat

Please use descriptive actions during combat that still accurately reflect the actions, whether it be a move, a full attack, or a grapple attempt.

If the action taken is not quite clear, or you would like to clarify it, please include an OOC description.

For any actions that you would like to make that require a roll, please include those rolls (including all applicable modifiers) in an OOC aside. Include damage rolls and successive grapple checks, as well.

You may either intersperse your OOC comments in the text, or gathered at the end. Again, your prerogative, as long as it's clear.

Please use color to offset your OOC writing. I will always use slate gray, as well as

it, but your format is up to you, as long as it's clear.

You are responsible for including all modifiers yourself, and rolling your own dice. I will trust all of my players.

Here is an example combat player character post:

[sblock]

Ulfgar swung his greataxe in a great arc, aiming for the exposed shoulder of the orc, then swung again toward its mid-section. Instead of pulling back for third hit, however, the dwarf instead held his weapon in place as he reached out to grab the orc around the throat with his gauntleted hand.

OOC: Full attack action.
First attack: 26, damage: 20.
Second attack: 33, damage: 13.
Confirm crit: 27, crit damage: 27.
Third attack (grapple attempt, melee touch): 22.
Grapple check (for lethal damage): 23, damage: 7

Ulfgar will take a five-foot step backwards if the grapple does not succeed.
[/sblock]​

 

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MIDNIGHT: Escape from Shadow

DM Jeremy

Players -
Herremann the Wise
Rikandur Azebol
Eonthar
Dirigible


Chapter I
Chapter II
​

 

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Chapter I
Page One


The sky was gray, as it always was. Rain fell in a soft drizzle that soaked through clothing, rotted wooden panels, and found its way into every nook of armor. The orcs grumbled in their own tongue as they stood guard at the ramp leading to the slave ship behind them. No slave, stripped naked and manacled to one another with crudely wrought iron chains, escaped their stare. As a particularly large Dorn passed by, one took the flat side of his vardatch and struck him across the back, laughing as he watched the Dorn stumble up the plank. The other orc growled some obscenity in Erenlander at a young man with a strange tattoo on his left arm, but allowed him to pass. The boarding of the slave ship in Erenhead was uneventful, except for the final two.

An orc was led with chains attached to his wrists, legs, and neck, and held firmly by two additional orcs on either side, as if they expected their prisoner to erupt in a frenzy, whipping them into the sea with his chains. The guards only snarled at him as he stepped aboard the ship.

The second brought more whispers and stares from the onlookers: what must have been a woman, but she looked like a beast. Though almost half the size, as many chains bound her as did the previous orc, and five orcs had to grasp each chain to maintain their control of her, and lead her to the slave ship.

The slaves were led into the hold beneath the ship. The orc and beastwoman were chained on deck, in the open air but subject to the ridicule and beatings of Izrador’s chosen. Slowly, the ramp withdrew from the dock’s edge and turned into the headwaters of the Eren River. Leaving the great stone arch of the Peredon behind, the slave ship sailed into the open sea of the Pelluria.

* * *​

Two days later, the rocky crags of the Kaladruns plunged into the waters as the slave ship ponderously made its way along the eastern coast of the Pelluria. The fog thickened, and the orcs eased their ship closer to shore, afraid of the open water, but none admitting it aloud. Soon, though, even the mountains disappeared from view, and the tension between the orcs mounted. Scuffles on deck broke out. Growls and challenges were absorbed by the mists.

Hrtak, ignoring his fellows, peered into the fog.

OOC: Here is the introductory post. The main post will happen on Monday. In the meantime, if you would like, roleplay your character boarding the slave ship, any time spent upon the ship, and any character history. Monday will be the official start date of the campaign.
​

 

[Rikandur Azebol]

Torak, Orc macho Channeler.

Torak was calm, caring little for snarls and insults from slavers. He already knew the routine ... smallest of them come by, and ... accidentally kicked him where it hurts. Moans of pain provoked laugh from the witnessing orcs snarling and yelling encouragments to chained one.
"Stand up ! Fight ! He, He, He !"
With roar of pain chained orc standed up, and stumbled forward towards the guard, only to entail himself in his own chains and loose balance again. He hit the deck with satisfying thud, and lay there with blood dripping from the places where chains bite into his flesh. Curious orc come by and examined him with his boot. Slave grabbed his feet and bite hard ... but even orc tusks are too little to bite trough hard boiled leather and iron. Another kick freed suprised guard who returned to his buddies, grinning.
"You saw how pathetic this one is ? It bite my shoe ... Bwa, ha, ha. Let's see this beast-woman ... this one is boringly stupid."

Slave orc only stared trough half closed eyes, his little rebbelion exhausted last vestiges of his strength. He sniffed at the mist with little interest, breathing heavily.
God damn chains, so heavy ... I will kill You oneday Hrtak. That's promise.
He staredat beastwoman, who was still so fierce ... and blinked.
Wonder where my own fire went ? I wonder what break me so ... My sister's betrayal ? My weak spirit ? Is it taint of magic in my veins ... Chmph
He grunted and crouched on all four, staring in amazement at beastwoman.

OOC:
All okay, DM, I apologise in advance for using slavers to toy with Torak a bit. And to making situation that he is "boring" now.
In actual game I promise to behave and not interfere in other's actions so directly.
It seems that Torak and Karita could chat freely. Heh.

 

[Eonthar]

The man with the strange tattoos on his left upper arm followed the others onto the slave ship, and then into the hold.

Things are going from bad to worse. I should never have tried to escape from the prison camp last week. How will I ever escape from this ship ... I must keep my eyes open and await the right opportunity.

It was then that he noticed the large Dorn.

I will have to see if I can't get to know him, he looks like he might be able to help me. We may be able to help each other.

Unfortunately in the hold, he and the Dorn were separated by a large number of other slaves, and he was not able to establish contact with him.

As the ship left the dock and sailed, Abdiel listened to the birds and noted the reaction of the ship to the wind and deduced the general direction that they were heading. He took note and vowed that he would find his way back.

I must escape soon! I have to find Brianna and the twins! I will swim back across this sea if I must.

Abdiel, with no desire to talk to his neighbors, stayed in silence, thought of happier times and awaited his opportunity to escape.

 

[Dirigible]

Karita

“Go on, Lokksul... feed it.” Granharr stifled a grin as he handed the recruit a ragged slice of weevily ship-bread, making frantic gestures at his comrades for silence. The youngest orc on board was given a shove towards the skinny, crouched figure as the others chuckled under their breaths.

A soft growl started in the beastwoman’s throat as Lokksul swaggered towards her, gripping her supper uncertainly. The sound was instinctive, and would had set most any animal of the forest to flight, but though the orcs felt the meaning of it as one predator to another, they were unconcerned. She could smell the stink of sweat, filth, tar and metal on the orc even before her pale brown eyes cracked open. Karita shifted her weight slightly, three-toed feet squeezing against the deck, trying to gain purchase on the salt-crusted wood with claws that were no longer there. The five-point chains that held her around the ankles, wrists and throat jingled slightly, her strength far from sufficient to wrench the securing bolt from the wood as she wanted to.

Lokksul had been aboard the slave ship when it had arrived in port, and unlike Granharr and many of the others hadn’t had to deal with the feral Erenlander before. Wondering what the joke was, the recruit thrust the black bread towards the prisoner. He raised his hand, ready to jerk the food away and strike the prisoner for his amusement.

Karita snapped into motion. Her hand lashed out to grab the bread, as hard as she dared with the tips of her fingers still agonizingly sore from being declawed. Her lank hair flying, the beastwoman lunged forward to sink her pointed, predators teeth into the orc’s gray-skinned wrist. Lokksul howled in pain and alarm, and pulled his arm away, leaving a chunk of flesh in the prisoner’s mouth. Black-brown blood flowed freely from the wound; for anyone without the native toughness of an orc, the wound would be almost life threatening. The recruit spat repugnant obscenities at his shipmates, holding his shredded hand against his chest to try and staunch the bleeding.

The beastwoman swallowed the musky, rank-tasting meat without complaint. In her life, she had eaten many worse things. Without taking her eyes from the orcs, lest they seek retribution for her attack as they often did on land, she began to bite off and struggle to gulp down hunks of bread, weevils and all. Her fangs were for gripping and ripping prey, not chewing fibrous vittles.

Her eyes flicked to the other bound orc, the smaller brute chained to the deck as she was. Grinning under his mane, he looked pleased at, almost proud of her attack. Karita stared uncomprehendingly at the orc for a few moments, then hissed a warning at him. The beastwoman shifted, tugging at her chains and gurning to show her unhappiness, before letting the weight of the chain bear her down to the deck.

She hated the water, and it was little comfort that this swaying wooden basket she was on separated her from it; it was not earth, and she felt permanently unsettled. Karita curled into a fetal ball, huddling in on herself to conserve her body heat, using her hairy skin and layer of dirt as some token shelter against the fog and drizzle of the Pellurian.

 

[Rikandur Azebol]

Torak, Smaller ... Brute ?!

OOC: Brute ? Touche. And as far as I remember we, the slaves, have rare honor of having loicloth and in case of my brute and beastie-girl a thick layer of dirt to protect ourselves from cold. Poor Baldie and Tatto have only thin layer of dirt.

Seeing beastwoman's display Torak couldn't help himself but grin in apreciation. She had good reflexes, for a human. And preety fangs Thought Torak to himself, while scratching his back lazily, with big yawn. Before turning his attention to orc who were carrying food for him, undescribable remmants that humans would get sick from eating. If eating such things at all. For slight moment red haze almost overhelmed his reason, but he reminded himself to pretend that he is as brute and stupid as her ... If they knew truth, they wouldn't give him so much freedom. And would ... play with him more inventively. He stared at things thrown at him by cautious orc, who he bite earlier. He jumped up at orc first, growling threatingly just enough to tear "food" off his hands and he backed off snarling, while devouring the rotten flesh and other ... less descirbable remmants with wisible indifference. Inside of him he felt as if to threw out. I hope they didn't poisoned it, again, just for fun ... another week of returnign all meals will kill me.As if by accident, he threw one of flesh clad bones out of his range. Justinthe range of beastwoman. After he finished what he have, he tried to reach for it ... raising alot of laughing comments form onlooking orcs. Yes, think of me as of harmless showman.He thought, while pretending that he will reach the bone no matter the costs. But security bolts, keeping him in place, were too strong. He yelled and screamed, before returning to his piece of deck looking like child robbed of it's candy.

OOC:
Dirigible, if Karite will take the bone Torak will snarl at her, slightly. Without real anger behind it.

 

[Herremann the Wise]

The Dockside Slave Pit

Deep within a slave pit in an unnamed and unknown port…

The stench of the slave pit had worsened steadily over the past three days. The rains of the night had turned the already faeces-ridden floor of the pit to mud and slush. Normally these deep trenches could hold up to ten or twelve slaves. At present more than twenty were herded into the ridiculous pit. Usually they were used for slaves in transit, as a brief holding pen between one ship and another; one owner and the next.

The slaves in this pit however were pawns in the middle of some outside political scandal and so waited for whatever outcome was their fate. As a commodity, slaves were perhaps the greatest symbol of wealth for those humans that still cherished what freedom was fed to them. This current batch of slaves was for a payment of debt. Unfortunately, the collector of the debt had met with a foul end and so they were being underhandedly sold elsewhere in the hope of escaping official attention and notice.

The fact that the slaves had been in the fifteen foot deep trench for so long meant that pit-fever was rife amongst them. Two were as good as dead and so fear like the horrid stench of the pit bred rampantly. No one wanted to deal with the dead returning to life. The last time food had been dropped into the pen was two days before the rains of the night. Only those of strength had been able to garner any food, the rest having to wait.

Methuselas had been one of the luckier ones. He had been in the right position of the pit to catch a chunk of some fetid vegetable as well as a bone with several small ligaments still attached. The disgusting meal would have been as sweet as anything he had tasted. This is why he gave it away to a young Dorn who he had been looking after as well as another young lad from somewhere Methuselas did not know. Stronger, tougher and harder than these newer slaves, he knew they would not fair well. He instinctively knew then that something had gone wrong with their sale. The pit was poorly guarded, four at best going on the voices from above. As such, he had sought to keep the lads alive. One needed friends in a place like this. There were already enough enemies.

While asleep during the night, Methuselas had been held down by two of Nunga’s brutes as Nunga himself – as rotten a slave as any Methuselas had seen – had stolen the bone from the other Dorn. A black eye, a dislocated finger and some very sore ribs later, Methuselas was sorely in need of help himself. Luckily for him, the other kid had some skill with such things and with a howl of pain that drew a guard’s attention, his finger was broken but back in its socket.

“What’s going on down there? I’ll have your balls down your throat if there’s any trouble.”
The shining of light illuminated the pit and numerous starved and defeated eyes looked up. With no more noise from the slaves, the orc mercenary guard withdrew, the mercy of light retreating away; leaving them once more in darkness.

“Thanks laddie. If I hadna been asleep, I wouldda stopped the bastards. And you Fergal… what did he take?”
“He got me bone... and me pride.”

Methuselas looked at the outline of the young Dorn; he could make out a slickness running down his jaw.
“You OK or no. I can sees ya bleeding.?”
“It’s nothing Meth, justa coupla teeth.”

Methuselas did his best to help but his ribs ached like fire. Nunga was thirty foot opposite on the high side of the pit with his two cronies. The other slaves gave the brutes wide berth. They were packed in next to Methuselas, Fergal and Verris, providing some cherished warmth at the very least.

***

And so it was until later the following evening…

The sound of crossbow fire was heard above the pit as well as several grunts of pain. The yelling in Orcish followed by a curdling howl of death was followed by the shadowed descent of a body into the pit. With a slap into the mud and faeces the guard’s body laid still. Methuselas in a heartbeat had launched over to the body looking for a weapon. Any sword had obviously been dropped above. Damn thought Methuselas. A knife or anything would be good.

His disappointment was interrupted by a fluttering of movement beneath him. Like a viper though, Methuselas had firmly planted his knee into the orc’s back; the chains binding his wrists wrapped around the orc’s neck. The almost dead orc grunted: the life that was left to him sucked out by a wrenching twist from Methuselas.
“You won’t be takin my balls ya stinking bastard”, he whispered into the orc’s ear.

The other slaves looked on, Nunga moving towards the centre of the pit looking up to see what was happening. A voice from above was heard.
“Get them out now!!!”
It was a male voice but it sounded human. Several ropes were thrown down.
“Your lives just got a little bit easier. You’re now the possession of Lady Krueg. Anyone cause trouble and you’ll be back in the pit.”

A number of slaves crawled up the ropes but most lacked the strength. Methuselas helped where he could, taking out an older man who would never have made it up by himself. Fergal and Verris helped him as best as they could. At the top, they could see that their guards had been harshly dealt with – several crossbow bolts had been firmly implanted into skulls and necks slashed. Other Orcs were standing around obviously owned by… someone. It was then that Methuselas saw the legate who had spoken the earlier words. In the darkness though, the milling slaves were herded together near the edge of the pit while the legate and another quietly spoke.

It was then that Methuselas noticed that Nunga was near him looking at him and then the edge of the pit. The guards did not seem to notice Nunga’s advance towards Methuselas. However, they also did not notice the upper cut from Methuselas directly into the jaw of Nunga. The speed had even caught Nunga by surprise. A left to the stomach followed by a massive right thrust also to the guts had the slaves pulling away.

“What’s going on here! Ryechet come with me”.
The legate as well as a massive orc stepped through the parting slaves, advancing to where Nunga crouched, spewing up whatever meagre food was left in his guts. Methuselas as quick as you please stood over him trying to hold him up as he tried to bluff the legate. Methuselas’s plaintive voice pleaded,
“He’s sick sir but he’ll be OK. Don’t leave him behind here. He needs help with the pit-fever, he needs help otherwise he’ll die.”
Nunga’s two mates tried to advance but were stopped by another guard who had advanced to see what all the fuss was about. Nunga coughed but a quick hidden jab disguised as a helping hand from Methuselas stopped him from adding anything.

The legate looked on, as hard eyes greeted Methuselas’s words. He looked back at the person he was addressing earlier. A female voice sounded.
“The sick are no good to me. Clean the rest up and leave them behind.”
With this and a nod from the legate, the brutish orc grabbed Nunga from Methuselas’s grip and threw him back into the pit. A sickening slap assailed their ears. For the other orcs and the legate, business was business. The legate walked back to where the lady stood. He was about to say something but was interrupted by her.
“When word of this reaches Jermannis, he’ll know not to try this kind of s*** again. I trust I have your support in this?”
The legate looked uncomfortable but nodded.
“Get them ready." yelled the legate.
"They leave on the morning tide”

***

And so begins the adventure for Methuselas on the morrow. Having been sold once more, his life begins again, sailing to an unknown destination to be sold to another unknown master.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise

 

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Chapter I
Page Two


The ship groaned as its bulk cut through the cold waters of Pelluria and the thickening mist. Laden with its enslaved cargo, hundreds of bodies tied and bound in racks lining its bowels, the slave ship ponderously made its way along the coast.

"I can't see a damned thing out here," growled Hrtak to himself, clenching the pommel of his sheathed verdatch. It was as if that witch from the east had called down these mists, the fog was so impenetrable.

Then a dark shape caught his eye. Fleeting, at first he thought it was an illlusion. But no, there it was again. Hrtak's eyes narrowed and he slowly pulled out his serrated verdatch, even as his heart began to thump hard in his chest, thudding against his chain. He raised his weapon and turned, inhaling to yell out the warning, the warning that the pirates, those refugees, the ragtag humans, had arrived.

An arrow embedded itself in his throat, and with a gurgle Hrtak fell to the planks.

A dark shape appeared out of the mists alongside the slave ship.

And the slaughter of the orcs began.

* * *​

Men armed with swords, bows and arrows materialized from the mists to board the slave ship, leaping from their own silent, dark vessel now floating at the slave ship’s side. Within moments, they had swarmed the ship, like a plague of rats, and began killing orcs without mercy or succor. The orcs, in turn, roared with abandon and held their swords aloft. Their bravado, however, was cut down as swiftly as it had been raised as arrows were loosed from the darkness and swords erupted from their bellies.

Torak had been lucky, so far. But one pirate, after running one of the guards through with his sword, turned and saw Torak in the mists. He held his sword aloft and charged Torak, still bound in his chains.

Another orc had been lucky, as well. As the pirates dashed along the deck, Lokksul had managed to maneuver his body along the railing, behind the beastwoman that had humiliated him earlier. Now, his fellows were dead, and she just might save him. The pirates had not yet seen him in the shadows, but he soon caught the feral eye of the woman.

* * *​

Each slave in the hold had perhaps six cubic feet of space, if they were lucky. None had individual bunks, but shelves that extended from the walls, ten bodies deep. Each shelve was separated from the next by only one foot, a claustrophobic space that had seen its share of vomit, feces, and blood.

Methuselas and Abdiel had been lucky; they had been one of the last to enter the hold, and were closer to the shelf’s edge. They were the first to receive food, felt a wisp of a breeze whenever an orc entered, and could at least move an inch or two to flex aching muscles. Those thrust against the wall fared not as well. Some had already perished on the trip, and when that happened, the slaves were forced to shoulder the body outward to be picked up by the orcs that brought them gruel once a day, where it would promptly be thrown overboard. If the body was not removed in time . . . There had been more than one Fell that had decimated entire slave holds.

When the orc entered the hold that day, with chaos erupting above, the slaves knew it was not time to eat. He held his vardatch, and whether from insanity, cruelty, or perhaps mercy, the orc began to execute the slaves, one by one, tearing his weapon across neck after neck. When he reached Abdiel, the orc brought his massive arm back to prepare for his strike and did not expect the chains of a massive Dorn, Methuselas, one bunk above Abdiel’s, to wrap around his wrist. With a twist, the vardatch tumbled down to Abdiel’s side, just as an arrow from above buried itself into the orc.

“I’ve found them!” called a voice from above in Erenlander, “We need more men! Don’t let any orcs down this hold!”

OOC: Please see the revised Guidelines section above for how combat will be handled. Sorry, I had forgotten to include it earlier!​