[Midnight] Though The Mirror, Darkly

[Dirigible]

Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, and miscellanious goblinoids.

Now, this is my first story hour, so I'll be trying to figure out a style that works for it. In future updates, I may post full character write-ups, so chime if you'd like to see this, of if you have any questions at all.

- - -

Coel walked easily through the Caraheen undergrowth, here stepping around a thorny bush, there swinging over an ankle-breaking gully from an overhanging branch. Mere hours ago, his normal routine of searching for orc-spoor had been interrupted by a soldier from the camp, sent to find him. "Report to commander Banedren" was about the only useful thing the man had said.

The thick, light-speckled canopy suddenly gave way to sky, overcast and grey-dim even as it neared noon. The refugee camp lay in a very shallow, wide depression in the forest bisected by a small stream whoch trickled muddily out east, laden with the effluent of the settlement. It was a roughly oval collection of dismal hovels, thatch, sod and wooden buildings that crouched along the banks of the stream that served as water source, laundry, toilet and major obstacle along the 'road' that ran through the camp. Smoke curled up from a handful of fires where the refugees, mostly Erenlanders who fled the occupation of their homeland to come and eke out a living under the aegis of the Caransil, cooked their meals together.

Coel stalked down form the wood's edge towards the nearest gate in the wooden palisade. Gate may have been too strong a term. 'Bale of branches, leaves and hay strung with rope between two wooden stakes' might have been more appropriate. At this particular gate, a lone guard stood. A young man, sandy haired, dressed in tattered, muddy wool and leaning against the sharpened pole that served as a makeshift spear, stared off into space, day dreaming.

Coel stoped a few feet in front of the man, waiting. The other didn't even seem to notice him; the woefully inadequate guard continued to stare unfocusedly up at the trees. After a few moments, Coel's gossamer patience ran thin.

"Planning to move ?" He growled, glowering at the dopey guard.

With a start, the young man almost lept off the ground, his grip on the wooden spear slipping so that it almost fell out of his hands. Stumblng and fumbling, he managed to catch it before giving Coel a wide eyed stare.

"Huh-uh? AHHHRGH ! ORCS ! TO ARMS !"

 

[Dirigible]

Coel took half a step back, frowning at the pannicking guard. He, Coel, was damn sure no orcs were within ten miles of the camp, of course, and the thought passed though his mind that this boy might be a lunatic.

The guard lunged forwards, a clumsy stab which Coel easily parried, his iron longsword grinding from its sheath to turn aside the wooden point. The blade was halfway up towards the other mans head when the guards face changed.

The look of startled, agressive idiocy melted to surprised, scared idiocy. The guard lowered the point of the spear hastily, eyeing Coel's sword as it hovered a few inches from his neck.

"Oh! I'm sorry, and... hey, arent you Coel? The ranger ?" He breathed, giving Coel a slightly awestruck look.

"What of it?" Coel snarled, sheathing his sword and gesturing to the gate, impatiently.

"Oh, gosh... they say you've killed two hundred orcs...unnnhh...and you... gnnnnng...I'm Daenil," the guard grunted as he put his burly shoulders to the barracade, rolling it aside.

Coel snorted. Nowhere near two hundred, he thought to himself. Not yet.

Just as Daenil pushed the gate aside, Coel's ears caught a sound.

*Snap* *Crunch* *Muffled words* *Crunch*

He turned, at saw five men emerging from the woods. All wore scraps of leather, wool and even a few drabs of mail, the makeshift armour of the refgee camp's defenders. They carried sturdy branches or roots, some studded with nails or knots of leather. The man at their head was harder and meaner looking, his hair roughly cut short, a leather patch riveted over one eye socket, an angry scowl on his face.

"Daenil!" the leader snarled "You illegitimate spawn of an orc-sow! This is the -last- time your bastard mouth sets everyone to alarm!". Daenil twisted around to stare, slack jawed and looking terrified as the guard sergeant stalked closer.

"B-but Gornrig..." Daenil sniveled

Coel eyed the man briefly. They were of a height, but the newcomer was leaner, harder, made of leathery skin and whipcord muscle. Gornrig spared Coel barely a glance from his good eye, before turning to Daenil, his knotwood cudgel raised.

"I'm gonna beat some wits into you, dungheap..." Gornrig sneered, his arm tensing...

Quick as lightning, Coel pulled the magnificent bow from his back, slid an arrow from his quiver, pulled, and fired....

 

[Dirigible]

Gornrig screamed in agony as Coel's arrow tore cleanly through the string-wrapped sack he, used as a shoe, through his foot and ino the dirt below, sliding in up to the fletchings in a mouse's heartbeat.

[Aside] The chap who plays Coel and I have been RPG'ing together for about ten years, in more systems than I can name. In that time, we've got to know each other's PC and GM styles pretty well. Then he does something like this *Bam* In one action, a minor, disposable, nuisance NPC becomes a lifelong nemisis with a damn good grudge to hold. Sometimes, I love this game [/aside]

"MY - FAAAARGHHHH !" Gornrig gasped, droping to his knees, scrabbling at the arrow buried deep in his flesh.

Coel turned icily to the four guards who now moved forward, clubs raised warily to take down the attacker.

"Leave. Him. Alone" he drawled, another arrow resting in his bow, half drawn, ready.

The four guards, as one, swallowed, glanced at each other, then backed away, endeavouring to look harmless.

Coel turned his back on them, ignoring Gornrig's howls and Daenil's admiring gaze. He hated doing favours for fools who couldn't repay them. He relaxed the bowstring, then slung his prized weapon back over his shoulder.

Coel sauntered his way through the camp, determined not to help anyone else today. He cast barely a glance at the scrawny old man in a filthy grey tunic who struggled to drag a hefty black pig across the street, while it tried to burrow its snout after some morsel in the mud. A brace of malnourished children laughed and threw pebbles at the old codger, who in turn promised to feed them to the witch-queen of the elves.

Passing a woman who struggled to pull her much-patched sheets from the ground to the clothes line, Coel arrived at the large, octagonal pavillion that served as commander Banedren's headquarters. In front of the tent, a set of weapon racks stood almost empty, save for a few clubs and crude spears.

Banedren's deep, lordly voice sounded from inside. "...as you can imagine, the problems are worse now that we're spread over a hundred-mile front. Even food and water is damnably hard to distribute over that kind of range, so I can't see how..."

Coel ducked under the tent flap, and stepped into the tent. Commander Banedren stooped over the table in the middle of the pavillion, looking up from the assorted maps and charts apread acoss the table. He was a tall, imposing man in his later years (as such things were reckoned in the Last Age), with a beard braided in the Dornish style, and one gauntleted hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

To one side of the table, leaning back slightly in her chair, was a woman. Surely an elven woman, Coel thought. She wore a night-dark cloak of some soft material that seemed to lie as soft as velvet shadows, trimmed with silver. The smooth planes of her face seeming to be chiseled from alabaster, youthful yet ageless. A wisp of silvery-blond hair curled out from under her hood, while her crystal blue eys glinted at Coel. She eyed him for a moment, studying, weighing, then her eyes turned back to gaze into space. One hand rested on her sword belt, while the other held a pipe to her elegant lips. The pipe itself was unusual: the long, thin stem ended in a wooden bowl the size of a man's fist, carved into the visage of a bizarre monster, with one great eyes, a wide, toothy maw and several small tentacles spaced around it's circular body. Pale smoke curled out of the bowl.

"Ahh... Coel," Banedren nodded, straightening. "I heard... trouble outside...?"

Coel shook his head. "One of the guards decided to start a fight. I ended it."

Banedren scowled, but then nodded resignedly "Aye. Well." He motioned Coel closer, and gestured to one of the maps...

 

[Dirigible]

"As you can see, " Banedren intoned, glancing at the empty weapons racks outside "we're desperatly short on arms and armour. Even in the worst of seasons, we can usually find enough food in the woods to keep half our bellies full, and the elves allow us to take wood for shafts and spears. Now, at least," He said with a wry glance at the elven woman who sat, still staring into the diastance, to all appearences deep in thought.

"Even so, most of my men are forced to fight with sub-par weapons." He scowled "If you've ever fought a vardatch-wielding orc with a wooden stake, you'll know what I mean. What steel and iron weapons we have break and wear down until they're barely metal clubs. With the war in the north going as it is, our hosts haven't been able to spare any Veradeen arms or any smiths capable of helping us".

"General Ilasus," the refugee commander continued, and Coel realsied this was the elf's name, "has relayed to me a tale from her informants out in the Westlands." Banedren pointed to a map on the table.

It depicted an area of the Caraheen and Erenland, stretching from the refugee camp, over 100 miles inland from Althorin, to Baden's Bluff, to the shores of the Ardune, to the elven village of Irenara in the midst of the Erethor forest. It showed the locations of the handful of known, permanent Shadow camps, and a particular ruin was marked in the middle of the Westlands.

"This is the castle Knightswatch" Banedren explained "and according to the tales, it may hold our best chance to claim a stockpile of battle gear.

"Once, it was the seat of some Erenlander lord who fought the Shadow in the Last Battle, but, like all that was ours, it fell." Banedren looked grimmer than usual. "The stories say that even as the orcs stormed the last bastion of Knightswatch, the garrison sealed off the armoury, to prevent their foes from using their weapons against them. Ilasus has reason to think that even to this day, that armoury remains undistrubed".

Banedren sat back heavily in his chair, and for a moment all was quiet, apart form a light tap-tap-tap as Ilasus tamped her pipe. Then, Banedren spoke again "I want you to go out to Knightswatch, and find the old armoury, and break the seal. Beware, for they may have woven dangerous spells in their extremity, and I wouldn't discount the presense of the Fell."

"From there, arrangments will be made to get the arms and armour back here, to Erethor and my warriors. Coel, you're the swiftest- and surest-footed wayfarer I have, and I know you can avoid the legions of the Shadow once you leave the welcoming boughs of Erethor."

"Nevertheless, I've called on two trustworthy companions to join you. You'll find them waiting at Lansin's cider cask..." Baendren smiled slightly. "They... uhhh... shouldn't be hard to find."

 

[Dirigible]

As Coel moved to the tent flap, Banedren called him back for a moment.

"You do this, lad, and you'll give us a fighting chance against the Shadow. For now, at least."

Coel turned back to the door, and started. In the moment his back had been turned to her, Ilasus had disappeared. Not a sound had betrayed her. Shaking his head, Coel continued out to the street.

Coel made his way to the set of tables and chairs scattered beside the ditch, where Lansin served the watered piss he called cider. Less than halfway there, he caught sight of what could only be one of his companions.

The man sitting at the cider shop was huge. Easily 12 feet tall, the man's Dornish ancstry was clear in his blond beard and braided hair. The giant wore clothing that seemed to be made of bear, stag and wolf skins, crudely stitched and riveted together, cured to form a kind of armour. Of course, no normal clothing could have fitted the man. A wooden maul, the head clearly a tree trunk, at least the size of Coel's torso, bound with iron leaned against the giant's side. He sat on a pair of barrels, and his brimming mug was a bucket. He was talking in a booming voice to someone beside him.

As Coel came closer, he saw the second person. Utterly dwarfed by her companion, a petite Erenlander woman sat, trying to avaoid he giant's elbows as they flailed around. She wore a simple woolen dress, and nursed a small wooden mug of... water, apparently. Her light brown hair was left unbound, and flowed over her neck.

"Ho!" Boomed the giant, turning as Coel sat down at their table. "Here be our wildlander!" He held out a hand the size of a small shield, the fingers thick and calloused, studded with splinters from the wooden haft of his hammer "Urlandt be my name, Erenlander."

Coel winced as Urlandt crushed his wrist in a warrior's handshake, and told them his name.

"I'm Ellionwy, a... healer" the woman murmured, her voice soft.

- - -

Old Lansin smiled to himself as he brought another round of drinks and another tallow candle to the three odd folk at his table. It was well past nightfall, and yet the three spoke, discussing something about a journey east, through the woods and back to Erenland, the home that he, Lansin, had fled so many years ago. A fool quest, as far as he was concerned. Still, the big one looked dangerous, as did Coel, who, frankly, scared Lansin. Yes, they might prove worth mentioning. Lansin smiled again as he mentally compiled a report for his Master...

 

[Dirigible]

Daenil (Male Erenlander commoner 1 / warrior 1, 17 years old): Boy, what a shmuck. I was originally going to use a basic 2nd level warrior as the gate guard, but for variety I decided to roll his stats.

Wisdom. Triple One. That's a three, for those playing at home.

So suddenly, Daenil becomes more interesting. He has his head so far up in the clouds he can see the hole where the Gods used to be, couldn't spot an Oruk door-to-door salesmen in a pink trenchcoat (hence didn't even come close to seeing the stealthy Coel), and has a tendency to think he's in the land of faery tales. As a matter of fact, he was day dreaming about orcs when Coel disturbed him, hence his reaction.

Gornrig (Male Erenlander warrior 3, 24 years old) : Sergeant of the refugee camp guards. Mean, ornerny, viscious, now hobbling Sadly, he will never play Tarzan again.

Guards (Assorted human warrior 2) : Meh, nothing relevant about these mooks.

Commander Banedren (Male Erenlander warrior 2, fighter 6, 40 years old) : Banedren is second generation refugee. His father was a ranking soldier in the armies of an Erenlander traitor prince, who grew tired of the relentless brutality of life under the Shadow. His heart captivated by elven beauty, he fled with his wife and a group of soldiers loyal to him and commoners seeking asylum from the Shadow.
Banedren is an expert tactitian and veteran campaigner, and has thus far served well in keeping the orcs encamped near Althorin from penetrating into Erethor and the heartlands of the elves.

General Ilasus (Female Caransil fighter 10, hermetic channeler 1, warmaster 1, age 180) : I haven't entirely figured out what I want to do with this character yet; I figure I'll keep her all enigmatic-like.
Oh, the creature on her pipe is, of course, a beholder. I included it as a little foreshadowing if I use Judd Hariis' idea of a beholder acting as a living repository for the Lore of Highwall.

 

[Dirigible]

Here are the stats for two of the PC's. As this is a one-on-one game, traditionalists might consider these to be NPC's, but I prefer to term Auxilliary PC's.

Urlandt
Male Dorn.
Chaotic Good.
Heroic Path : Giantblooded.
Fighter 1 / Barbarian 1.

Str 20, Dex 7, Con 16, Int 8, Wis 10, Chr 11.
Fort +10, Ref -2, Will +0. Speed 40'
HP 26.

Skills (only those with ranks or special modifiers listed)
Craft - Woodwork +2, Craft - Leatherwork +2, Hide -6, Intimidate +7 (using Str), Knowledge - Northlands +0, Knowledge - Erethor +0, Listen +1, Spot +1, Survival +2. Speaks Norther and Erenlander.

Feat
Great Fortitude, Endurance, Large And In Charge.

Equipment
Misc adventuring and travel gear (also carries Ellionwy's packs).
In battle, wields an ogre-sized maul he made himself (Attack +6, 2d8+7 damage), and carries a bundle of hefty orcish spears that serve as javelins for him (Attack -1, d8+4 damage). Hide armour, AC 10.

At 12'6" tall and nearing 2000 lbs, Urlandt is a titan of a man. He is uncertain of his exact age; an orphan, he was found in a (rather large) basket on the edge of a human refugee camp north of the current setting. Although most of the people he grew up (and up and up) with were scared of his size, his gigantic strength proved useful, allowing him to singlehandedly dig trenches or erect palisades. He soon earned a reputation amongst the human soldiers that helped defend Erethor, as he could wade through battalions of orcs that barely came up to his belly, and goblins that he could crush underfoot without effort. Eventually, he was called on by Commander Banedren for a special task, and there he met his companions Coel and Ellionwy.


Ellionwy
Female Erenlander.
Neautral Good.
Heroic Path : Seer.
Spiritual Channeler 2.

Str 5, Dex 12, Con 7, Int 13, Wis 18, Chr 12.
Fort -2, Ref +1, Will +7. Speed 30'.
HP 6.

Skills (only those with ranks or special modifiers listed)
Concentration +3, Handle Animal +4, Heal +12, Knowledge - Arcana +6, Knowledge - Nature +6, Knowledge - Erenland +3, Knowledge - Erethor +3, Listen +6, Profession - Herbalist +9, Ride +5, Spellcraft +6, Spot +6, Survival +8. Speaks (and reads) Erenlander, and speaks a pidgin of High Elven.

Feat
Skill Focus : Heal, Magecraft, Spellcasting : Abjuration and Enchantment

Equipment
Misc adventuring and travel gear. Also carries a few quills, ink, and a parchment book, all fairly rare items in the Last Age. Carries a dagger (Attack -2, damage d4-3), but more commonly uses a sling (Attack +1, damage d3-3). No armour, AC 11. Ellionwy is singularly unsuited for combat of any kind.

Magic
Access : Universal, Transmutation, Lesser Conjuration,Abjuration, Enchantment.
Free Orisons : 7. Spell Energy : 6.
Orisons : Cure Minor Wounds, Mending, Create Water, Foraging Charm, Purify Food and Drink.
1st Level : Cure Light Wounds, Goodberry, Shield, Sleep, Magic Weapon.

Plus, Aurgury and Clairvoyance once per day each.

At 21 years old, 5'1" and little more than 100 lbs, Ellionwy is not well suited for battle. However, she possesses a skill far more rare and valuable than mre warcraft: the arts of healing. She has spent most of her life waging a war against the diseases that run rife amongst the human refugees, and the even more common battle wounds. Her knowledge of sorcery and talents as a healer and caretaker will prove well useful in the journey into the Shadow.

 

[Dirigible]

Session 2

- - -

Shortly before dawn, Coel stalked back into town from his bivouac out in the woods, and met his companions near the gate. Ellionwy had her hair tied back, appropriate to keep it from falling over her face as she walked, and carried a flexible stick as a walking cane. Urlandt's beard and hair were unruly and tangled, and he was bleary-eyed, every now and then he stiffled a yawn against the back of a hairy fist, clearly suffering the effects of the last evening's drinking. He carried both his own and Ellionwy's packs, hers looking rather small next to his.

As the three of them made their way towards the gate, Coel's preternaturally keen vision caught sight of Ilasus, leaning casually against the wall. She tapped the stem of her pipe against her lips, studying the three humans as they approached. When Ellionwy and Urlandt drew close enough to finally notice the Caransil, their reactions were different. The giantblooded Dorn looked distinctly unsettled, and it showed blatantly given his size, as he shuffled his boots and avoided looking at her. Ellionwy, on the other hand, stared at Ilasus with a mixture of admiration and awe.

"Be swift on your journey," general Ilasus spoke in a low, musical tone. "My informants have warned me that the orcs of Nouk-Gamar, a hundred miles to the east, have begun to mobilise. They can force a hard pace, when pressed by their Legate masters, and can be here in three days. Perhaps less." She frowned for a moment, the expression lining her flawless features. "The Shadow's black-winged eyes dare not come this deep into the homewoods. I fear our spies are of the two-legged breed." With a curt nod, Ilasus turned on her heel and strode off, her cloak swirling like the night sky behind her, making her seem to fade into the morning-dim forest beyond.

The group had barely left the oval of wooden stakes that made the refugee camp's pallisade when another figure blocked their path, leaning on a staff that served as a crutch. Gornrig scowled so deeply it seemed his eyepatch would tear, his malevolence focused on Coel. His foot and leg were heavily bandaged, and he clearly avoided putting any weight on it. As the three travellers moved by him, Gornrig snarled in a low voice to Coel, "I'll see you bleed for this, wildlander".

Coel didn't spare a single word on the sergeant of the guard. Instead, he lashed his boot out with deadly precision, knocking the crutch out from under Gornrig's arm, sending him sprawling to the ground to a breakfast of mud.

[Aside] I swear, if he doesn't stop doing things like this, I'm gonna change his alignment to Chaotic Evil...[/Aside]

He continued to stride on, ignoring the sounds from behind him; Gornrig's stream of vile, ear-curdling invective; Urlandt's earth-rumbling chuckle; and Ellionwy's pointed tsks. He set himself a fast pace, using his practised long-gait to speed ahead of the others, more to get away from them than to scout out the land, though he did use the opportunity to get a headstart on the day's foraging and hunting.

After an hour or so, Coel made his way back to the others, silently lamenting their lack of progress. "If we are to outdistance the orcs before they arrive, we must set a faster pace. We travel for ten hours, and I will set a firm speed. He paused, eyeing Ellionwy's legs. "And you ride on the Dorn's shoulders. His stride is far longer".

Disregarding Ellionwy's scandalised protests, Coel turned back to face the endless, verdent expance of the Caraheen forest, and vanished into the trees, relived to be properly alone at last.

 

[Dirigible]

They travelled for several more hours, Coel searching for elven trailsign a good distance ahead until the beams of dim light lancing down from the canopy announced highsun. Behind him, Urlandt's powerful stride ate up ground at a speed that almost equaled Coel's, much faster than a normal mans. Ellionwy perched awkwardly on his shoulders, murmuring a spell to guide her to edible plants, fruits and nuts in a continuous undertone.

As noon arrived, Coel began to hear the sounds of shouting voices in High Elven, Erenlander and Black Speech, along with the sounds of clashing blades and crashing undergrowth. No doubt an orcish scout party he thought to himself, and set about scaling the largest tree within reach.

When he ascended above the canopy, Coel saw the source of much of the battle sounds; a wide, clay banked gully lay about 500' ahead, it's sides erroded into a sloping clearing. Goblins of all breeds swarmed though the gap, at least a score of them, clashing with a band of human soldiers, who were fighting a defensive stand on the nearer side of the clearing. Towering above the goblins, though, was a massive, fierce oruk, clad in blackened scale mail and wielding a wickedly jagged, oruk-sized vardatch.

With his legs wrapped tight around he trunk, Coel leaned back a little and eased an arrow out of its quiver and drew it back. He fired...and the arrow fell far short of the target. Too far Coel thought to himself. Need a closer position...

Dropping back to the ground, Coel wove through the trees making his way towards the source of the battle clamour. Moments later, he flinched as he felt the rush of air beside him, and the stinging touch of a goblin arrow as it nicked his flank. Spinning and falling into a firing crouch, Coel saw a lesser goblin, flap-eared and squash-faced, squatting on top of a boulder, loading another arrow. Coel raised, pulled, aimed and fired in one smooth action, and his arrow flew deadly-true, catching the goblin in the head and flinging it back with such force that it was pinned to the tree behind it, transfixed through the skull.

Quickly, Coel crossed the remaining distance, and found a suitable tree from which to overspy the skirmish. Ascending, he found that the oruk had led a brutal charge against the human line, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake, the goblins on his flanks clearing up and holding off adversaries.

Coel took a moment to line up a shot... this time, at closer range, it flew true, cutting a gash in the oruk's cheek. The ten foot tall beast barely flinched, but turned to scan the tree line, with a growl. Suddenly, it barked a command, and several goblins bunched around it, using the varying height of the ground, and holding their shields high to provide cover.

Coel fired again... sending one of the guards cartwheeling against it's commander. As he drew another arrow, patient as Death itself, Coel heard a deep-voiced bellow form behind the human band... and the sound of boots approaching.

 

[Ithian]

Great stuff, Dirigible! Can't wait to read more...

-Ithian