Shadows of Malboria (The Chronicle of Kurgish -updtd 11/09/05)

[Sir Brennen]

This tale is based on the current campaign (at the time of this writing) that I am playing in, run by Kid Charlemagne, entitled “Shadows of Malboria”. More information about his campaign world, CrystalMarch, can be found on his boards here.

In the game, I play the Kurgish “Cutter” Barrowsteel, a dwarf with a mission. This story is told from his perspective, and might be considered a little dwarf-centric Sometimes events which happened to other party members might be told a little out of sequence, or not at all, because of this first-person point of view. For my fellow players who may not be getting as much spotlight time in this telling of the campaign as they deserve, all I can say is, if you’re going to do something interesting, make sure the dwarf is around

Background
First, here are a couple of the relevant events from the world’s history as they relate to Kurgish and his ancestors:

498: The 700-year-old dwarven Kingdom of Spyria splits into pieces. Rysia absorbs a part of the kingdom, and two new dwarven realms are eventually formed: Virisia (498) and Istyria (554)
670: Dwarven Kingdom of Virisia is laid waste and enslaved by a powerful dragon called Mahafren, who takes residence in its greatest city and demands tribute and service from its new subjects. This continues to the present day.
998: Present Day

And here is Kurgish’s background story presented to the DM:

Though the god Corvus may hold the keys to the lands of the dead, family legends hold that it was a Barrowsteel dwarf who fashioned the locks. Whether there is any truth to that or not, the Barrowsteel family has been in the service of the goddess Galerra, judge of the dead, for countless generations. They have been architects of great tombs, and craftsmen of the weapons and armor, gold trinkets and bejeweled treasures taken by many heroes on their journey into the afterlife. Often they have served as guardians of important burial sites, or bailiffs to the priests of Galerra. As soon as they learn to speak, Barrowsteel children are taught proper respect for the dead, and the prayers to offer for brethren fallen in battle.

After the fracturing of the kingdom of Spyria, most of the Barrowsteel family gathered under the banner of newly formed Virisia. Later generations believe the family was seduced by promises of great reward from the ruling clans of the new country, if they used their skills to honor the heroes of Virisia. Indeed, the tombs and monuments crafted over the next generation were some of the grandest ever seen in dwarven history, though many felt there were warriors more deserving of such memorials. This hubris was also decried as one of the reasons Virisia fell before the great dragon, Mahafren.

Now, for over two hundred years, the dragon's avarice has reached even into the sacred sites, stripping the best works of the Barrowsteels' from the great crypts. Most of the family who remain work to keep any unplundered burial sites guarded and hidden. This is their atonement. This is the re-dedication and continuation of their sacred duty to Galerra.

For Kurgish Barrowsteel, however, this simply isn't enough. Inspired by tales of his grandfather, who died battling against the dragon’s machinations, Kurgish believes the only true way to honor the dead of Virisia is to take back the land from Mahafren, and reconsecrate the tombs built by his ancestors.

Kurgish fell in with a group of like-minded young dwarves. He even became a blood brother with the warrior Giri, after they had saved each other's lives on different occasions. For over a year, their band concentrated on harassing those who collected tribute for the dragon. Kurgish was often admonished by his father, Lahir, that such actions would bring the wrath of Mahafren's minions down on their families, but Kurgish did not relent.

He and his fellows concentrated for several months on a mercenary named Tivero, who's band of men specialized in plundering smaller dwarven gravesites for what trinkets they could find. Kurgish suspected Tivero to be touched of dragon blood himself. Even though they knew they could not face the more experienced men directly, the daring dwarves snuck in to sabotage their wagons, steal their food or gold coin payments, and hinder them in any way possible.

During a raid on the graverobber's campsite, Tivero’s men captured Giri. The young dwarf did not betray his friends, but the clan symbols Giri so proudly wore gave Tivero enough to enact a little revenge. Soon, in the middle of the night, agents of the dragon turned Giri's village into a bonfire of bodies on the mountainside.

Demoralized, the young dwarven raiders disbanded, with Kurgish still uncertain about Giri's fate. He now understood the danger his father had warned him about, but his father would no longer speak to him.

Kurgish was not yet ready to give up. Now he saw he needed to work from without, to find resources that would not put his friends or family at risk. And it would take gold, lots of it, to find the things he needed to carry on the fight.

The human lands near Malboria were in need of mercenaries during their petty conflicts; someone of his skills should be able to make his fortune there. And perhaps even adventurous allies willing to help him in his ultimate quest. Kurgish knew it might take a while, even years, but that was why the gods gave dwarves such long lives. And the dragon certainly wasn't going anywhere...

 

[Sir Brennen]

A New Chronicle

[session 1, Dec 12th '04]
This is the first time I have put quill to parchment since Giri's capture, when I was still Chronicler for our little band in Virisia. What has it been, almost a year now? I had not intended to start writing again until I had found a unit to join, possibly with any mercenaries that might be hiring in Stonehearth, but things have taken a different turn. My fate, at least for a short time, is linked with a group of fellow travelers, strangers, as we have inherited a common enemy and try to complete a task for a man none of us knew. But it does seem the right thing.

Are these the people I might tie my fortune to? Can any of them aid me with my ultimate goal? The possibility is exciting, and as I cannot sleep after the attack on us at the inn, I have decided to begin a new chronicle. Even if it is just for myself, it will help me remember these people should I ever need to find them again.

So let me go back, to two days ago, when we first met.

 

[Sir Brennen]

April 12th, 998

I had been travelling by coach to Stonehearth, but decided to walk to the next stop on the route, Daggerhall, to get some exercise and hunting in. I almost missed the coach as it was about to pull away from the Dagger's Edge tavern. When I hoisted myself into the carriage, my nose was assaulted by the smell of dandied humans. Fortunately, there was another dwarf, though his accent pegged him as an Istyrian.

Once I settled in, I looked at my coach companions a little more closely. I noticed the girl with us, who called herself Charlotte, actually appeared to have a touch of elven blood in her, though it was hard to tell at first due to the enormous hooded cloak she wore. She seemed to be travelling with the young human Marcus, who latter informed us that they were half-siblings. They both seemed a bit secretive, but later I learned this might be because she has some magical talent. Apparently Crystalmarch has some rules regarding such things that the siblings may have bent or broken.

Also with us was a priest of the new god, who invited everyone to a game of cards. Though he, Aleator, seemed pleasant enough, over the last couple of days he has demonstrated a healthy interest in games of chance. It makes me wonder what his church's stance is on such things, as a priest with such a habit might be tempted to dip into the congregation's coffers.

Barrick, the other dwarf with us, tells me he was travelling to work at a relative's smithy in Stonehearth, but as he was obviously trained as a warrior, I don't believe he was truly ready to lay down his axe for such a mundane existence quite yet. He seemed traditional and pragmatic in his ways, reminding me of my father. I haven't decided yet if this is a good thing. In any event, he appeared the most likely person I might convince to throw his lot in with me, if he was not content to become just a smith.

Lastly, there was a rail-thin human, Handel, who looked as if he would break in half if you flicked a booger at him. He seemed a nervous fop, so I paid little attention to him, though he seemed to be clutching a satchel as if his life depended on it. Apparently, it did.

As we journeyed, I mostly watched and listened to the others. A few hours in, there was a bumping on the roof of the coach. Before we could even speculate, there was another sound the humans thought to be a shot from one of those infernal gnomish hand-cannons. I stood up and glanced out in time to see the driver's body fall by the window. Without thinking, I opened the door and climbed up to the driver's seat.

At first I thought it was empty, the driver's cloak lying on the footboards. But as I reached for the reins, an odd, bald, gray-skinned human whipped back the cloak, though I don't understand how he could have been hiding there, and pointed a hand-cannon at my face. Suspecting he might be bluffing with an spent gun, I spoke loudly and tried to stall until I thought I heard someone climbing up the other side of the carriage. I convinced the highwayman that I was climbing back down into the carriage, but once I stepped around the side, I reached for Giri's pickaxe hung on my back. Behind me, I saw Charlotte was leaning out the door, gesturing and causing a rope to magically snake by and tie to the reins.

Climbing back up to the front, I glanced down the road. We were coming to a fork. There were also three men on horses, with shorn heads and clothing like our friend on the coach.

Glancing back, I saw Barrick was hauling himself up the other side of the driver’s seat. As I prepared to attack, the horses veered off the main road onto the fork, and the jolt of the rougher terrain bounced me onto the carriage roof. Barrick fell and I thought him lost. Keeping low, I struck at the brigand as he fumbled for his weapon. Out of nowhere, Barrick leaped back into the seat and grabbed the man, then proceeded to pummel him into unconsciousness.

The sound of another gunshot drew my attention behind the wagon; the three riders were quickly bearing down on us. I attempted a couple of bowshots to little effect, while crossbow bolts and all sorts of strange magic seemed to spew from the carriage below me. Barrick climbed on the roof next to me, suggesting that we toss our knocked-out friend over in an attempt to trip a horse. Before we could decide, two of the riders went down from the attacks of our fellows below us. The third began to slow down, his attention seeming to be ahead of the coach. Following his gaze, I saw we were headed at full speed to a tight turn just before a bridge! I clambered back to the front, shouting a warning to everyone, and tried to apply the brake.

It wasn't enough. Going round the bend, the coach tipped and rode on two wheels, barely supported by the low wall of the bridge. Then I heard the sound of the other rider's horse galloping next to us, a thump, and then we were toppling over. Barrick and I managed to jump clear. The coach crashed into the water below, killing Hansen and battering the rest, though somehow the priest had managed to stay on the bridge. The rider paced his horse and thought about firing his gun at us, then rode off.

After retrieving our gear, we searched for the unconscious highwayman, but did not find him. We also discussed what to do with Handel's body. There were suggestions of leaving him in the woods. I shuddered at the thought. From what the others told me, he had made a showing for himself in the fight, even taking a bullet. I had always been taught that the respect the bodies of warriors were shown was taken into account when Galerra judged their souls. How would it look if we just left him in the woods to the beasts? Thank Darvas they finally decided to take him to a town for proper burial.

We also examined the package he had been carrying. The water had ruined the name on the address, but it was to go to a place in Stonehearth called "The Boar's", something. Inside was an ornate clock, later identified by Marcus as being crafted by a man named Vittorio Matteo, some big-wig wizard back in the day. Funny how we just assumed the robbers were after the clock, without really knowing that much about each other, but it turned out it was the right call.

We gathered up our wet gear, and after Barrick fashioned a makeshift cart, we headed back to the main road. On the way, we intended to search for the bodies of the fallen riders, as well as our carriage driver.

The slain highwaymen were nowhere to be found. As we approached the main road, we could see more riders had appeared. Everyone slipped into the woods, and I stealthily maneuvered up to get a better look. There were three of them, similar to the ones we had seen before, though one of a strikingly different appearance rode up to them - an elvish looking woman on a large black stallion. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but she was obviously in charge. She sent one of the riders up the road in the direction of Stonehearth, while she and the others waited at the fork, presumably for us.

Our group decided to cut through the woods, and travel parallel to the main road. Unfortunately, that meant we had to leave the cart behind. Barrick volunteered to carry the body. Checking the road once in a while, we soon spied the lone horseman, as he slowly plodded along, searching. We quickly organized a plan to set up an ambush, with Barrick and I moving ahead of the rider, and the rest behind him with their crossbows, should he head back to warn his comrades. We were almost on him when Barrick's scalemail caused him to stumble. Alerted, the brigand turned and galloped back down the road before we could engage him. Someone struck him with a crossbow bolt, and I dashed out onto the road, firing an arrow that slumped him over in his saddle.

Seeing he was still alive, we decided to take our strange gray-skinned, white-eyed friend for questioning after he woke. We also liberated his gun and I took his jerkin which seemed suited for blending into the forest. Slinging him over his horse, we moved deeper into the woods, and within a couple of hours, made camp for the night.

 

[Sir Brennen]

April 13th, 998

In the morning we traveled on toward Stonehearth. It was a clear day and easy to find our way, even so far from the road. Eventually we came on a river, presumably the same one that the bridge on the fork crossed. Below us was a ford where the steep cliffs had crumbled somewhat into the water, and further down we could see signs of a village. Descending to the bank, we crossed the river and soon found ourselves in the sleepy human town of Ash Lane.

There was a church of Alioth, the new god, in the village, as well as a constable's station and an inn. I went to check the stables while the rest discussed what to do with our prisoner. I wanted to make sure our pursuers had not arrived in the town ahead of us. There was no sign of the black stallion, so I joined up with the others again at the inn.

Handel's body was at the church and the prisoner was in the jail. Word was to be sent if he woke. Barrick commented that we should remember Ash Lane as the "village of helpful people." What little other information gathered was that a Lord Dansforth lived in the manse above the village next to a ruined keep, and that the church was run by a Father Dornan.

We had also sold the prisoner's horse in exchange for a pack pony, with thirty gold to boot. The priest - "Al," as he liked to be called - engaged us in a game of cards for beer. The human brew was weak and watery, but it helped me relax a bit after our long day's walk. With our windfall of gold, we all rented private rooms when we were ready to retire. In the morning, we planned on checking the prisoner and seeing to the burial of Handel.

Sometime in the night, a sound from the far end of the hall woke me. I listened a moment, then heard Barrick shouting something. Grabbing my urgrosh, I threw open my door and jumped out into the narrow hallway. In hindsight I realized that the door should have still been locked.

Standing in the middle of the hall was the she-elf. She had already stabbed Barrick with a spear, and when he tried to maneuver past the deadly bladetip, she struck him with her bare hand hard enough that he flinched back in pain.

Coming up the stairs behind them, one of the gray men appeared, wielding a pistol. I shouted a warning to everyone as I rushed at the elf, who struck at both of we dwarves with lightning speed with her spear, barely missing us both. Barrick jumped back into his room to retrieve a better weapon. The elf turned and gave me a quick assessing look, then made a fluid retreat into the open doorway of Marcus and Charlotte’s room. Something about her dark, colorless features stirred something in my memory, stories from childhood. She was a Shadow Elf!

The whir of a lead ball spinning past my head broke my reverie. The gray man was still trying to judge the effectiveness of his shot through the smoky blastpowder cloud when I charged him. Just as I caught a glimpse of the priest peering from his room, the haft of the elf's spear struck me solidly from the next doorway. Stumbling, I still managed to get a glancing blow against the shootist. He pulled out a thin blade, a scoundrel's weapon, and we were engaged.

As we fought, loud sounds were coming from the siblings' room; the knock of wooded weapons, furniture crashing, glass breaking. Barrick appeared at the doorway, rejoining the fight.

Seeming to hear some silent command, the gray man broke off and ran down the stairs. I decided not to give chase, and moved to the room where the rest of the battle was taking place. Everyone had stopped fighting, staring out of an open window, with no sign of the Shadow Elf or her companions. She had indeed tried to take the clock, but Marcus had protected it with a quick bit of furniture re-arrangement.

We shared our observations from the encounter, and Marcus told us what he knew of the clock's maker. Even though the clock had been checked for magic, my suggestion of winding it to see if it did anything special was soundly rejected. Barrik even went as far as suggesting it might be easier to sell it for parts and scrap, making it useless to the shadow elf and her companions.

After Aleator tended to our wounds, we all retired to our beds.

Now as I sit here penning this new chapter in my quest, I am stuck by a sudden ill feeling. If all of our rooms were so easily unlocked, how difficult will it be for our gray captive to escape this hamlet's jail? Or for those that attacked us to break him out?

The sun is almost up. I will see who else of my fellow sojourners is an early riser and head down to the constable's (what was his name? Bergen?) and see if he still lives.

 

[Sir Brennen]

April 14th, 998

[session 2, Jan 9th '05]
At first light I awoke, recalling the events of the previous evening. Figuring that if anything was going to happen with regard to the prisoner, it had already happened, and the consequences could wait until after breakfast. Banging on all the doors of my travelling companions as I passed, I yelled for them to meet me in the dining room downstairs. As we ate, we discussed questioning the prisoner.

When we were ready to go, Al grabbed his holy symbol and mumbled something. Maybe priests of the new god bless the meal after you're done eating. Whatever it was, he became quiet and had a look of concentration on his face as we walked the two doors down to the constable's. The lawman asked us about the ruckus last night, implying that if we have trouble following us, it might be best for us to be on our way soon. We explained to him that's why we're here, to see if his prisoner could tell us anything.

Our gray skinned captive was still there in his cell, and alive. The constable wouldn't let us in the cell with him, but we could talk through the bars. Father Al looked in, and seemed to be satisfied with something he sensed. He and Marcus, with interjections from Barrick, started questioning the gray man. At first we tried the deal-making angle, though occasional comments from the watchful constable undercut our credibility somewhat. The talks soon devolved into threats, which the constable more loudly countered us on. I suggested to our group's self-styled interrogators that we try a different tact, playing on the fact that the gray man's companions seemed to have abandoned him. That at least earned us a name, and we then knew the shadow elf was called Kurav.

The prisoner remained elusive regarding anything else about his companions or the clock. When Barrick tried to get the constable to play along with another not so subtle threat, the lawman lost his patience and asked us to leave. We also had the impression that, with just our word on what happened, the gray man might get off lighter than we would have liked. Especially since we were not going to be allowed to stay in town for the several days before the trial to bear witness against him in person. Ah, well. Human lands, human laws. We'll make sure we do our questioning before hand, next time.

The service for Handel was to be that morning, so most of us headed over to the church for the ceremony. Aleator lingered behind a few moments, presumably trying to smooth things over with the constable, and Barrick headed back to the inn for some more breakfast. It sounded like a good idea, and my stomach grumbled a little, but I was curious to see a human funeral.

The ceremony was brief, and there was no one to speak for the deceased, though I silently offered a prayer to Galerra, as my father had taught me. Afterward, I spent time looking at the monuments in the cemetery. Even the largest seemed but pauper's stones by my family's standards, but perhaps they did not have any skilled masons in the village. I think the worshippers of the new god don’t have as fine an understanding of the relationship between death and the earth, as we dwarves do.

The others milled about inside the church, and Father Dornan placed some of Handel's affects into Aleator's care. Barrick waited outside, apparently with something to tell us. We gathered in the street, but before barrick could get anything out, Marcus started giving suggestions that my fellow dwarf might try being more subtle in future dealings with humans. "Subtle", of course, is a human word for "not saying what you really mean", which to a dwarf, especially one from the free kingdoms like Barrick, is the same as telling them not to talk.

"Fine, you want me to shut up, I'll shut up," he said, while Marcus hurriedly tried to explain that's not what he meant, suddenly aware he might have insulted Barrick.

Finally, in Dwarven, Barrick told me aside that a farmer had mentioned there were three funny colored men forming a blockade on the road out of town, who seemed to be looking for something specific, as they didn't take anything from him. Respecting his current attitude toward the humans, I merely suggested to everyone that perhaps we should continue to travel off the road, since we knew the shadow beings were still out there. Dwarven subtlety? Maybe, but then, I wasn't from the free dwarven kingdoms.

As we discussed the merits of various routes out of town, Barrick eventually did let slip that there was someone waiting on the road ahead for us. However, he was all for meeting them head on, while the rest of us thought avoidance still the best route. We might be able to win against them, despite their guns, but all they had to do was get the clock, not necessarily beat all of us.

Father Dornan, overhearing some of this, offered a suggestion that we might be able to take a more hidden path out of town. There was an abandoned keep not far from Lord Dansforth's current dwelling, whose crypts led to a series of caves, and from there to an old copper mine which surfaced four or five miles away. The constable had the key for the gate of the keep, which Aleator convinced Father Dornan to request for us, given our current standing with the constable. It turns out, however, that the lawman was more than willing to help us out, if it meant getting us out of town quicker.

We made arrangements to have our pack pony taken to a farm near the exit of the mine, and then headed off. We entered the keep through its rusty gate, leaving the key for the constable to retrieve. Inside was a small temple to the Twelve, a reminder that the new god Alioth had not always held sway here. A stairway leading down was filled with collapsed rubble, but after a bit of searching, we found one of the statues could be moved, with a little difficulty. Underneath there was a shaft leading down to the crypts (beneath the statue of Galerra, Judge of the Dead. Of course!)

The metal rungs had been sawn off, and it was a lengthy climb by rope to a small room below filled with water that had seeped in. Below we found a cleaned out shrine, a lesser crypt and a more elaborate one marked with the family name "Areth" above the gateway. The burial graves were set into columns, and the back quarter of the chamber had collapsed. An open grave with a pile of bones on the ground in front of it seemed to form a tunnel to the other side of the collapse.

Bones and clothing seemed be in more disarray than what would have been caused by merely falling out. I looked closer to see that something with claws about the breadth of a man's hand had been roughly searching it. Several of the corpses in the other section we found in the same state, some of the not so old ones also having their bones cracked and the marrow apparently sucked dry.

I respectfully placed the poor soul's bones back and we climbed through the tunnel. We found the caves the priest had spoken of and followed them for about a quarter mile. At one point a lengthy crack ran along the ceiling through which shone daylight. The shadows created by that almost caused us to not notice the large spidery creature hanging from the ceiling.

Perhaps because we were at the rear and not staring into the glare, Charlotte and I saw it first and fired. My arrow struck stone but her magical bolts were true. The spider-thing responded by throwing a gob of liquid that quickly formed a web in the air, covering me as it fell. I was stuck fast. As Marcus moved to assist me, everyone else opened fire. Another mass of webbing covered Charlotte and it scuttled down the wall to our right. In the light we could see how truly horrible it was - a bloated, man-like body, blackish purple all over like a fresh bruise, with a spider's head and clawed hands and feet.

Charlotte and I were still trapped, as Marcus pried with his staff and sliced with his dagger at the webbing. Father Al and Barrick sent rock chips flying from the wall from the impact of their bolts and slingstones, but the creature ducked out of sight down a side passage. Barrick ran after it, but cursed aloud as he stumbled into an almost invisible web strung across the passage.

As Father Al rushed in to tear at the web, the entire area was suddenly filled with spiders! While he was distracted trying to brush them off, the man-spider moved forward and bit Barrick through the webbing. I finally tore free and moved to try and hack Barrick loose, spiders squishing underfoot. Marcus cut through the last of the strands holding Charlotte, just as Barrick also tore out of the sticky strands. Marcus quickly laid down a line of oil and lit it to keep the small spiders back.

Seeing we were all prepared to press our attack again, the man-spider started to climb the wall away from us. A few more bowshots and spells failed to bring it down, and it scampered out the crack in the ceiling above.

Barrick leaned up against the wall and mentioned that he didn't feel too good. His joints were feeling particularly achy. Father Al tended to him as best he could, but I don't know how much help it was.

Without their leader, the smaller spiders scattered. We burned the webs away and looked at the immediate area behind them, seeing scattered coins from previous victims. In a separate alcove, we discovered a couple of bodies webbed to the wall, drained of most of their fluids. We decided to torch the corpses to prevent any eggs the spider thing might have left behind. The webbing and dry flesh made an effective pyre. I said a prayer to Galerra that these souls not be judged too harshly, or that they spend too long in the Shadowlands for being given last rites with unknown names.

During this, Barrick had fallen asleep in the main passage. We decided to let him rest while we carefully searched the area, gathering up the loose coin as we did so. Rousing Barrick, we continued on.

Eventually the natural cave walls gave way to tooled ones. We had entered the mines. Testing for drafts and letting the earth guide us on our way to the surface, we wound our way through several intersections in the mine. At one point we found a chest which had been dug up from the floor and broken open. It was empty, its contents gone, possibly taken by the men whose bodies we had burned, the chest's coins now in our pockets.

At last we came to a large scaffold in the mine which seemed like it might lead to the surface. Not trusting the aged ladders, Barrick used his grappling hook on the structure, tested it, and started climbing up his knotted rope, despite the effects of the poison on him. I thought of saying something, but decided against it. Once he spotted the exit, we all followed up and out into the fading light of the day.

We hiked over to the home of Urza, the farmer that was to have our pony for us. We asked if we might stay the night in his barn, to which he was agreeable, and he even invited us in to share some stew first. As a show of appreciation, we did a few small chores for him before the meal.

Back in the barn, we counted the few coins we had gained today, and Father Al showed us the ring that Handel had worn. Silver with an onyx setting, and engraved with a skull emblem. It looked to me to be worth a couple hundred gold coins, maybe a little less. The appraisal was merely for curiosity, however, as our cleric explained he had promised to deliver it to a wizard college that might have known Handel.

Before going to sleep, we talked about staying on at the farm a couple of days, but thought it best to move on in the morning, to avoid bringing any trouble to our host's doorstep.

 

[Sir Brennen]

April 16th 998

We'd traveled the last day and a half slightly off the road, avoiding any incident. Barrick seemed to be feeling better. Marcus cobbled together a wood and stone decoy of the clock which he carried somewhat prominently in the original clock’s sack.

By mid-afternoon we had reached the outskirts of Stonehearth. It seems to have a fairly sizeable dwarven population along with human, so all of us would probably blend in fairly well. Just in case anyone was looking for a group of our description, we decide to go in somewhat separate, some of us from another gate. We agreed to meet up at the Dragontooth Armory, the smithy of Barrick's cousin Strom. On the way over, I noticed an inn across from a park, with the name "Boar's Tusk" was carved on the shingle. Maybe this was the place where the clock was supposed to be delivered?

Cousin Strom was a good host, even with the humans, and offered us a little food and drink. Barrick filled his kin in on why we were currently traveling together, omitting the information about Handel's timepiece. We asked him about places in town with "boar" in the name - inns, jewelers, and even clockmakers. The inn we spied earlier was the only one he could think of.

Thanking him, we headed over to the Boar's Tusk to see if we could figure out to whom the clock is to be delivered. Our plan, devised on the way over, was to simply ask at the desk if anyone was expecting a package from points west of Ash Lane, claiming ignorance of recipient and sender. The ruse didn’ go far, as the desk clerk is unaware of anyone looking for such a package.

The backup plan of the humans involved chatting to random strangers in the bar area, trying to drop subtle inquiries about the package without tipping our hand regarding its contents or previous owner. Father Al's approach involved joining a table with a card game going. Go figure. We dwarves decided to go back and talk to Strom, taking the clock and filling him in on the whole story this time.

On the way there, I asked Barrick if making horseshoes is really what he wants to do with his life. "Watching you jump into those fights with the gray guys and the spider thing, you seem meant more for swinging that axe than a blacksmith's hammer."

"I mean, the reason I ask," I explained "I'm looking for others to join up with to do a little more high-risk work, to build up a lot of cash for some things I need to care of back home. Being a fellow dwarf, you're the first person I've made this suggestion to. Originally, my plan was to hook up with a mercenary guild, but that wouldn't pay as well as doing specialty jobs with just a few talented individuals."

I paused. "Maybe even a couple of the others that came on the coach might be up for it. Father Al will certainly need some extra cash, if he keeps gambling like that. That Charlotte girl seems a pretty good shot with her crossbow and magic bolts. And Marcus might seem a little shifty, but sometimes you need shifty."

"What type of action you talk'n bout Kurgish?" he responded. "Whose head you want to beat in? I mean, my cousin has offered me a job here making some money while being apprenticed to him, but I’m not sure if I’m up for that kinda change... coming from the army and all." He eyes had a far-off look for a moment, as if he were remembering a more gratifying time in his life. My suspicions were correct.

"I haven't gotten anything specific in mind yet. I'm hoping this clock thing will lead to a reward to tide me over 'til something big comes along. Maybe the guy it goes to will need bodyguards." I stopped and looked at him. "Right now I'd rather not discuss my long-term plans, but rest-assured, they're in the interest of all dwarves. If we both live that long, I'll let you in on the all details."

"It won't take much prodding to get me to join up," he said, eyes focused again and evidently curious, "if there is a living to be had in what you are proposing. I could use a couple more notches in me axe handle ... to take the pain away." Now his gaze turned downward, an expression of shame on his face. What's this? I thought. Best not to pry. "But you let me know if I have a job with you and I will talk with me cousin."

"Well, it's good to know you're interested." I clapped him on the back, and we walked on.

Explaining the whole story to Strom didn't help much. We admitted we hadn't told him everything before to try and keep him from becoming too involved, for his own safety. Now we had to try every possible lead we could think of.

While we were there, Barrick and I again toyed with the idea of winding the clock, to see what would happen. Then I remembered the skull on Handel's ring. Did that mean he was one of those wizards that dealt with the dead? Maybe it was best not to wind it, after all.

We headed back over to the Boar's Tusk, where everyone was still carousing, though not having much luck in finding out anything.

Charlotte apparently had attempted to use her feminine wiles on a few bar patrons to get them to talk, but I don't think it was conversation they were interested in. Her frustration evident, Marcus said something I missed that pushed her over the edge. She stormed out of the dining area, and checked herself into a room upstairs. I'm not certain what motivated Marcus to tease her so. Brotherly protectiveness? Something else? There's definitely a strange tension in their relationship I haven't figured out yet.

Barrick obviously had been to long without good ale, and failing to convince the waitress to bring a keg to the table, settled on downing several pitchers in succession. Father Al, meanwhile, had been playing cards steadily, seeming to win as much as he lost, but not discovering any helpful information.

As the evening wound down, we decided to go ahead and get rooms there at the inn, since Charlotte had already checked in. Besides, how else was the shadow elf going to find us?

Walking upstairs, someone idly mentioned we wished there were a way to determine who else was sharing the third floor with us, when Barrick stumbled ahead and began banging on a door. He drunkenly apologized to the sleepy man who answered, claiming he wasn't able to find his room. He then stumbled on to the next door.

Even though we were thus satisfied that no one on the floor was gray, we gave in to our paranoia and worked out watches. Then, going to our respective rooms, we settled in for the night.

 

[Sir Brennen]

April 16th, Late Night

[session 3, Jan 23rd '05]
Barrick started snoring almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Father Al settled into a chair by the door as he took first watch, while I decided to write just a bit before retiring. I had not completely drifted off when there was a knocking on a door somewhere in the hall. I had almost decided it was a figment of my half-awake mind when Father Al began shaking my shoulder roughly. "There's someone at Marcus and Charlotte's door," he whispered harshly. My fingers quickly went to the floor and wrapped around my urgrosh as I sat up right away.

It sounded as if there was a bit of arguing going on next door, but I couldn't make it out, especially as Barrick barked loudly "What is it?!" as Al woke him. As he stumbled out of bed, we heard the door of our companions' room open, and Marcus talking to someone in the hall. I was up and walking quietly toward the door, when Barrick stumbled past and yanked it open. He blinked into the light of the hallway for a moment, grunted, and slammed the door closed again. Not so much walking as tripping across the room, he said "It's the innkeeper", in the same breath that began his snore as he fell back into bed.

Al and I listened at the door a little, and after hearing a brief discussion, Marcus knocked and told us there was somebody, probably the intended party for the clock, who wanted to talk to us downstairs. We woke Barrick up again, who was grumpier this time, and wanted to put his armor on first. Not that I blamed him. Stories of shadow elves I've heard; they might look like anybody.

After we geared up, we joined everyone in the dining area, which had closed for business by this time. There was a man and a woman, somewhat older looking, for humans anyway, sitting at a table talking with everyone else. They introduced us. The woman was called Marquetta, and the man Chelton. They'd been discussing the "package" and the shadow elf who had been pursuing us. It seemed that the odd gray men were simply humans who had been corrupted by Shadow.

Our conversation had a couple more references to the "package", as if the contents were still a secret to someone here. Barrick blurted out, "Package? Why don't you just say 'clock'? Unless you mean the decoy over in the other 'package'", his stubby fingers making quote marks in the air. There were a few groans, but even the most patient dwarf can only handle so much human subtlety.

The two visitors didn't know why the shadow elves had been looking for the clock, but there had be many rumors of them forming strange alliances over the past two seasons. Also, there was a village in the barony that had "vanished", empty of people, with only a strange, aged ruin where a healthy town had stood only weeks before. Chelton seemed to think there was a link between that, the elves and the clock.

Marquetta commented that the clock didn't appear magical. We were pretty impressed that she could tell without any hand waving spell stuff. Barrick joked that he did feeling a little funny in his stomach when he wound it, but his comment was only met with blank stares. Maybe it was amazement that he had cracked a joke.

Apparently, Vittorio Matteao had created not one but three clocks. One we had obviously just delivered, another was already in the hands of shadow elves, paid for in blood, and the whereabouts of the last was uncertain. Chelton had sent for this clock, since it was in possession of a colleague of his at the wizard academy, Gloom Hall. Handel was that man's apprentice, charged with delivering the clock here. (Apparently, Chelton was some sort of wizard himself, and Father Al had given Handel's ring to him before we came down. Chelton wore a similar ring.)

At mention of the delivery, it seemed to dawn on our visitors that some payment for such was due to us. They had Rhinehart, the innkeeper, fetch a small bag. Peeking inside, we saw it was full of platinum coin, about a pound of it, judging by the bag's heft. Not too bad.

The coin seemed to loosen the tongues of some of my fellow travelers, with Marcus and Father Al moving from suggesting to volunteering our services to help find the missing clock. I jumped in, holding the bag up. "For similar compensation, of course," I said.

Here was what I was looking for. Adventure and reward enough for a return to Virisia. I mentioned to Barrick that this was the type of opportunity I had discussed earlier that evening.

Seizing on the idea, he immediately offered a position to Father Al as the healer of Dwarven Inc. (Our adventuring troupe a business? I hadn't really conceived of it that way, but the dwarves of the east obsess about such things, I guess.) Father Al seemed interested, and handled it good-naturedly when Barrick openly tried to low-ball him a ten percent cut. He wisely tabled the discussion for tomorrow.

Throughout this exchange, Marquetta and Chelton thought about the proposal, then agreed to our terms. Giving us a bit more detail to start our task, they told us that Vittorio Matteao had spent several years here in Stonehearth. Though he was dust almost two hundred years, he did turn his writings over to a library not far from here. That library was part of a monastery for priests of Alioth, specifically dedicated to one of his demigods, one called St. Ambrosius. In those writings, Chelton thought we could find whom the clocks had been given to. The monastery was just shy of two days away.

Marquetta explained that she and Chelton could not go to the monastery themselves, as they may not be too welcome. Chelton was indeed a wizard, a Diviner, and an alumnus of Gloom Hall. She was a member of the Council of the Northern Star, a group of witches in these parts. If we needed to contact them, we could do so here, at the Boar's Tusk, which was pretty much their base of operations. Rhinehart the innkeeper could deliver messages if they weren't about.

With that, we bade them goodnight and headed back upstairs. Since it was nearly time for his watch, Barrick stayed awake and paced up and down the hallway, his boots thumping loudly, axe slung over his shoulder. If anyone opened their door to complain about the noise during those two and a half-hours, they must have reconsidered, because I didn't hear anything else the rest of the night.

 

[Sir Brennen]

April 17th 998

In the morning we all met downstairs for breakfast. We made plans to sell some of the things we'd picked up, including the gray man's gun. This didn't take too long - Stonehearth wasn't very large - and we met back at the inn to split the gold and platinum we'd accumulated.

Accounts were settled over lunch. Once that was done, Barrick turned to Marcus and Charlotte and said, “Nice knowing you. Take care.”
I think both Aleator and I were caught a little off-guard. Barrick had apparently forgotten my recommendation the night before that it might be good to include the siblings in our potential venture. He was probably looking at things from an army unit slant, seeing Father Al only in terms of his healing ability. This mission, however, was going to require (I hated to admit) a little more human subtly. We dwarves weren't going to blend in that well everywhere we might have to go looking for info on this clock, and our axes weren't going to be useful in every situation. Like this monastery we were going to.

We were able to convince Barrick that the fey-blooded girl had useful magic, and she was a crack shot with her crossbow. Explaining Marcus' usefulness to Barrick's military mindset was a bit trickier, and Father Al finally suggested that the siblings were probably a package deal. A little bit of haggling, and the two were hired as part of Dwarven Inc for a fair cut of any payments received.

We set out for the monastery. While we traveled, Marcus and Charlotte seemed to be having an intense conversation. When we settled in to camp for the night, they informed us that while we visited the monastery, we should refer to them as "David" and "Rachel". It seemed rather strange but confirmed for me that they had indeed run afoul of the One Church's attitude regarding mages and such. I guess it was a prudent measure, especially given the reluctance of our wizard and witch sponsors to visit the monastery themselves.

I did a little hunting so we could have a bit of stewed squirrel with our rations for dinner. Now more wary of the Shadow Elves than ever, we kept watches throughout the night, but dawn came without episode.

 

[Sir Brennen]

April 18th 998

We continued on the little used path to the monastery, the ground becoming stonier as we climbed into the foothills. By mid-afternoon, we could make out a group of buildings behind a crumbling wall up ahead. The place didn't look to be in the greatest shape, with a weathered and blackened building, damaged by fire long ago, at the far end from the gate.

Within bowshot of the place, there was a fresh grave at the side of the road. As it was a bit unusual, Father Al took a closer look. The marker had the name "Brother Able" on it, as well as that of the monastery - "Montellegro". I had an ill feeling about the grave, for as I have said, Gallera takes into consideration the respect shown the dead before she passes final judgement on a soul. While not completely familiar with all the burial rites of the new god, I felt the same principal was at work here, but it was a level of disrespect being displayed for this lone grave. Surely the monastery had a better place of rest intended for those who passed away in their god's service.

Working our way up to the gates, we spied one of the monks as he was tending the rocky soil. He looked up, appearing somewhat surprised to see visitors to this out of the way place, and introduced himself as Brother Horatio. He asked us to wait while he went and got the Abbott, Brother Anselm. An older man came back with Horatio, who invited us onto the grounds. Walking toward a chapel in need of some upkeep, I noticed there was indeed a graveyard at the opposite end of the building.

Father Al, being among his people, did most of the talking. He explained that we were looking for some writings that Vittorio Matteao had donated to the monastery long ago.

Anselm looked a bit concerned and apologetic when he heard the reason for our visit, explaining that a large portion of their library had been lost in a fire almost two decades before, during an attack by brigands. He had been living here during that time, but most of the brothers had been evacuated before the attack, with just a few left behind to try and shore up the abbey as best they could. All of those who stayed were unfortunately killed. The library, a source of some pride and renown for the monastery of Montellegro, was sacked and burned. Those texts that could be recovered had since been moved to the building housing the scriptorium. He invited us to look there, but could make no promises about what we might find.

The Abbott offered for us to give us rooms for the night; only a portion of the monastery buildings were currently in use and there was plenty of space. He also invited us to supper with them, on the condition that we attended evening services. Barrick and I weren't too certain about going to a strange religious service. When the added condition of removing our weapons while on the grounds was brought up, that cinched it; we were going to camp outside the walls tonight.

At the door of the scriptorium, Father Al broached the subject of Brother Able's grave out by the road. Looking saddened by the subject, the abbot explained that Able, an illuminator of scripts within the order, had killed himself, throwing himself from the scriptorium roof to this very spot, but two nights before. That did explain the exclusion from the chapel graveyard, but I think most of us had suspicions about this so-called suicide, even though none of us had known the lad.

My thoughts went immediately to the shadow elves, that perhaps they were aware of the notebooks we sought as well. I nudged Father Al in the ribs and told him to ask the abbot what Able had been working on. He waved me off, apparently deciding now was not the time. Hmph.

Still thinking of the dark elves, I suggested to Barrick that we go and look around the outside of the monastery, leaving the others to hunt for the books. Scouting around the outside walls, I noticed a few crumbled spots where a small group might enter fairly easily, if their approach wasn't noticed. Someone accomplishing that would be a bit harder, as steep slopes surrounded the monastery on three sides, with the trail by which we had come the only path up. However, I didn’t know well the brothers kept watch on any approach.

After supper, we met everyone else at the gate and they told us what they had found, which was basically nothing. There was an inventory that did list Matteao's notebooks, but they were not in the scriptorium anywhere. A passing idea of finding the bandits to see if they took the books comes up, but was dismissed because of the years that had passed since that event.

Barrick and I thought that perhaps we could investigate the burned down library, to see if any clues had been left there. At the very least, it would give us a bit of shelter to sleep under tonight. When the bell for the evening services had finished ringing, we sneaked through one of the fallen sections of the wall and went to the gutted building. There was a pile of rubble from the collapsed roof that removed any hope of finding anything resembling a basement. Scraps of charred paper and scorched book covers littered the area, but we found little else. I climbed the loose stones to look out over the roof, to see if there was anyone or anything moving about that shouldn't be. Satisfied that all was clear, I found a suitable rock for a pillow, and fell into a light sleep, lulled by Barrick's snore.

 

[Sir Brennen]

April 19th 998

The chapel bell was ringing, but sounded a little muffled, and without rhythm. Something was wrong. I woke Barrick and hurried outside. By the position of the moon and stars I guessed it was a little past midnight. Heading over to the chapel, I could see several people already going up into the bell tower. Including the rest of Dwarven, Inc, I thought to myself, grinning.

Pushing my way to the top, I saw that someone had been placed inside the bell, tied to the clapper, their face a bloody mess from repeated strikes against the metal. He was obviously dead. Written on the wall in bright red were the words "His Penance Is Done". The men of the monastery said his name was Brother Guglielmo, apparently a simple-minded boy who lived in a room at the bottom of the bell tower. Charlotte had found him rifling through her things earlier that evening.

Brother Anselm had the body cut down, and tried to calm everyone. Once all the brothers had gone back to their rooms, he approached us and asked if we could investigate this tragedy. I quelled my misgivings about how these paupers might repay us. Gold wasn't everything. We agreed and headed back to the bell tower to see if there were any clues we might learn.

Too many feet had trampled through the area to find any possible marks left on the wood floor, but we saw that the writing wasn't blood as we first thought, but a red oil the brothers often used in their ceremonies. Unfortunately, anyone living there could have gotten hold of the oil. We moved the search downstairs into brother Guglielmo's room, where it appeared that a struggle had taken place, though it was somewhat difficult to tell apart from the normal disarray in the room.

Next we went and viewed the body, which was being cleaned and prepared for burial. I thought about offering a brief, whispered benediction for him, as I've been taught, but until his role in all of this was clear, I thought better of it.

Looking through the pile of his clothing revealed nothing, but it became apparent that he had been strangled barehanded before being tied with the bell rope. Brother Guglielmo wasn't a small lad, so it would have taken someone of considerable strength to kill him that way.

A closer examination revealed something else. Guglielmo had fought back against his attacker, leaving oddly dark blood and clay under his fingernails. Thinking on this a moment, I felt a sudden chill curl my beard. Tales my great uncle had told me from his days as a tomb guardian.

"We need to get to Able's grave!" I shouted, and hurried out of the room.

Hustling down the road to the lone plot, we could see immediately that it had been disturbed. Closer up, there was a pile of dirt around a shaft big enough for a man to climb through, and the broken top of the empty coffin could be seen at the bottom.

I looked around for tracks and found bare footprints in the clay-filled soil. I was able to follow them all the way up to the breach in the wall Barrick and I had used, but once inside, I lost the tracks on the scattered flagstones. Now even more convinced this was related to something that Able had been working on, we headed over to his room, also thinking that the dead boy might be hiding there, as it was a familiar place.

We found nothing of import in the room. As we talked over our next steps, the door next to Able's tiny chamber opened. A meek, baggy-eyed kid stepped out in the hall, and said he needed to tell us something. He explained his name was brother Malik, and he had been a good friend of Able's. He didn't believe the story of the suicide, because Able loved his work and his life at the monastery. On the night Able died, Malik had not been able to sleep, which was often the case for him, and he heard noises coming from Able's room. He didn't think much of it, assuming Able was going to the kitchen for a late night snack. Then he showed up dead in the morning.

We pressed him, asking if he had shared this with the Abbott. He hadn't. When asked why, he claimed that even though it was difficult for him to believe, he thought that perhaps Able truly did commit suicide. After all, who here would want to hurt him? But now, with Guglielmo's death...

He was cut off by a scream coming from below us on the compound. We rushed toward the kitchen, where the sound seemed to have come from. Inside were a couple of the brothers staring at a soup cauldron over a fire at the far end of the room. A pair of sandaled feet stuck up from it. On the mantle above the same message was written in red oil as in the bell tower.

One of the brothers there told us he had witnessed everything, that he saw Able do this, and the man in the pot was brother Edmund. Our human companions had met Edmund earlier. He seemed to act as Guglielmo's "keeper", punishing him when he did things that were bad, like poking around in Charlotte's room.

We found Abbott Anselm and asked him to gather everyone together in the chapel until we could figure out who might be the next target. Once everyone was accounted for, we told them to bar the doors and listen for our knock before opening them again.

We still needed to learn the reason for Able's attacks. We headed back over to the scriptorium and did a careful search of his desk were he crafted his illuminated texts. This time we were rewarded with the discovery of a secret compartment, and within it, a journal. Father Al quickly flipped through it, and read aloud the entry Able had written on the day of his death:

"Today I was privileged beyond all hope to view a vision of incomparable splendor! St. Ambrosius appeared to me while I was walking outside the monastery walls. I trembled in fear, but his words soothed me; he said he was well pleased with me and I was held in great favor.

"He told me to dig a well on the spot where he stood. 'For that which is drawn from this place will nourish the holy and return the monastery of Montellegro to prosperity and prominence. Go now and tell the others.'

"Words cannot describe the elation I felt at the sight of this vision. I ran straight to the scriptorium and told Brother Bernardino what I had seen. Alas, he did not believe me, and claimed I was lying. Despite my pleas, he remained unconvinced and said such things constitute heresy and could result in expulsion from the order. He told me to speak of the vision to no one, or he would tell the Abbott of my heresy.

"I confess I do not know what to do. Tonight I shall pray for guidance on this matter. Perhaps I will have another vision that will offer me advice.

"Alas, the dinner bell has rung a second time, and I dare not test Brother Bernardino's patience further. I could not end the day, however, without committing the events of this blessed day to the page."

Barrick and I gave blank stares regarding the name Bernardino. Everyone else had met him earlier, and they explained that he was an older warrior who had joined the order to seek peace over conflict, though he still held on to his chainmail and sword. Apparently you miss a lot when you have dinner outside.

With this information, we figured Bernardino was the next likely target for Able. However, with everyone safely inside the church, we decided to go check out the spot Able had his vision, to see if we could learn anything there. We did a quick circle around the church to see if the dead monk was lurking somewhere nearby, and then headed outside the walls along a trail that barely qualified as a goat path.

We reached what seemed to be the spot that was sketched in the journal. Nothing was there but a lone rose bush, which Barrick stopped and took a long whiff from. With a closer check of the area, we noticed the outlines of an old building foundation, its stones almost indistinguishable from the rocky terrain. Best guess, the probably structure fell about hundred years ago. There are no signs that Able has been here, at least not since he’d died.

At this point, we agreed that perhaps it was time to bring in the Abbott on what had happened. We hiked back to the church and knocked, asking Brother Anselm to come outside. Showing him the journal page, he slowly shook his head. He told us that Brother Bernardino had often appeared jealous of Able, taking the boy's innocent devoutness and piety as a personal condemnation of his own.

Asking the Abbott to give us a few more minutes, we took him back to the church and then went to see if there was anything in Bernardino’s room to further implicate him. We found little except for bits of clay on the floor, telling us Able had been here as well. That was enough. On the way out, Marcus grabbed Bernardino’s sword, which looked fine enough to possibly carry an enchantment.

Back at the church we asked to see Bernardino outside, hoping to not raise his suspicions too early. He got up from the alter where he had been kneeling and praying fervently, as a man about to be punished for his sins might do.

Outside we asked him to tell us what really happened. He tried to play dumb; I clarified that we already knew what happened, but wanted him to tell us why. Still he denied knowledge of anything. Finally we confronted him with the journal, and Barrick implied we might get a little rough if he didn't start talking. The Brother buried his face in his hands and was about to speak, when a voice came from behind us, rough and unworldly, that made my skin crawl.

"Yes. It is time to confess your sins, Brother."

Across the courtyard in the center of the small cemetery stood Able, pale and bruised from his time in the ground, his robes smeared with clay and blood. His eyes seemed to burn with fire from the inside.

"A revenant," Aleator whispered hoarsely.

Marcus glanced at him, then back at the walking corpse. He seemed to be having an internal debate with himself, then asked, "It spoke, so it's intelligent, right? Something of Able is still left in there, so we can reason with him." Apparently the question was rhetorical, because Marcus took a step forward, and told Able he could return to his rest; Bernardino would now be dealt with properly. I exchanged a look with Barrick, and we readied our axes.

The revenant ran forward, hands outstretched, going directly for Bernardino, who was stammering at this point. Our axes flew, but the dead man's speed surprised us, and we missed the mark. On our back swing we both caught Able from behind, though my urgrosh bounced off surprisingly hard flesh, and Barrick's solid strike left only a small gash. A crossbow bolt whistled past us from Charlotte, but it too simply bounced off.

Able grabbed Bernardino by his vestments, and the old warrior cried out "We didn't mean to kill you!" That gave us pause, and I think for a moment some of us considered letting this play out between the two monks.

But what would be the fun in that?

Marcus again tried to appeal to whatever humanity was left in the walking corpse. "He's confessed! We know his sins and now the church will see that justice is done! You're free to go!" The thing's fingers only tightened on Bernardino's throat.

"It's just a vessel of mindless rage!" Father Al shouted. "There is no reasoning with it." He pulled his holy symbol and for the first time, we saw Aleator truly call upon the authority his god had bestowed upon him. "Be gone! Back to the Shadows from whence you came, in the name of Alioth!"

The undead Able scarcely noticed him, and continued to choke the helpless monk. Marcus went for his borrowed sword, pulling it out too quickly, sending it clattering onto the rough stone ground. I heard Charlotte reloading behind me as Barrick and I swung again from each side. My urgrosh bit deep this time, a blow that should have been a mortal wound for a normal man.

This only caused the revenant to glance back at me and hiss "Stay out of it!" The fire within his eyes brightened to a piercing red, and it was as if all the dread, cold and stillness of the tomb filled my mind. I stood there, unable to move.

Barrick's axe struck true again, but he cried out when he saw that the thing's wounds were vanishing before our eyes. As another of Charlotte's crossbow bolts hurtled past our heads, Marcus recovered the sword and struck. This time the corpse's flesh parted before the blade as it should, with little resistance. The blow caused the horror to falter, losing it's grip with one hand on Bernardino, who dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. Father Al pressed this momentary advantage, again trying to overcome the undead thing with the power of his belief. Again, it paid no attention to his efforts.

Barrick continued to hack away wildly, trying to do damage faster than the revenant could recover. With the aid of Charlotte's bolt of magical force, Able finally released his grip on his victim and crumpled to the ground.

Father Al bent down over Bernardino to tend to him, while Barrick continued to chop the body before him into smaller pieces. With the revenant defeated, the gripping fear left me, and I could move once more. We finally decided it was necessary to burn the corpse to ensure it did not get up and start walking around again.

The rest of the order had heard the fighting and left the safety of the church, gathering round us. With the Abbott there, Brother Bernardino admitted that he, with the help of Brothers Edmund and Guglielmo, had throw Able's body from the roof of the scriptorium.

When Able had come to him with his vision, Bernardino said he couldn't believe it. How could Alioth appear to that ... that boy ... when he had been faithful for so many years. Able had to be lying. With the help of the others, Bernardino took Able to the scriptorium to get him to admit his deception. When he refused, they began to punish him, harshly, for his sin, asking to him to accept that what he said was heresy. Able would not. Perhaps they were too rough, for the boy died from his punishment. They had not meant to kill him. Frightened, they had thrown his body from the roof, to cover what they had done.

The monks took the sobbing Bernardino away. In appreciation for our efforts, the Abbott allowed all of us to stay within the compound, with our weapons, for the rest of the night.

On the way back to our rooms, Marcus and Father Al discussed the metaphysical aspects of what had happened. Father Al claimed that the revenant was just a being fueled by supernatural rage over its death, and nothing of the original soul actually remained. Perhaps that's how the new gods do it, but I'm not so sure.

I mean, if Corvus the Trickster, as he escorted you to the Gates of Death, offered you the chance for revenge on your murderer with your own hands, wouldn't you at least think about it?