Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Breakfast Interrupted
Amelyssan was tired. No – exhausted. The wizard had spent the entire night, less a few hours wherein he meditated in a horadrel trance, studying the items they had taken from the Sorrow Elf’s chamber. And, finally, after hours of arcane murmuring and deep reflection, he believed he understood the power of the pair of rings.
The elf looked up as John and Vath shimmied down the rope into the barrow’s entry chamber. He nodded at John’s unasked question. “I have our answer.”
The Pellman brightened. “Do tell.”
Amelyssan waited for the party to crowd around then pointed to the jewelry. “They are a twin set – easy enough to see, for they are identical in every aspect of their fashion.” The elf grabbed one ring and held it closer to the light of the small campfire. “Alone, without its mate, the rings are worthless. But – when each is within proximity of the other – their magic may be utilized.”
“What magic?”
“Healing magic,” Amelyssan answered. “They are…” The elf searched for the proper, non-Draconic words. “…rings of life transference*. If one were to place both upon his fingers, he would certainly die.”
John paled. Evidently the bard had considered doing just that.
“But,” Amelyssan quickly continued, “if each is worn by a different person, then those two may share – no, exchange – their own life force with one another.”
Baden held out his palm and accepted one of the rings. The dwarf studied it carefully. “How is it done?”
Amelyssan shrugged his slight shoulders. “Easily. There are no command words. One must simply will a portion of their life to pass to his fellow ring-bearer. Of course, one must be careful he does not transfer too much of his own essence.”
Raylin toed the embers of the dying campfire. “Worthy magic, indeed. Who should wear them?”
“Amelyssan, for one.” Kellus busied himself donning his armor. “Perhaps John could wear the other.”
The Pellman smiled and reached for one of the rings. “Gladly.”
“Hold one,” Baden muttered. “The bard has remained on the outskirts of combat. This is no mark on his courage, but rather a testament to his skill with the crossbow. I agree the wizard would benefit from this magic, but I believe another should wear the twin ring.”
John frowned. “You?”
“No,” Baden answered. “Vath. He seems to enjoy charging away from our ranks into combat. It might save his life, one day.”
Kellus nodded sagely. “Good, then. Let Vath and Amelyssan wear the rings. May Helm grant their use never be required.”
“Not bloody likely,” John murmured, but none listened. Kellus and Raylin were on watch, and the two already began to climb the rope toward the barrow’s exterior.
***
Henratt, for the fifth time in as many minutes, thanked Cyric for the fog.
The world seemed to end but twenty feet from him – blanketed in a wall of nearly-immobile and nearly-opaque mist. The shroud would not last much longer, Henratt knew; once the sun fully appeared over the Balantir peaks, the fog would be burned clear from the Cormick plains.
They must act quickly.
“Kloven,” he hissed to the man beside him. “Do you see that hillock – there? Good. Take Emmor and see that you put the stake there. Be silent about your business. Go.”
His men were on their bellies around him, pressed to the wet grasses of the Weedsea like serpents. Henratt watched as the two novice priests lifted the thick, wooden stake and moved forward, hunched low. They had cut the limb from an oak south of the Dusk Ford, for there were no suitable trees on these featureless plains.
Burdensome, certainly, but well worth it.
Henratt had pulled the tongue from Poridel’s mouth when the sage refused to be silent. The insufferable old fool continually moaned and muttered nonsense in languages Henratt did not understand. When that had not been enough to silent the man, Henratt ordered a burlap sack stuffed into the sage’s mouth.
The problem with the second tactic was that, were Henratt not especially careful, the old man would suffocate. Annoying, just annoying. The Cyric rolled onto his side, grabbed Poridel by his beard, and pulled the rag from his mouth. He watched quietly as the old man gasped for air, dried blood caked about his lips.
“Good, good,” Henratt whispered. “That’s it, old one - breathe. Regain your strength.”
When Kloven and Emmor returned, the sun had already begun to filter through the higher layers of fog. Forty feet. That was how far he could see now, roughly. Dammit, he had best hurry.
“Crayn,” Henratt called. “Give me your pack.”
Henratt rummaged within the satchel and pulled forth the hollow bone tube and the metallic, spring-held fork. He climbed to his knees, holding both instruments, and watched the wheezing sage for a few more moments.
He replaced the gag, and began to work.
***
Raylin dropped to the floor of the barrow chamber shortly after Kellus finished descending the rope. Both men walked about and toed their companions awake. “The fog is thick outside – no sense in departing until the sun burns some of it away.”
Kellus sat his helm upright on the ground and sat heavily upon it. “We need to discuss our next move.”
John rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Next move? I think we’ve run out of demons to kill. Unless we head to the Abyss, that is.” John sat upright. “Any takers?”
Raylin grinned as he unbuckled his sword belt and leaned the weapons against the nearby sarcophagus. “Hunting demons is good fun,” the clansman agreed, “but I am of a mind to hunt elk - they are in the rut now, or shortly will be.”
“The rut?” John wrinkled his nose.
“Aye,” Raylin nodded. The ranger pulled his pack closer, undid the leather strings, and began to toss dreltack to the group. “’Tis the time when they seek to mate. They move about more, and are near-mad from their yearning to breed.”
“Ah,” John replied. “I am always ‘in the rut’, then.”
“Please - not while I’m eating.” Baden shook with laughter, crumbs spewing from his mouth to lodge in his beard.
Vath, for his own part, removed a haunch of salted beef and began to noisily eat. He looked up, slaver upon his chin. “We must tell Poridel it is finished.”
Kellus agreed. “Right. Then, after Ciddry, we might go our separate ways.” The priest looked around the chamber as an awkward silence descended. “Or not.”
John dragged a hand across his mouth. “You know, friends, we make a good group. There is no shortage of work for such as us. Mayhaps we should head south – ‘tis not nearly so cold down there. Hire on with Harabald Harren and his boys, or even Duke d’Lor. Those two are always fighting one another, always seeking more men.”
“Not me,” Baden stated, his voice at once firm and kind. “I mean to head home. From the top of this barrow, when the fog burns off, one can see the peaks of Axemarch.”
Kellus’ voice was guarded. “Then you will not accompany us on our return to Ciddry?”
Baden swallowed the last of his dreltack. “I will. Then I shall turn my face to home.”
Kellus emptied water from a skin onto his hands and splashed the cool liquid onto his face. He sighed. “I suppose we all could use a bit of homecoming. I must return to my Church, make atonement-”
“Bah!” John scowled. “I am happy you have found your god once again – truly, I am – but I thought Helmites were above penance and atonement and all that nonsense.” The bard jerked a thumb toward Vath. “Let those odd folks of Ilmater do that; just tell your bosses that you’re sorry.”
Kellus stood, wiped his face, and shrugged. “I will do that, and more, John.” The priest and bard, who had not always seen eye-to-eye, shared a look. “What will you do, John?”
The Pellman stood. “Friends, I will do what I have been meaning to do since I first woke this morning.”
Baden did not look up from where he ate. “Please, John – no songs. Not this early.”
“A man should greet each morning with a song, dwarf!” John laughed. “Well, maybe not. If he was lucky enough to share his bed, then the morning may be used…” John’s voice trailed off as he walked to the rope, grabbed it, and began to climb. “By Umberlee, I need to piss. Stay away from the hole, friends, for I mean to start a flood.”
Kellus watched John disappear out the opening in the barrow’s domed ceiling. He looked around the smoldering fire at the faces of his friends. “The mood is light, and that is good – we have earned some respite. But do not forget, my brothers, what we have accomplished in so short a time. Three abominations no longer stain this earth – Ippizicus, Baphtemet, Ral.** Each of them - gone. If we do nothing else the rest of our lives, however long or short are our days, we may count ourselves good men.”
“Aye,” Raylin answered, face etched with thought. “Who would have thought our boots would tread these paths? I had sought only some coins from the Rornman Aramin, a quick job to be had while returning to the Larrenlands from my trip to Ciddry. The spirits of my fathers are proud of what we have done.”
Vath suddenly leapt to his feet, the meat falling from his fingers.
Raylin had his sword belt in hand nearly before Vath’s beef hit the ground. “What is it?” Around him, the rest of the party hurriedly stood.
“John.” Vath moved quickly toward the rope, face uplifted toward the opening. “I heard him cry out.”
Before any could inquire further, John re-entered the chamber in grand fashion. The Pellman dropped through the hole, ignoring the assistance of the rope. He landed lightly on his feet, rapier in hand. His face was composed, but sweat had already sprung on his forehead. “Cyrics. Outside.”
“Cyrics?” Kellus did not allow himself the time to be confused. “How many?”
John measured them all with a stare that spoke volumes. “Too many.”
* I’ve always enjoyed creating custom magical items for the campaign that necessitate teamwork. I also like items that allow the user a bit of variety on how to employ them. These two rings are rather simple in their description, as Amelyssan learned through his Identify spell: the wearer may, once per day as a standard action, transfer up to 10 hp to his fellow ring-bearer, so long as both rings are within 100’ of each other.
** I added an update to the Sins of Our Fathers Rogues Galley thread that gives a very brief recounting of the party’s adventure beneath the barrow mound, their meeting with Belaraphon, and the battle with Ral. It's not in ‘story hour’ format; rather it's a synopsis and includes some behind-the-DM-screen thoughts in order to give anyone interested an idea of what transpired.
Amelyssan was tired. No – exhausted. The wizard had spent the entire night, less a few hours wherein he meditated in a horadrel trance, studying the items they had taken from the Sorrow Elf’s chamber. And, finally, after hours of arcane murmuring and deep reflection, he believed he understood the power of the pair of rings.
The elf looked up as John and Vath shimmied down the rope into the barrow’s entry chamber. He nodded at John’s unasked question. “I have our answer.”
The Pellman brightened. “Do tell.”
Amelyssan waited for the party to crowd around then pointed to the jewelry. “They are a twin set – easy enough to see, for they are identical in every aspect of their fashion.” The elf grabbed one ring and held it closer to the light of the small campfire. “Alone, without its mate, the rings are worthless. But – when each is within proximity of the other – their magic may be utilized.”
“What magic?”
“Healing magic,” Amelyssan answered. “They are…” The elf searched for the proper, non-Draconic words. “…rings of life transference*. If one were to place both upon his fingers, he would certainly die.”
John paled. Evidently the bard had considered doing just that.
“But,” Amelyssan quickly continued, “if each is worn by a different person, then those two may share – no, exchange – their own life force with one another.”
Baden held out his palm and accepted one of the rings. The dwarf studied it carefully. “How is it done?”
Amelyssan shrugged his slight shoulders. “Easily. There are no command words. One must simply will a portion of their life to pass to his fellow ring-bearer. Of course, one must be careful he does not transfer too much of his own essence.”
Raylin toed the embers of the dying campfire. “Worthy magic, indeed. Who should wear them?”
“Amelyssan, for one.” Kellus busied himself donning his armor. “Perhaps John could wear the other.”
The Pellman smiled and reached for one of the rings. “Gladly.”
“Hold one,” Baden muttered. “The bard has remained on the outskirts of combat. This is no mark on his courage, but rather a testament to his skill with the crossbow. I agree the wizard would benefit from this magic, but I believe another should wear the twin ring.”
John frowned. “You?”
“No,” Baden answered. “Vath. He seems to enjoy charging away from our ranks into combat. It might save his life, one day.”
Kellus nodded sagely. “Good, then. Let Vath and Amelyssan wear the rings. May Helm grant their use never be required.”
“Not bloody likely,” John murmured, but none listened. Kellus and Raylin were on watch, and the two already began to climb the rope toward the barrow’s exterior.
***
Henratt, for the fifth time in as many minutes, thanked Cyric for the fog.
The world seemed to end but twenty feet from him – blanketed in a wall of nearly-immobile and nearly-opaque mist. The shroud would not last much longer, Henratt knew; once the sun fully appeared over the Balantir peaks, the fog would be burned clear from the Cormick plains.
They must act quickly.
“Kloven,” he hissed to the man beside him. “Do you see that hillock – there? Good. Take Emmor and see that you put the stake there. Be silent about your business. Go.”
His men were on their bellies around him, pressed to the wet grasses of the Weedsea like serpents. Henratt watched as the two novice priests lifted the thick, wooden stake and moved forward, hunched low. They had cut the limb from an oak south of the Dusk Ford, for there were no suitable trees on these featureless plains.
Burdensome, certainly, but well worth it.
Henratt had pulled the tongue from Poridel’s mouth when the sage refused to be silent. The insufferable old fool continually moaned and muttered nonsense in languages Henratt did not understand. When that had not been enough to silent the man, Henratt ordered a burlap sack stuffed into the sage’s mouth.
The problem with the second tactic was that, were Henratt not especially careful, the old man would suffocate. Annoying, just annoying. The Cyric rolled onto his side, grabbed Poridel by his beard, and pulled the rag from his mouth. He watched quietly as the old man gasped for air, dried blood caked about his lips.
“Good, good,” Henratt whispered. “That’s it, old one - breathe. Regain your strength.”
When Kloven and Emmor returned, the sun had already begun to filter through the higher layers of fog. Forty feet. That was how far he could see now, roughly. Dammit, he had best hurry.
“Crayn,” Henratt called. “Give me your pack.”
Henratt rummaged within the satchel and pulled forth the hollow bone tube and the metallic, spring-held fork. He climbed to his knees, holding both instruments, and watched the wheezing sage for a few more moments.
He replaced the gag, and began to work.
***
Raylin dropped to the floor of the barrow chamber shortly after Kellus finished descending the rope. Both men walked about and toed their companions awake. “The fog is thick outside – no sense in departing until the sun burns some of it away.”
Kellus sat his helm upright on the ground and sat heavily upon it. “We need to discuss our next move.”
John rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Next move? I think we’ve run out of demons to kill. Unless we head to the Abyss, that is.” John sat upright. “Any takers?”
Raylin grinned as he unbuckled his sword belt and leaned the weapons against the nearby sarcophagus. “Hunting demons is good fun,” the clansman agreed, “but I am of a mind to hunt elk - they are in the rut now, or shortly will be.”
“The rut?” John wrinkled his nose.
“Aye,” Raylin nodded. The ranger pulled his pack closer, undid the leather strings, and began to toss dreltack to the group. “’Tis the time when they seek to mate. They move about more, and are near-mad from their yearning to breed.”
“Ah,” John replied. “I am always ‘in the rut’, then.”
“Please - not while I’m eating.” Baden shook with laughter, crumbs spewing from his mouth to lodge in his beard.
Vath, for his own part, removed a haunch of salted beef and began to noisily eat. He looked up, slaver upon his chin. “We must tell Poridel it is finished.”
Kellus agreed. “Right. Then, after Ciddry, we might go our separate ways.” The priest looked around the chamber as an awkward silence descended. “Or not.”
John dragged a hand across his mouth. “You know, friends, we make a good group. There is no shortage of work for such as us. Mayhaps we should head south – ‘tis not nearly so cold down there. Hire on with Harabald Harren and his boys, or even Duke d’Lor. Those two are always fighting one another, always seeking more men.”
“Not me,” Baden stated, his voice at once firm and kind. “I mean to head home. From the top of this barrow, when the fog burns off, one can see the peaks of Axemarch.”
Kellus’ voice was guarded. “Then you will not accompany us on our return to Ciddry?”
Baden swallowed the last of his dreltack. “I will. Then I shall turn my face to home.”
Kellus emptied water from a skin onto his hands and splashed the cool liquid onto his face. He sighed. “I suppose we all could use a bit of homecoming. I must return to my Church, make atonement-”
“Bah!” John scowled. “I am happy you have found your god once again – truly, I am – but I thought Helmites were above penance and atonement and all that nonsense.” The bard jerked a thumb toward Vath. “Let those odd folks of Ilmater do that; just tell your bosses that you’re sorry.”
Kellus stood, wiped his face, and shrugged. “I will do that, and more, John.” The priest and bard, who had not always seen eye-to-eye, shared a look. “What will you do, John?”
The Pellman stood. “Friends, I will do what I have been meaning to do since I first woke this morning.”
Baden did not look up from where he ate. “Please, John – no songs. Not this early.”
“A man should greet each morning with a song, dwarf!” John laughed. “Well, maybe not. If he was lucky enough to share his bed, then the morning may be used…” John’s voice trailed off as he walked to the rope, grabbed it, and began to climb. “By Umberlee, I need to piss. Stay away from the hole, friends, for I mean to start a flood.”
Kellus watched John disappear out the opening in the barrow’s domed ceiling. He looked around the smoldering fire at the faces of his friends. “The mood is light, and that is good – we have earned some respite. But do not forget, my brothers, what we have accomplished in so short a time. Three abominations no longer stain this earth – Ippizicus, Baphtemet, Ral.** Each of them - gone. If we do nothing else the rest of our lives, however long or short are our days, we may count ourselves good men.”
“Aye,” Raylin answered, face etched with thought. “Who would have thought our boots would tread these paths? I had sought only some coins from the Rornman Aramin, a quick job to be had while returning to the Larrenlands from my trip to Ciddry. The spirits of my fathers are proud of what we have done.”
Vath suddenly leapt to his feet, the meat falling from his fingers.
Raylin had his sword belt in hand nearly before Vath’s beef hit the ground. “What is it?” Around him, the rest of the party hurriedly stood.
“John.” Vath moved quickly toward the rope, face uplifted toward the opening. “I heard him cry out.”
Before any could inquire further, John re-entered the chamber in grand fashion. The Pellman dropped through the hole, ignoring the assistance of the rope. He landed lightly on his feet, rapier in hand. His face was composed, but sweat had already sprung on his forehead. “Cyrics. Outside.”
“Cyrics?” Kellus did not allow himself the time to be confused. “How many?”
John measured them all with a stare that spoke volumes. “Too many.”
* I’ve always enjoyed creating custom magical items for the campaign that necessitate teamwork. I also like items that allow the user a bit of variety on how to employ them. These two rings are rather simple in their description, as Amelyssan learned through his Identify spell: the wearer may, once per day as a standard action, transfer up to 10 hp to his fellow ring-bearer, so long as both rings are within 100’ of each other.
** I added an update to the Sins of Our Fathers Rogues Galley thread that gives a very brief recounting of the party’s adventure beneath the barrow mound, their meeting with Belaraphon, and the battle with Ral. It's not in ‘story hour’ format; rather it's a synopsis and includes some behind-the-DM-screen thoughts in order to give anyone interested an idea of what transpired.
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If you did all that, maybe your writing would suffer and only be twice as good as mine 
