Sir Gerard d'Montfort - In his own words (a tale of Anka Seth)- Updated Nov 11th

[Haraash Saan]

When the followers of the god of justice condemned sinners to living death in catacombs deep in the earth, the followers of the earth spirit rebelled. The chaos that ensued tore apart the world, releasing generations of undead murderers, vandals and thieves onto the world. The convocation of clerics are slaughtered overnight and the great society fragments. Some turn to war, some to vice to delay their impending doom as the wave of undead and mutated creatures spread indefatigably.

A Story Hour for this campaign was first posted on Enworld by Fiasco, Anka Seth - The Rise of the Hydra (New Update April 19, 2007) - EN World D&D / RPG News but this Story Hour is in a first person perspective.

The campaign is a based on home brewed 3.5 D&D campaign world that ran for two years.

 

[Haraash Saan]

The Chronicles of Gerard d’Montfort

The Chronicles of Gerard d’Montfort
Chapter 1 – Ringing in my ears

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gerard d’Mowbray, well it is for the moment. My lineage is that of the noble and respected family d’Mowbray. We serve the Baronony of Mendus within the Kingdom of Guerney. Both my father, Sir Reginald d’Mowbray, and my eldest brother, Sir Asquith de Swanton, are knights in the service of the Baron. I will no doubt prove myself worthy of following in their gallant footsteps and enter knighthood in the near future. Once knighted my father will no longer be able to withhold the lands and name that are rightfully mine; Montfort. I know not why he has withheld them from me for so long, after all I have been administering Montfort town and the lands surrounding it for some eighteen months now. The people love me and the town is prosperous and continues to expand. But enough of my family and Montfort, I should move on to begin my tale.

Absquith and I had travelled for many days, leaving the cultured halls of Thessingcourt to go to Halfast, the main port of Guerney. My brother made the journey so that he could enter the annual Halfast Games. Whilst fighting the barbarians on the steppes, he proved himself a skilful and resourceful warrior. My own reasons for our trek through the wilderness were even more ambitious. As I was now of an appropriate age, I sought adventure, its rewards, and of course, fame.

This journal tells my tale and it is my intention to update it as frequently as I can. Hopefully it will provide some entertainment and more importantly, become a document for the ages.

Halfast is a large and thriving city. The commotion, noise, and more than anything else, the odour, engulfed me. I could smell the city several miles away, although to be fair that was downwind. It is a city where every vice imaginable is available and the Duchess Servessa not only ensures that it is so, but is proud of it! After all, we in Guerney tend to worship Laster, God of Vice and Debauchery.

I suspect old Laster would be pretty happy to pass through Halfast. Drugs, temptations of the flesh, alcohol, food and the like are all easily attainable. And that, in part, was yet another reason for our travel to Halfast. We had timed our journey to coincide with Laster’s most holy celebration, All Summers Day, that falls on the first day of the month of Low Summer. The joy of having Laster as your most revered deity is quite simply that anything and everything is available to you. I had always wanted to spend a holy night (or any other for that mater) in the arms of one of Laster’s wonderful nuns, the Veiled Sisters! Extremely talented girls they are! And as it so happened their convent was on the outskirts of Halfast.

Whilst Halfast is a wonderful place, well, at least its lovely distractions are, its chief significance is because of the annual Halfast Games. What to tell? The simplest way to explain the games is that they are a gladiatorial contest that all are welcome to enter. However, most need patrons to sponsor their fee. At five thousand Silver Sickles, entry is expensive. There are four levels of competition: Apprentice, Journeyman, Master and Grand Master for the individual event and also a team event that brings just as much wealth and prestige. As combatants prove themselves they can advance through the levels, and that is most desirable. Financially the prizes are excellent, but the chief reward is the great honour of wearing the sash of a successful competitor. Absquith will be competing as a Journeyman this year as he was most successful in last years tourney at the Apprentice stage. However, I am not too sure how fortunate he will be this year as it is rumoured that the competition will be quite tough.

We arrived at Cassavary Square, the heart and soul of Halfast, via the North Gate. Above us, black storm clouds menaced from the West. The coming rain would only change the pleasant clime to a hot and sticky one.

Cassavary Square is the place to go to find anything and everything one desires, including suitable employ for a young gentleman such as myself. I must admit that I was somewhat in awe of the city. It was so much busier than Thessingcourt. Hawkers were everywhere, loudly announcing their wares. A beggar, some poor sod wearing naught but rags, pulled the hem of my cloak. Through a toothless and pitifully sad smile he asked for coin. Carts and wagons pushed slowly through the crowds. A young fop cursed loudly as he trod in the evidence of their passing. His friends chortled at his misfortune.

A commotion at the North Gate, a great sandstone arch that easily allowed a large wagon to pass through it, caused me to turn. City folk were scrambling aside and clearing a path through the Gate and beyond to make way for a procession of guards in orange and black livery ride big black mounts. The gate keepers did not dare to collect taxes, for amongst the guards was Prince Brand himself! I recognised the Prince immediately, as I had seen him from a distance on several occasions while at court in Thessingcourt.

With him were five very odd looking servants. Servants probably is not the right word, perhaps companions would be better, but then they did look more like underlings of some special nature. In any case, they were of no concern to me. The Prince, second son of King Thurlland II, thundered past noticing little of the bystanders who goggled at his party. Prince Brand was, or so I had heard, a fine duellist. A master of the blade who I assumed had come to observe and perhaps even compete in the Games. He looked to me to be an angry man, his face contorted into scowl of contempt as he glanced about him which fit well with descriptions I had heard in Thessingcourt. He was not over joyed at being the second son of the King. Not surprisingly, like most men, he was not content with his lot in life and always wanted more. I wonder what the King wanted more of? Many people would think that a Prince would be a true noble, pure of heart and wanting what was best for his people. Those people are deluded and have most likely listened to too many children’s stories.

Absquith left me as the throng began to thicken again after the Prince’s passing, to head to the accommodation of his choice, The Inn at the End of the Road. He told me to have care and join him there later and gave me directions to get to the End of the Road and then left me in the middle of it.

I turned back to face Cassavary Square and once more realised that my senses had not yet acclimatised to the busy port city. The stench of the unclean, both the city and its denizens, filtered down into my mouth so that I could taste the filth. The sensation caused me to gag. The noise of the busy square made it hard to decipher any particular sound into something coherent and the continual movement of the masses made for sights of turmoil that I guessed Halfast turned out daily for display.

An old priest of Gerech was spouting the usual nonsense. Stupid bastard! Should be hung, drawn and quartered. A few folk with too much produce bought at the market were using the excess in the best possible way, trying to shut the fool up.

Off in a corner, under the shade of a fishmonger’s canvas awning were a bunch of Thuusians. Well, I assumed they were as I had never seen Thuusians before. More religious zealots! Thuus was a god of battle and steadfastness, worshipped mainly in the Fastness. His disciples were dishing out soup to the scum that couldn’t afford a meal. Halfast was the start of what was called the ‘soup road’. The story as I heard it was that the Thuusians would offer a free meal, usually soup, to anyone. The catch was that to get the next meal, the recipient would have to travel to the next Thuusian camp which was always a bit closer to Vronburg, a great stronghold in the Fastness. The theory was that if you turned back you would starve. So the hungry just kept going and eventually arrived on the frontline, fighting the ever encroaching Dominion with clubs and rocks and whatever else they could use. At least they died with a full stomach.

But I was not in Halfast for religious brain washing or to be used as a tool for some foreign political power. No, my goal was much simpler; find suitable employ for an up and coming noble ready for high adventure, and all of the notoriety that went with it.

 

[Haraash Saan]

“Guards! Guards! I need guards for my wagons.” bellowed a fat bearded man.

Promising, I thought, although perhaps a bit below my station.

“I travel with my goods to Nevitt and will pay well for able bodies to protect my stock”. He said, flashing his yellow teeth as noticed me edge closer to hear better over the cacophony of the square.

“Yes you my lad.” He did not endear himself to me with his condescending tone. “You look like a likely sort! I see a sword by your side, and I’ll wager you can swing it well enough!”

Little did the rotund merchant with the grubby smock know that the sword was a gift from my brother, ”To better protect us on the road”, and whilst he did try to teach me of an evening, I found it difficult and cumbersome. I am not a man gifted with colossal strength and even the rapier he gave me was awkward for my physique. We both agreed that I would be better served finding another to teach me its use.

As the trader looked expectantly at me I realised my poor nose had finally recovered enough to pick up a new odour, dung, and it seemed to emanate from the keen round recruiter. That could explain the stains on his clothing.

“What is it that you transport my good man?” I asked sceptically.

“Um, er, well,” and softly he added “dung.” He then said more loudly “And it is the best this side Port Praar me laddie!”

That excited exclamation made my mind up. There was no way I could possibly act as a guard on a wagon train full of dung. Sometimes I wonder at my own curiosity. I am sure one day it will actually get me into some serious trouble.

I moved along, trying to breathe whilst being continually assaulted by the foul reek of the city, although it was easily less offensive than my recently met mercantile friend.

Quite suddenly an enormous weight pressed upon my shoulder and I spun quickly, hand clutching for my rapiers’ hilt.

“Ha, ha!” boomed a deep voice “That is exactly the spirit we seek!” I squinted as I looked into the sun, at the face above me. Intense dark eyes peered down at me from beneath considerable eyebrows. A nose broken too many times sat precariously (it looked like it could have fallen off at any moment) above a beard that could only be related to the enormous eyebrows. The beard rumbled, “I, Cerunos, the Crusader and am looking for recruits to fight the good fight in the name of Gerech!”

By Laster’s ample backside! Another bloody nutter! Perhaps I attracted the insane? A theory that I will continue to reinforce.

“Thank you sir for your kind offer but I think not. Good-day.” I replied. One thing I had been taught is that politeness will always help. There is always a place for one with manners.

I dipped my shoulder to remove the brutish hand that rested there. With a quick brush of my collar (who knows when the giant last washed his hands), I turned away looking for someplace, any place, away from Cerunos. The problem with Gerechian’s is that not only are they bloody self righteous, they also fail to accept that their God and his followers almost destroyed the world and effectively unleashed the Dominion upon it. I know little of religion, although I hope to learn more, but I do know that Gerechians are a bunch of lunatics on some sort of ludicrous mission to rid the world of something. With any luck they will fail and it will result in us being well rid of them.

I wandered some more, pausing to buy some excellent sweetmeats from a vendor and better take in my surrounds. There were many more of the spruikers trying to hire people for various tasks, but the one that eventually caught my eye was a well dressed man calling for people to be recruited for a private patron.

“Training, equipment and the glory of the joining a premier gladiatorial company!” he proclaimed. That was much more my style. There is a lot of honour and fame, not to mention finances, to be gained from being involved in a gladiatorial company.

I pushed my way through the crowd to get closer and better hear what he had to say. Quite a throng had gathered around him and they all were listening intently. There were all sorts, warriors, peasants, even a Gnome! I had not seen many Gnomes in the past. Most lived in Riverglenn, and I had not journeyed that far north east.

The little bearded fellows that I had seen were affluent traders and merchants that had travelled to sell their wares in Thessingcourt. Whilst I had only seen a handful previously, this one was unlike the others. He was a smidge over three feet tall and clad head to toe in thick padded leather armour and a crossbow jutted out over his shoulder. He looked a warrior, a comical one, but a warrior nevertheless. As I was to learn later, looks could be deceiving.

The recruiter, one Baastian Leville, spoke of training, conditions and more importantly of a patron for the company being assembled. Patrons were several things. They were rich and usually noble, and because of that, they often sponsored entrants in the Games. Leville’s spiel sounded more and more promising.

Baastian finished his address and extended a lunch invitation for those truly interested in his enterprise and were keen to further discuss terms. I looked about me. Baastian’s crowd had thinned somewhat and those remaining were an odd assortment. The Gnome had stayed, as had three others, all travellers from the look of their garb. I introduced myself, with a flourish of my broad brimmed hat and a slight bow, “I, Gerard de Mowbray, will luncheon with you and will hear what you have to say.”

Baastian rose his fingers to stroke his chin thoughtfully, “Mowbray? As in, Sir Reginald de Mowbray?” he inquired, not hiding his interest.

He obviously knew a little of the nobility, “Yes indeed, I am his son.”

More commotion at the gate interrupted our conversation. Glancing that way I once again saw the sea of bodies part, but this time it was not royalty they made way for, but rather the opposite. A group of eight robed figures shuffled ungainly into the city. No guard stopped them or questioned them. Everyone one shunned them. The noise of the square had subsided. I raised a quizzical eyebrow to the group around me. I heard the word, “Lepers.” muttered in a hushed tone. I knew not who voiced it. The faint tinkling of bells reached my ears. Each of the robed figures wore bells around their necks, just as a cow would. I soon learned that was the one sure sign of a leper. The poor wretches were forced to wear their noisy jewellery so that the good healthy folk knew to get out of the way quick smart. Pretty clever really, but I could not quite work out why the buggers did not remove their jingling trinkets and try to pass for normal folk or as priests of some nature, after all their robes hid their scabs, sores and deformities.

“Let us hurry along. I know of a wonderful inn that will suit our purposes nicely” said Baastian hurriedly, fearing that the distraction would destroy any momentum he had built for his cause. He glanced up at the sky as the first spots of rain began to fall.

 

[Haraash Saan]

As Levillie moved off I noticed a massive old ugly hound that clambered slowly to its feet and followed him. I had not seen the beast before and frankly considering its size (it dwarfed the Gnome, there’s an unintended pun), I do not know how I had missed it!

“Food did you say?” rasped a voice from behind us.

We turned to see a tall, hunched, shambling pile of rags hurrying to catch up to us. The only human traits about it were the bald pate, and its grubby face. The later being a stretch to be recognisably human.

“Yes.” replied Basstian hesitantly, as he turned to face his questioner. I felt that his first thoughts were similarly sceptical to my own. The man, if you could call him that, was nothing but a starving wretch. “If you are truly interested in my proposal.” he added haughtily.

“Aye. I am.” replied the mound with a vigorous nod. That statement told me a little about our new friend. He was from the Fastness, not a local Guernean like me. His annunciation was good with only a slight accent. I have a gift with languages, Fastendian being one that I know quite well.

As we walked through the town, Baastian pointed out some sights, one of which was of particular interest to me. Nightingale Street, where many pleasures of the flesh could be experienced. If I was not to be selected by one of the Veiled Sisters at the Convent of the Doves later that evening, then perhaps I would have to celebrate All Summers Day in the appropriate way here. That was the problem with the convent; the nuns there selected you, not the other way around as may be more familiar.

We arrived at a tavern called the Green Arms just as the clouds burst and rain pelted down onto earthen street. The tavern was named after the pair of green troll arms that hung in pride of place above the door. The story goes that Sea Trolls attacked the drinking establishment one evening years ago. They were defeated quite quickly after the owner of the time slammed the door shut with such force that the arms’ of one of the trolls were severed as it tried to claw him. All that now remained to mark their arrival and swift departure was that very pair of arms. You may think that they should have decayed, exposed to the elements as they were, but that is the very special thing about trolls. The nasty creatures are notoriously difficult to kill because their bodies heal themselves. I would not be surprised to have found out that the armless troll had grown back a new pair of limbs!

Our guide and host pushed open the doors to the tavern to reveal a small and quaint establishment. Four tables were occupied, and they by an assortment of characters. A robed woman sat chatting intently to a sailor at one table. On another was a girl not yet at womanhood clothed in filthy rags. A couple of mugs sat on the timber table in front of her. She looked somewhat out of place, but I expect she was limbering up for the hard night ahead of her. On the third table were two curious folk; a traveller and another Gnome. What is the world coming to?

Both were watching the door, although not for us as they ignored us completely. Finally there was an ugly hulking man with many scars upon his face and large bare arms. With him sat what could only be described as a wizard. I say this because, well, the spectacles, long white hair, beard and his attire, a robe with moons on it, struck me as very wizard like. Of course he could well have been a loon. I have already demonstrated that Halfast was full of them.

Baastian ushered us to a large vacant table and called for food and drink. The mound looked up expectantly. I swear he began to salivate at the prospect of a meal.

Roast lamb and trimmings were on the menu as was a spicy soup from the Fastness. The mound opted for the later. I mention this because the silly fool actually snorted the spiced powder that came with the meal, much like a gentleman would with quality snuff, but with a bit more gusto. What passed for the mounds’ nose started to bleed. He was definitely an odd one. Best keep an eye on him.

We chatted as we ate. I tried to be polite to the rabble surrounding me but only Baastian and the Gnome, Mortec, seemed to have any culture about them. I will note that if you are every travelling through Halfast, do go to the Green Arms and try their lamb, it truly is superb. Although the mead I drank could not be compared to Astrid’s Marvellous Mead from Montfort.

“So what of this proposal Leville?” I asked, wiping my mouth with a kerchief. I always have some on my person. One can never be without the means to keep clean. “Are you finally ready to share some details?”

He looked at me with a slight smile and a glint in his eye. “But of course. I was so carried away with our delightful meal that I had almost forgotten what had brought us here. I have been asked by my employer, your patron if you accept the terms, to find some suitable folk to become gladiators.“

“So you said.” remarked Argonne, a tallish man garbed in the browns and greens that one would associate with a woodsman. On closer inspection the clothes that he wore were almost patchwork and definitely crudely made. He seemed to have few possessions, the most notable being a staff that leaned against the table. His most remarkable feature, though, was the lack of one. He wore a strange mesh mask across his face that it effectively obscured any detail. How he saw out of it when none could see thorough it was a mystery to me.

“Yes, my impatient friend, I did indeed.” continued Baastian as he absently flicked a golden curl from his forehead. “If you choose to join with me today then your patron will sponsor each of you into the Halfast Games.” He glanced about looking for reaction, and he got it!

 

[Haraash Saan]

There was a collective of gasp of surprise. I tried not to but even I who had been exposed to wealth from my earliest days, could appreciate the cost involved. As I mentioned earlier it was some five thousand Silver Sickles to enter. Only the mound seemed immune, he was still wiping his bloody nose with what I assume was a sleeve and sculling his soup.

Baastian smiled smugly, appreciating the desired response he received. “Your patron…,” he commenced.

“Who may I ask is our patron?” I interrupted impatiently. I knew that it must be some noble or very wealthy merchant, but before I heard anymore I had to learn whether it was someone that I found respectable enough to be my employer.

“As I was saying, your patron will be the Baron of Yorath, and your training and equipment will be supplied in Yorathton.” Continued Baastian.

What little I knew of The Baron of Yorath informed me that he was relatively wealthy but for reasons unknown to me, had very few knights. He was seen as an eccentric, but had a earned a lot of respect in high circles due to his successes in the Halfast Games. Yorath itself was the furthest Barony of the Kingdom in relation to the capital Guerney City. It occupied the south east corner of the Kingdom which was essentially a natural peninsula, with all but its western border surrounded by the ocean.

Baastian went on to tell us that every year, the Baron formed a new gladiatorial team for two main purposes. The first was to win glory at the Games and the second was to create an armed company that would effectively act upon his beck and call. One does what one must when one has few knights. We would be required to swear allegiance to him and do his bidding as required. You may think that this would not sit well with me, being of noble stock myself and with a knighthood serving another Baron almost guaranteed, and initially it did weigh heavy upon me, but it is not uncommon to serve more than one lord.

Currently the Baron had two other mercenary bands, the first called themselves the Massive Hand. Six warriors and a minstrel formed the group. The minstrel was in the company to record and proclaim their achievements, although apparently he was also quite deft with a blade. Their principal tactic was to charge their foes quickly and then hack them down even more swiftly. As they were still in existence, it must have been an effective tactic, if somewhat uncouth.

The second band were a collection of mages, each with a different speciality. They had the creative name of Five Kinds of Death. I had only a little knowledge of magic, both my mother and twin sister were secret practitioners, but I knew enough to not want to get on any mages’ bad side. I hoped they did not wear costumes similar to that of the wizard seated in the tavern. It would be too amusing, and their name would lose any fear that it might inspire. Imagine a group of old men dressed in robes covered with astrological symbols pottering about the sandy arena facing an organised, well trained and armed unit of warriors. How could one not laugh?

Baastien continued, “At Yorath you will undergo several tests, team oriented, physical and mental. They will allow the Baron to decide whether you are indeed worthy to be in his employ. If you are unsuccessful you will receive ten Sickles for your troubles and provisions enough to see you back here to Halfast, or anywhere else you wish to go. If you are successful you will be required to swear allegiance to the Baron and then commence your training to better prepare you for the Games. I should also mention that these positions give no pay as such, however, you will be able to keep one half of your winnings from the Games. The Baron of course is making a considerable investment and will take the other half of the spoils.”

The mention of money and perhaps more importantly food, once again had the mound’s attention. “I’m in!” he exclaimed quickly. Baastian did not look too comfortable at the proclamation, but said nothing. The mound then nervously, I took them for nerves at the time, but they were just the shakes, lit some sort of rolled weed and began to smoke. That seemed to calm him.

To me it sounded like a good opportunity. “I accept these terms, Baastian.” I said. “I will accompany you to Yorath to meet the Baron and successfully undergo his tests.”

He nodded to me, pleased at my response. “And you others? What say you?” he asked.

I guess now would be a good time to summarise the rest of my companions. Mortec the Gnome I have already briefly described. The only other thing of note was a small golden holy symbol of an open tome that I was not familiar with around his neck. A quick enquiry gave me my answer. Mortec was a follower of Todesmagie, God of knowledge and enlightenment. I myself have an interest in histories and tales, perhaps I would have someone to converse with other than Baastian on the journey to Yorathton.

Next was the woodsman, Argonne. Seated beside him was a tall lanky man, introduced as Strav, shortened from Stravarious. A man that shortens his name has no self respect in my opinion. Strav was hooded and masked so that his entire face was covered, with only a slit for his eyes. I must have somehow missed the new mask fashion that was sweeping the lower classes. The rest of his attire was that of a traveller, worn and dusty. A rapier that hung by his side was his only apparent defence.

Opposite Stravarious was Morgan, a Fastendian man of medium height and slight build. He had relatively non-descript features and clothing. Later I learnt that his father and brothers were here to compete in the Games, as they had done previously. Smithing was the family trade, fighting a bonus. Morgan did not look to fit the part for either.

Finally, there was the mound. His name was Moxadder, pronounced ‘Mo-hadar’, and was, as suspected, another Fastendian. He was a strange man, older than the other recruits gathered at the table and very jumpy. As he moved (or perhaps twitched, I could not really tell), I glimpsed tattoos through the collection of rags he wore as clothing. At that point I knew little of him other than that he had no dress sense. He had not eaten for some time and he seemed to enjoy his weed and maybe other substances as well.

One by one they agreed to join the company for the journey and the trials that awaited in the South East at Yorathton.

Baastian introduced us to one last member of the party, the dog called Kuruul. To say that I was shocked is an understatement. I had thought nothing more of the animal than a companion to Baastain. How could the hound be considered a part of the gladiatorial company? Even allowing for the eccentricities of the some of the nobility it remained plainly ridiculous.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Once I had finished dining I took leave of the group, after dropping my gear off at the room that Baastian had taken out for me. As we were due to head off the next morning, I wished to meet Absquith and see what he thought of my news. Morgan came along too, he was quite pleased with the turn of events and as it turned out his brothers and father were also staying at the Inn at the End of the Road.

The rain had stopped by the time we had finished our meal and we made our brief trip without fear of saturation. We wound our way back to Cassavary Square. It was mid-afternoon and it was a lot quieter than before. I supposed that some of the shops and stalls had closed up for an afternoon rest or to prepare for the hedonism of the coming night.

I told Absquith my brief tale and he was most proud of me, and pleased for me.

“Yorath is indeed a suitable liege. I have not met the man but have never heard a bad word said of him. He should be good for you my brother.” he said.

We sat in the tavern on the bottom storey of the inn for a time, toasting my new found success whilst my brother imparted his wisdom and advice upon me. We were not particularly close, Absquith and I, however, he always looked out for me and I appreciated his joy for my success. I wished that the afternoon could have lasted longer, but reluctantly I headed back to the Green Arms and my new comrades.

Thoughts raced through my mind as I walked. I imagined myself in the arena my new found companions fighting bravely, but they were just a blur. I was who the people had come to see. They wanted to find out if my reputation was deserved. I was like serpent, quickly striking at one foe after another with my rapier, darting back and forth, elegantly side stepping slow clumsy swings from sword and maces and the like. I could not be stopped. Every now and again I would aid a comrade by skewering their opponents, all the while dodging and weaving through my own. I was a dancer, my movements precise, beautiful and graceful. None could stop my lethal thrusts. Then there were no more opponents, only adulation and cheering. “Montfort!” echoed throughout the arena. Over and over again it was chanted and my imaginary self lapped it up, all of it.

I stumbled into a puddle left from the rain and it woke me from my self indulgence. I sighed with disappointment and shock my foot to flick the mud off it. I was near to the Green Arms, and my immediate thoughts turned to celebrating the most holy of days.

Baastian was still at our table, although now he was alone. I nodded politely and went to my room to clean myself for the coming festivities. I mentioned the filth in the city before, but after immersing my boot in the puddle all I really desired was a bath. An unclean man is a man that, like men that shorten their names, has no respect for himself.

Feeling refreshed I joined Baastian. He had previously indicated that he would take us out to enjoy the occasion. I do believe everyone was quite keen to take up his offer. I for one would kindly accept a guide in this unfamiliar city, to ensure that I at least arrived at the Convent of Doves without too many undesired distractions.

Eventually we all gathered again in the tavern and, with Baastian in the lead, we headed off. Our first stop was Nightingale Street. Not for me. I was saving myself for what I hoped would be an unsurpassed night of pleasure. I was not going to partake in a quick tumble when I owed my full attentions to the Veiled Sister I was sure would choose me.

The others either had similar ideas or were a little timid as there were no takers for the gratifications offered on Nightingale Street. Baastian suggested that to overcome our ‘shyness’ we head to another tavern and have a few ‘looseners’. I did not bother to correct him. Shyness was not the issue for me.

We ambled through town admiring the revellers that had begun to appear and arrived at the docks where our next stop was to be. Even on such a holy day, and with evening just beginning to settle, the stevedores were still hard at work unloading and loading all manner of goods and wares from several ships at anchor. Strange wooden beams with ropes and pulleys that towered twenty feet above the wharves were being used to lift large heavy crates. I had never seen machines like them. It seemed that the ropes and pulleys coupled with the large beams used leverage to move cargo much heavier than a man could shift.

As I was taking in the busy dockside the Duchess Servessa rode into view with an escort of four pikeman. She was resplendent with finery befitting her station but why she was out riding the docks was a puzzle to me, it seemed a temptation of fate. Somewhere off in the distance I heard the jingle of bells. The dock workers heard it too, for they were scrambling for cover. I hazarded a guess that their reason was not the Duchess, but the lepers that rounded a corner.

Upon seeing the lepers, Baastian inclined his head to a street to his right and said, “Perhaps we had best go this way.”

At that very moment the lepers threw open their robes, drew forth clubs and charged the Duchess!

“Duchess beware the lepers!” I cried out in warning as I ran toward the imminent conflict.

 

[Haraash Saan]

At this point I should note that weapons are not usually on show in most cities, well not weapons of significance like swords, and as I was expecting a night of passion, not violence, I had left my rapier back in my room.

The pikeman readied for the lepers charge but they were overrun before they had had a chance to set themselves. It very quickly turned into an ugly hand-to-hand melee. The Duchess was trying to control her startled mare. With any luck she would succeed, turn, and flee to safety. She did not.

I arrived and attempted to slap the horse on the rump with the intent of startling it into a run to break through the lepers. It reared as I swung and my hand made no contact. I swung again, and once again I missed. I noticed from the corner of my eye that Baastian had arrived on my left and hurled a dagger although I did not see the result of the throw. A pikeman on my right went down. I slapped again. Contact at last! I laid a telling blow on the horse’s rear. Startled it tried to burst through the lepers, but the stupid woman astride it managed to hold the animal back. Why she resisted I do not know, but the reasoning of the feebler sex is beyond me.

“Unhand my horse, peasant!” she cried out to me. The lack of gratitude was incredible. I was aiding her, helping her and saving her life and what did I get? Unhand my horse? She must have been in a panic. She did not know what was good for her, and that would also explain her derogatory comment referring to my status. It was quite obvious to anyone who cared to look that nothing about me bore any resemblance to a peasant!

A leper leapt high with club in hand and thumped the Duchess solidly. She was stunned but somehow managed to stay upon her horse.

Morgan and Argonne now joined the fray. Morgan, like me, bore no weapons. Argonne introduced himself to a leper immediately, by forcing him to dodge a hastily swung blow from the staff. Stravarious appeared, whipping out his rapier and swinging wildly. The one glance I managed revealed that he had no skill with the blade.

Beyond the lepers I heard glass break. The fighting reached its most frantic. The Duchess’s horse finally decided to take matters into its own hooves and bolted through a gap in the congestion. Argonne grasped for the reins wildly, but was kicked aside for his troubles.

Suddenly I realised my precarious position, without a weapon in the middle of a brawl. This was no place for a gentleman. Especially an unarmed one. I grabbed the pike of a fallen guard and used its significant length to puncture a leper. I half expected puss and ooze to seep out of its body. But then, I had not noticed until that moment that we were not fighting lepers. They were normal, healthy men. My adversary turned his attention to me. He took a step forward, edging past the shaft of my pike and swung a violent blow at my head. I ducked easily.

I glanced to my right to see if the Duchess was alright. Morgan had chased the horse down and was now struggling to control it, but they were clear of any immediate threat.

This was not how I imagined my first combat, a gutter stoush, pike in hand facing a club wielding foe. That thought must have distracted me, for my next thrust did not even graze my opponent, though at least I did manage to redirect my assailants’ attack by half parrying it and pushing his club aside with the pike.

There was a quick movement above the combat, and my instincts prepared me to leap aside. A crate that had still been attached to a crane had been loosened and tumbled down with an almighty crash. I saw that Moxadder had not been idle and had climbed the crane and untied the securing rope and dropped the crate. I could not tell if his plan had any success as a massive lump of wood once again tried to part my head from my neck. Again I dodged and this time responded in kind with another strike that found its target. Still my opponent stood. Blood stained his robes. I prepared myself for another attempt, praying to Laster that if I survived I would truly honour his most important day. My foe ran straight past me. I stabbed quickly but in my surprise failed to connect. Then I saw what it was that he and another leper had run for; the Duchess!

Morgan had been leading the Duchess’s horse away, she still looked groggy, and our combatants had finally resumed there original intent. I sprinted off in pursuit. The two remaining pikeman, (another had fallen at some stage), as well as the rest of the leper colony, beat me to it. The Duchess’ men thrust at the lepers with their pikes scoring at least one hit and downing a leper. I charged at the last robed figure, the very same one I had been fighting, and rammed my pike home. The force was such that his arms flew up and his club dropped from his hands, but the bastard refused to die. That is until a bolt from Mortec’s crossbow bolt flew true and thudded emphatically into his back. He slumped forward and slowly slid off the end of my pike. We had won the day and saved the Duchess.

As is always the way with stories and tales of similar ilk, the pounding of hooves announced the arrival, when there was no one left to fight, of the brave and fearful Prince and his routine. The difference in this case was that Prince Brand was quite unconcerned.

“What happened here!” he barked.

“My lord, the Duchess was attacked,” I began.

“And who the devil are you, peasant?” he turned to look down upon me from his horse.

“My lord, I am Gerard de Mowbray, at your service.” I said with another doff of my hat and a much deeper bow than I had offered to Baastian.

“Mowbray? I seem to recall some such peasant nobility somewhere about. And what proof do you have man?” he asked.

I displayed my signet ring. His acknowledgment was a small grunt. “And?” he queried. The high and mighty of the nobility really do go above and beyond the call of arrogance sometimes. I am an intelligent man and accept that my place is above the peasants, however I do try not to treat them with the utter contempt Brand was displaying to me.

“My lord. Several men posing as lepers,” Brand raised a suspicious eyebrow, almost questioning whether such a thing was possible, “drew clubs and beset the Duchess. We”, I gestured vaguely to Baastian’s company, “assisted the Duchess’s guards, who were severely outnumbered..” I sensed he was not a patient man, so I skipped the details.

“Hmpf.” Another magnificent reply! Obviously the man was a scholar.

Prince Brand reached for his belt, grabbed a pouch and threw it to my feet. “There is your reward. Now leave! My men will handle this now.”

“Thank you my lord.” yet another bow. This one was deep enough to scoop up the pouch and deftly secret into a pocket.

“Guardsman, I do believe that this is yours?” I said as I handed the pike I had retrieved earlier to a guardsman. I then turned on my heel and headed back toward my comrades.

 

[Haraash Saan]

As I walked back to the group I saw that not all had been idle. While I spoke with the Prince, Moxadder and Argonne had rifled through the corpses. Peasants, through and through, scrounging for anything of value.

Baastian gathered us together and hurried us along, wishing to leave the scene quickly so that we brought no extra attention ourselves. We ended up back at the Green Arms to discuss the recent events, and more importantly to have a few stiff drinks to settle our nerves.

I relayed my conversation with the Prince to the group and when it came to the Prince’s reward, I upended the contents of the pouch onto the table. There were maybe fifty Silver Sickles and a few Gold Gromits. These were quickly divvied, but the most impressive object from the pouch was a ring.

Mortec grabbed almost before it hit the table, saying, “If I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am, this ring is marked with the crown, the royal symbol of Guerney.”

Baastian looked it over, looked at me and said, “I fear that the Prince did not intend to give you that particular pouch, Gerard.”

I took the ring from him and remarked as I stood, pushing myself from my chair, “I must return it to him and advise him of his mistake.”

It should not have surprised me that I was almost instantaneously shouted down, but it did. Those gathered clearly saw the ring as some source of income, whereas I saw it returning the ring as the right thing to do. I was no petty thief in the night. That was obviously not a concern of my companions.

I sought to reason with them, arguing that it was not ours to take, especially as it was undoubtedly wrongly given. Baastian sided with the others and argued that the Prince was an arrogant and selfish man and more importantly, had previously not been civil to our potential employer. He had even gone so far as to publicly humiliate the Barony, if not the Baron himself.

Whilst I am in no particular favour of equality, after all it does go against my upbringing and my very nature, I quickly saw that there was no point arguing any further; these people did not give me the respect I deserved. It seemed that parentage did not translate well to the masses, so I washed my hands of the ring and told them that they could do with it what they wished.

Strav snatched the jewelery from me, I think more in annoyance at my suggestion than anything else, and slid it on his finger. He attempted to muffle his surprise as he said, “Interesting! The crown signet is replaced by a splintered dagger when I wear it.” I did not actually ask what a splintered dagger was, I just assumed he meant broken. I would have to remember that tidbit of information. One day it may come in handy.

My rapier wielding comrade looked thoughtful as some hurried discussion broke around the table. I tried to remain ignorant of the ring, I did not want to be a party to it and turned to Mortec and asked about his family roots. His family was in the armour business, and were very well respected or so Mortec said.

We stayed a little longer at the Green Arms and drank into more of Baastian’s hospitality. Finally he decided that the others had had enough time to settle their rapidly beating hearts and we headed off for the Convent of the Doves.

By this stage revelry and excitement was everywhere to be beheld. The populace had truly come out to worship Laster in the appropriate fashion. Many were inebriated, they staggered and fell all too frequently into our path. Drugs were evident everywhere, as were their users. People sat in the street smoking, snorting and even drinking various narcotics. They all seemed very, very happy. There were even amorous displays for all to see. One such dalliance was in the mud on the side of the road and another against a wall in an alley we passed. Ah Laster, how proud and happy he would be at such devotion!

We passed a monk of Hutenkama, a strange sect that I knew little of other than that they provided protections and cures from all manner of ailments. I paid for a protection from diseases, often a good idea on a night like this. The monk himself was a small man, maybe a smidge over five feet tall. He wore robes that exposed his hands and sandaled feet. As soon as my coin crossed his palm the little old man began jumping and spinning around me, twisting his gnarled fingers into obscure shapes before finally ending his strange little dance and dabbing some ink on my forehead whilst mumbling some sort of blessing. One can never be too cautious when potentially dealing with diseases of the loins.

I do not quite know what happen to Mortec or Moxadder but they were not with us when we arrived at the Convent. I suspect that Moxadder spent his reward fairly quickly. There were hundreds gathered at the holy site, mostly men but also some women, hoping, perhaps praying for selection by one of the Sisters. Quickly I left the company of the others and somehow manoeuvred my way through the mass of bodies closer to the convent itself, hoping to be more visible to the nuns.

I had never really doubted that I would be selected although I must admit a small relief that I did not have to go back to Nightingale Street. A sultry seductress had sidled up next to me. I felt her hand gently clasp my own. Her touch sent a chill through me, but it was nothing compared to what I felt later.

I cannot say whether it was luck, the piety of the Sister of the Veil or the monk of Hutenkama, but I never did acquire any disease from that night of unimaginable pleasure. What was experienced that night is between myself and the nameless Sister. All I will say on the matter is that if you do ever get the opportunity to be with one, accept it! I found out the next day that Morgan and Argonne were also selected by a Sister and I have no doubt that they enjoyed the experience as much as I did.

Oh yes, I thought this strange at the time, and I remember it now whilst writing so I’ll mention it. My veiled pleasurer mentioned that she would give me a portent in a week’s time. I have not experienced anything that remotely felt like a portent as yet.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Chapter 2 – An unusual business at Ravenswood

The sun shone in the early morning sky. A good omen and an excellent day to begin our journey south-east to the Barony of Yorath. Surprisingly the entire company, I was sure Moxadder would not return, gathered at the Green Arms as had been arranged.

Leaving town we stopped a herald to ask him what news there was to hear. The lad, a pimpled and lanky boy several years from manhood, stood proudly in his bright red herald’s tabard, puffing his chest out with ill-conceived importance. The information he gave cost me a copper common and it was barely worth even that. I will record it, however, just in case it becomes useful. I may judge, but I am always faithful to the events as they take place. The herald told us the following:

Disease was rife in the town of Thornwood. I was stunned. His first utterance was actually useful. We had to travel through Thornwood on our way to Yorathton.

Troll attacks had been reported not two days from town. This snippet was of little use. What direction? Naturally he could not elucidate this.

The Prince’s advisors, the five mysterious companions I had seen arrive with him, were unnatural. I took that with a grain of salt. They certainly looked odd, but unnatural I thought was a little far fetched.

The Dominion had defeated an army north of the city of Avinal. I knew little of geography outside of Guerney but I had guessed correctly, Morgan confirmed it, that Avinal is in the north of the Fastness where most of the warring was taking place.

The boy completed his recital by telling us that Prince Jeremy, King Thurllands’ first son, turned away emissaries from the Fastness without gracing them with an audience. Again this was not really news, Jeremy was known to be against any war effort. All the Fastendians ever asked for were troops. They never got any. However, the soup road seemed to provide them with militia aplenty.

Disappointed at my wasted coin I rebuked the herald and advised him to actually gather some news before pretending to have any. To say he was not pleased with my honest appraisal would be an understatement.

He yelled at me angrily, his complexion taking on a lovely shade of beetroot, “I’ll wager you can’t do any betta! It’s ‘ard work finding out all that noos it is!”

So furious was he that he hurled his colourful herald’s surcoat at my feet before storming off. Some peasants really over-react. They just do not appreciate advice of their betters.

“Can I ‘ave that? It’s better than what I’ve got.” Moxadder inquired hopefully, eyes wide at the prospect of more good fortune.

“It is all yours my friend, I certainly have no need for it.” I replied cheerfully. If Moxadder was to travel with us then he could at least look vaguely presentable as a peasant. He had been struggling to do that.

With a few hours of light left on our first day of travel we saw the town of Thornwood in the distance, the very same town that the angry young herald had warned us of. Over the next few miles the boy was proved right. It certainly did look to be struck by the plague. Not a person in sight, none in town and none tending the surrounding fields. Quick discussion led to the decision to skirt the town and ensure that we did not contract anything that would ultimately disappoint our potential employer and ourselves. Not that it was an issue for me as I still had the mark of Hutenkama on my forehead to protect me.

When we were about half way around the village, Argonne stopped. He went down on bended knee and brushed his fingers across the ground.

“Tracks.” He said matter-of-factly, pointing them out so that we could all see them.

Moxadder, who seemed most interested, performed a quick appraisal and told us that they belonged to rat trolls. Pesky little buggers, but dangerous enough for an untrained troop such as ours. He offered to negotiate with them if we had to, but advised against it, preferring to increase our speed a little and move on. We all agreed that this would be the most suitable course of action.

Whilst I knew that Moxadder was from a place within a swamp called Irudesh City, I still could not fathom from whom he had actually learnt to speak to trolls. Perhaps I could coax him into teaching me one day.

Two more uneventful days passed. The only mildly interesting thing that occurred was a meeting with some of the odd monks of Hutenkama that travelled in the opposite direction to us. They danced about a little, perhaps for our amusement, before realising we were not interested in their protections. My own mark had disappeared after the first day but I felt no need for another. So, a little despondent they continued on their way.

The following morning the weather had turned a little. The drizzle that greeted us as we woke soon became steady rain. Everyone was sodden pretty quickly. Sometime near midday Morgan saw what looked to be a ruin of some nature off in the distance. We all hurried to it hoping for some shelter from the infernal and constant rain. Unfortunately there was none to be had but at least it provided some small respite to the boredom of the open road.

Upon investigation, the ruin was found to be an old temple to Srcan, ironically the God of Hope amongst other things. I for one hoped that the persistent downpour would cease. Most likely the temple was destroyed by the Connvocation, bloody Gerech followers, over one thousand years ago. Further searching about, the wonders of an inquiring mind, led me to find a cave of sorts. It had been dug out by some beast, a squatter troll Moxadder suggested, that had not been back for a long time. He seemed to know an awful lot about trolls did the bald Fastendian. There was only one thing of interest within the trolls’ dwelling, a strange long stick made of bone. It did not seem to be a natural bone, but one that had been shaped or worked in some way. I picked up the curio, fixed it to my pack and then joined the others to trudge back to the road.

The weather only got worse. That evening we made camp under the trees of a small copse, looking to avoid as much of the rain as we could. At least I was not covered in the grime that accumulates when travelling, the rain had washed it from me. My boots however were covered in mud. It sickened me how filthy they had become. I would have to buy another pair to replace them at the first opportunity.

By the seventh day of travel, the eighth day of Low Summer, the rain had stopped and the temperature had risen. I cannot recall if it was more or less uncomfortable than the rain and storms we had experienced, but at least it was different.

At one point Moxadder, Morgan and Argonne all heard sobbing off to the side of the road and went to investigate. They came back several minutes later with a young lad wearing the white surcoat of a Crusader. They explained that he had been burying several fallen comrades, adults, who had been driven town and beaten so badly that they had died. Not a wonder being Gerechians. I believe I have already mentioned they were not popular.

The discussion turned to what to do with the boy. Some said leave him to his own devices, some said take him with us. I was in the former camp. I really did not want some young boy being a burden to us, especially when he was a Crusader. They only bring trouble. In the end we left him to his grizzly task. Good riddance I say.

That night during the third watch I was wakened by Mortec’s rasping voice. “Listen!” he said intently. “Screams”.

I sat up and listened with all my might. Nothing. “There is nothing there, let me be.” I said grumpily as I slumped back down and rolled over. He had woken me from a rather pleasant dream involving my veiled seducer from Halfast.

“Look! Fire on the night sky.” Morgan said in a hushed tone.

Damn them all to hell! This was not a reasonable time to have a discussion! But discuss it they did, and at some ungodly hour we packed up camp and moved off. Baastian was assuring Mortec and Morgan that it was only a forest fire and nothing to worry about. They, however, did not seem convinced by that suggestion.

 

[Shadow at the Edge]

"Fire in the night sky"?

Well? Come on...what happens next?

You can't leave us here! We might as well be hanging off a cliff by one arm!