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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Helfdan" data-source="post: 1549851" data-attributes="member: 11732">Chapter 10Part 10:  A Kindred Spirit    Father: As always, I hope this letter finds you in good health.  If you received my last letter, you know that we were successful in recovering the Goathian Bell, the holy relic required to save the city of Medore from an impending attack by hordes of undead horrors.  However, the cost was great, for both Landotharan Silvermoon, the half-elven sworder, and Nikolas Ran, priest of Terferos, had fallen in combat.  Only through the intervention of the ultimately treacherous, and now destroyed, mestorien druidess Denora, had Segnarus Mank been brought back from death, though in the body of a gnome.  And our ranks were strengthened by the powerful mage Eithnelle, brother to departed Landotharan.      Yes, father.  Even as I write, I see how implausible this all sounds, yet as you know your son, you know every word is true.  I still grapple with the events of the past week, and my role in them, but let me get back to my tale…      The morning after our battle with Denora, Jerikas Ran quietly healed our wounds, and soundly suggested that we make haste, as the longer we tarried, the more people would die in Medore.  I had risen early, and after my prayers, hitched the Bell’s enchanted, wheeled frame to the horses we recovered from the vanquished warlord Koron.  As I completed my task, Girion returned from visiting the ruins of his family’s home.  He was followed by a massive grey timberwolf with a fierce mien, which made our horses exceedingly nervous.  I calmed the beasts as well as you’ve taught me, as the ranger chuckled.  He then simply stated:  “His name is Grimfang.  He, too, has lost his family,” and joined the others in their preparations for our return.      It was still early morning, and not too hot, when we set out to the northeast, back to Medore.  I cannot say that any of us were sad to leave Roedran behind, though Girion had understandably mixed feelings about his now fallen homeland.  Several hours passed as we rode, and I almost dozed in the saddle.  I slept poorly the previous night, for again the mysterious steed in the storm-drenched and lightning-lit plains galloped throughout my slumber.      I thought I was dreaming again, for suddenly, the earth itself seemed to tremble – but my friends noticed it as well.  All I could see was a cloud of dust approaching from the north, but the ranger’s keen eyes detected a herd of stampeding horses!  “This is no natural stampede,” he said.  They seem to be fleeing from something… They move oddly.”      As they approached, I was dumbstruck.  They were MAGNIFICENT, father.  Enormous beasts, seemingly bred for war, but running gracefully as racing palfreys.  The Terferian priest started, and exclaimed in awe: “The ranger is right, these beasts are not natural…  they are celestial!”  Celestial, father.  He later explained that these horses were natural to one of the heavens…  Truly, these southlands are filled with horrors, but occasionally wonders also appear.      As I admired the stampeding animals, I saw something odd: there was no lead stallion!  When I brought this to my friends’ attention, Girion felt this was the likely reason for their fear.  I suddenly knew, with no uncertainty, that I was destined to solve this mystery.  As I turned to my friends, I saw there was no need to ask for their help.  They smiled, and asked me to lead on.  There would likely be great danger, however, for the foe who could scare such mighty creatures was surely quite fearsome.  To my surprise, Eithnelle suddenly displayed some of the rashness that had characterized his late brother: he spoke his charm of flight, and soared ahead of us to scout, unbidden, accompanied only by the black crow he kept as a pet of sorts.      After a few minutes, the slight half-elf returned.  He told us that he had sent the bird ahead, and that it reported seeing a campfire, several large humanoids, and several horses!  Yes, father, it seems he can somehow communicate with the bird.  I would think this impossible, but…  later.  At any rate, I again offered to ride in alone, but my friends again refused.  We quickly discussed strategy, and decided to simply ride in, for these rolling plains held little in the way of cover, and it was barely past mid-day.      A mile later, we came to a huge campfire, flanked by two enormous mangy hide tents.  There were four huge, hulking brutes clothed in filthy animal hides, which we quickly recognized as ogres.  Two celestial horses were tied to a crude hitching post, and the carcass of a third was roasting in the fire!  I held my anger at this travesty, as I meant to attempt to negotiate with the vile creatures.  As we approached, my stomach turned on hearing bestial grunts from one of the tents.      The ogres seemed to smell our approach, and lifted huge clubs and spears as they roared in defiance.  It was too late for words as Eithnelle, floating beside me, began to cast a spell.  Stepper reared as I braced my lance, and charged at the closest monster.  The lance seemed to shine with white light as I called on the Judge of Judges for his holy justice before slamming into the beast.  The ogre screamed in pain as it was skewered, almost as the same time that two monsters to my left were caught in Eithnelle’s eldritch lightning.  My foe slammed his great club against my shield, but I managed to stay in the saddle.  I blocked the ogre’s attacks as well as I could, while drawing your sword Aerbrand.  In the heat of combat, its silvery blade was colder than ice, and wisps of vapor wreathed it, as I plunged it deep into the ogre’s face.  The creature screamed one last time, as it’s eyes froze before it died.  Two of the creatures charged my friends, hurling huge spears as they went (one of them staggered by a mule-kick from Stepper).  The third started for me, but Eithnelle again intoned an eldritch formula, and the monster was reduced to cinders by a massive, fiery explosion, which barely missed my bay stallion and me.  The occupied tent had also been affected by the magical fire, and two angry, nude, and singed monsters rushed out, weapons in hand.  One of them rushed me, and I barely ducked under its powerful swing.  Suddenly I heard a growl, and saw Grimfang savaging my foe.  Taking this opening, I called on Barlam for strength and plunged your sword into its midriff, putting paid to the monster.  By this time only one of the beasts was left, and eldritch missiles from both Baruk and Eithnelle punished it.  It tried to run, but the half elf finished it with another impressive fiery explosion.  His expression as he finished the beast reminded me very much of his bloodthirsty brother…  I hope he does not share Lando’s fate.      I dismounted and ran to free the captive beasts.  The smaller of the two (at sixteen hands, almost as big as Stepper) was a beautiful black mare.  She shied away slightly as I untied her.  The larger of the two, however, was wholly unafraid.  He is a dapple-grey stallion, with white mane and tail.  His mottled coat shone as if freshly brushed.  Amazingly, he stands a full eighteen hands, father!  As I untied him, I clearly sensed gratitude for his rescue…  and I knew that his name was Stormshadow.  This was the beast I had dreamt about since my arrival in Roedran.      I turned to my friends, to attempt and explain.  They all seemed doubtful, save Girion, who merely smiled and stated: “Perhaps it recognizes a kindred spirit.”  And he was right.  For I instantly knew Stormshadow would not be merely my warhorse: he is as a brother to me.      I sadly turned to unsaddle Stepper.  The mighty bay stallion appeared sad as well, as if sensing that he was being replaced.  I freely admit to you, father, that a tear came to my eye.  If you have received my letters, you know how faithful and brave Stepper has been in these trying times.  But somehow, Stormshadow reassured me.  And to our great surprise, the black mare nuzzled Stepper’s ear.  She then reared, and thundered off to rejoin their herd.  Stepper looked at me briefly, and after I rubbed his ear one last time, he followed the celestial mare.  There can be happy endings in Roedran after all, it seems.      As I thanked my friends for their help, Girion pointed out that a large thunderhead had suddenly appeared to the north… a grim omen.  Segnarus had happily looted the ogres’ camp, finding a goodly amount of coin, as well as a well-worked leather quiver sewn with copper wire (claimed by Girion, of course).  His mood was quickly dampened by the arrival of an enormous crow (at least 10 feet wingspan) which flew down to perch on one of the large hide tents.      To me, this unnatural creature was instantly loathsome, and reeked with evil taint.  Before I could speak, however, Baruk sent a barrage of sorcerous globes into it, killing the bird.  “Nicely done, my friend,” was Girion’s answer.  “It may have been a messenger or spy.”  After the day’s events I would not doubt it, but Baruk gruffly added: “The bird was unnatural, it was sorcerously altered.”  With that, we had enough of ill omens – and the smell of roasted ogre- so we quickly resumed our trip to Medore.      The ranger led us at as fast a pace as he felt was safe for our steeds.  But he need not have worried about Stormshadow.  Despite my weight, and that of my arms, armor, and gear, the giant dapple-gray trod lightly as ever, with a uniquely dignified gait that even Stepper could not have matched.  I barely had to direct him, as he seemed to intuit my instructions.  Truly a magnificent horse.      But Armax seemed to favor us, for we encountered no more danger during that day.  We set up camp in the open plain, which is always worrisome in these dangerous lands.  Before turning in I prayed briefly, thanking Tilsman and Morcandor for such a blessing.  I hoped to sleep promptly, for I had drawn second shift.      The night sky was overcast, without moon or stars to see by, when Baruk awoke me.  I quickly donned my wondrously light banded armor (a gift from a grateful Lord Eltross, as you may remember) and took up my shield and your Aerbrand as I took my station by our campfire.  After about an hour, it seemed to me I saw some figures moving in the dark, near our tents.  As I went to investigate, I was surprised by two skeletal, clawed hands, which grasped my neck from behind, meaning to strangle me!  The stench of death was overwhelming… by the firelight I recognized the sallow, skeletal features and glowing red eyes of the vile coffer-corpses of Symarul.      Only my mithral gorget saved my life.  I grasped my hand-carved sword-and-scales symbol, and shouted: “By the power of Tilsman, BEGONE, vile things.”  And by his power, the creatures could not bear to touch me, and released me.  My shouts awoke my friends, and I could hear movement from within the tents.  But several figures moved in the darkness.  Three more of them charged me.  One was intercepted by Stormshadow, who charged furiously into the fray, smashing one to bits with his unshod hooves.      I sidestepped the other two, and calling on Barlam for strength, cut an arm from one with Aerbrand.  As more of them appeared, Girion ran to my side, and soon we fought back to back against a horde of the dead things, with Grimfang and Stormshadow guarding our flanks.  The battle was fierce.  Renmemnion and Aerbrand seemed to shine, one gold, and one silver, as they hacked into the unholy bone and sinew.  In the background, we could hear incantations, and see flashes of eldritch light, as Baruk and Eithnelle hurled their magic into the fray.  Soon they were all destroyed, or fleeing from Jerikas’s prayers.      Jerikas and I prayed over the wounded, and thankfully, the rest of the night was uneventful.  The next day was again overcast, but without rain.  We awoke to see two of the gigantic crows pecking at the remains of the undead.  Simultaneously, Girion flawlessly sent 3 arrows into one, killing it, as Eithnelle sent his balls of magical energy into the other.  The wounded bird tried to flee, but a fourth grey-goose shaft spelled its doom.  There was little doubt in our minds, now: these enchanted, bold crows were spies for Symarul’s vile cult.      We rode out anxiously, for we knew we were less than a day’s ride from Medore, and the end of our quest.  Shortly after noon, we saw two figures approaching from the north, bearing a third.  As we closed with them, we saw they were two badly injured soldiers, carrying the corpse of a third one.  Quickly we hailed them and offered our help.      They quickly asked if we were part of a relief force for the city!  Grim news indeed, father.  The soldiers claimed they were part of a recoinissance force.  They had been set upon by undead horrors in the night, and decimated.  The dead man had been sent to warn the city, but they had found him thus, and did not know if he had completed his mission.      I felt we needed to hurry, but Jerikas counseled patience, for by the power of Terferos, he could obtain useful information.  He piously placed the dead soldier on the ground, and prayed to Terferos to allow his soul to return, if briefly, to answer his questions.  To my surprise, the overcast day seemed to darken, a chill wind ruffled our cloaks, and the corpse opened its eyes…      Jerikas politely but firmly questioned it, and then turned to us.  “We are late, but by the grace of Terferos, maybe not too much so.  This brave, departed soul reached the city.  The undead have attacked, and Medore is beseiged.  It had not yet fallen as of last night.  Apparently the creatures do not fight during the day, giving the defenders time to shore up their walls.”      We quickly reviewed our options.  We knew Medore well, from our days in Lord Erecos’s company.  Ahead of us lay the mighty Antarius River, which formed the southern border of the city.  The only two ways to cross it were by boat or ferry – it would prove difficult to transport the Goathian Bell with its frame and team of horses that way – and the great Bridge of Erias, the main road into the city.  The bridge would likely be blockaded by undead, but if we reached the city in daylight, the way should be open.  Thus, Jerikas, Girion, and I healed the soldiers as well as we could, and then set out with all possible haste towards the beseiged city.  The hours passed, and our anxiety grew.  As dusk approached, we knew we were within minutes of the city.  And then disaster struck.  For in the distance, we saw a large cloud, moving towards us against the wind.  The ranger’s keen eyes gave early warning: “It’s a flock of those accursed giant crows!”  Symarul was striking at us in plain daylight.  As we rode forth, Eithnelle hurled mighty magicks into the flock.  Somehow they were protected, for after two fiery conflagrations and a bolt of eldritch lightning, only half-a-dozen of the birds lay dead.  Girion plied his mighty longbow, and I plied my stout horsebow, and two more of the birds fell, but then they were upon us.  Father, it was like being in a maelstrom of buffeting wings and ripping beaks and talons.  I lost all sight of my friends, though I could hear Jerikas’s prayers, Girion’s battle cries, and Eithnelle and Baruk’s invocations during the battle.  I held on to the bow with my left, and guiding Stormshadow with my knees, lay into them with Aerbrand, calling for Tilsman’s justice.  Up close, I could feel the birds’ abyssal taint, and see their beady eyes glowing with an evil intelligence.  I hacked, and hacked, until I thought my good right arm would give out.  It seemed their numbers were legion.  I eventually cut my way to Eithnelle’s side, and sliced one from his back, as the half-elf grimly finished another with his dagger.  Their numbers were finally thinning.  One flew at my face, talons poised to rip flesh, but was intercepted by Grimfang, who leapt and caught it by the throat, quickly destroying it.  Only two of them survived the melee, and attempted to flee.  But my bow was still in my hand.  Armsmaster Turin may have thought me an indifferent archer, father, but he would have been proud.  For dropping sword, I sent two arrows in quick succession, and the two birds died within 30 feet of us.  Somewhat the worse for the wear, we recovered our weapons and rode forth grimly.  For though we had survived, the crows had won.  They delayed us long enough that the sun was setting over Medore when we reached the Bridge of Erias.  From our viewpoint, we could see that the earth around the city walls was scorched, with signs of battle.  Vultures flew over the city.  Trenches around the city were full of burning pitch, to keep the vile creatures out.  The walls were covered with tar, to make climbing difficult, and countless archers and torchbearers were getting ready for another night of desperate fighting.  But we might as well have been miles from the city.  For halfway across its ninety foot length, the Bridge of Erias was sundered.  And beyond the gap…  fate.  A dark horseman awaited, holding a standard with Symarul’s 3-eyed crow symbol.  He was guarded by three shambling swordsmen (undead), and two hulking brutes, at least ten feet tall, the flesh rotting off their mighty carcasses.  As we approached the gap, we saw that the horse was black, with glowing red eyes.  The horseman wore a suit of bloodstained plate and mail, apparently made of mithral.  And though he was hooded to protect himself from the waning sun, the device on his tattered surcoat was unmistakable: a golden Hintanese Lion.  There could be no doubt, it was Erecos, the Lion of Medore, war hero and our former commander, leading these vile undead against his own city.  There was naught left to us but battle.  Pray for me, father.  Pray for us all.</blockquote>

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