The Doomed Bastards: Reckoning (story complete)
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Lazybones
Adventurer
Glad you enjoyed that scene. It was a challenge to write but once it got going I really enjoyed how it turned out.
I was looking at the SH forum and saw that the page has over 21k views, now, just shy of 180 views per update. That's more forum exposure than any of my previous story hours, and thanks to everyone for your support!
Today's post brings back a minor character from earlier in the story to add a bit of perspective on how things are going on the "other side". Filcher's the name of a goblin rogue I played in an all-humanoids game about a year ago. Guy couldn't fire off more than 3 or 4 crossbow bolts in a row without a critical fumble, but damned if he didn't have an insane Hide check.
* * * * *
Chapter 118
SOULS OF THE TAKEN
As Filcher regained consciousness, he was greeted with a wave of pain. His first instincts were to run; he tried to move, but found it impossible. The attempt only led to more pain, stabbing through his body into his brain, and nearly dragged him back down into the black.
Instinct told him that would be bad, so he let his muscles relax, and focused on breathing, the way that old Grimax had taught him. The pain receded somewhat, still there, but manageable. Only when he felt reasonably sure that he would not pass out again, did he open his eyes.
When he looked around, he almost wished he had passed out again.
He was not alone; not only were most of the members of his patrol here, but he recognized members of at least two mining teams. There were maybe thirty goblins here in all, and there might have been more behind him that he could not see. All were securely bound with lengths of barbed rope that wrapped around their arms and legs, binding them tightly and holding them in a forced kneeling position. A few had toppled over despite that, and lay unresponsive on the ground. A few of the fellow prisoners looked like they might be conscious, but their heads were bowed, and the only sound he heard from any of them was soft groans of pain. They were in a large chamber of dark stone, lit by a diffuse reddish light. Metal pillars reinforced the ceiling. Even before he turned and saw the huge graven idol on the far side of the room, he knew where he was, but actually seeing it sent a tremor of fear through him that threatened to send him over the edge into uncontrolled panic. It was only through a strong effort that he was able to retain control, although the terror remained a cold pit in the depths of his stomach.
He did not see the creature that had taken them. The thing had been a true horror, a six-armed cross between a woman and a serpent. Their weapons had done nothing to it, and it had easily blocked those who had tried to flee, summoning up walls of deadly blades, or simply vanishing and appearing ahead of those who were running. It had been everywhere at once, or so it had seemed, and Filcher had initially assumed that there were many of the creatures, but in hindsight, he realized that it was likely just one, using magic to confound them.
Small consolation that was; the one was bad enough. The goblins of Grezneck were hardy creatures, toughened by life in such proximity to Rappan Athuk, but even the arts of the goblin wizards and shamans might not be enough to deal with such a monster. The goblins had held a long truce with the cult of Orcus, and many of the goblins themselves even paid homage to the ancient demon god. But now it was clear that the human priests had been biding their time, waiting for the right moment to strike against their neighbors.
Filcher wondered if any of his kin had escaped. A few of his patrol were not present, at least that he could see, but he remembered seeing at least one of them cut in twain by the demon-creature’s swords. He did not know how many miners had been in the other groups that had been attacked, but he hoped that at least one had escaped to warn his kin. Maybe something could be done to prepare for another attack from the snake woman.
He remembered the others that he and his patrol had encountered, some days back. On the spider level, it had been. Those humans had claimed to be enemies of the cult of Orcus. They had fought and beaten the river trolls, so obviously they’d been powerful. What had happened to them?
Filcher tried to relax his muscles—difficult, with the barbs digging painfully into his flesh. His hands were free, but he could not move them far, with his arms immobilized by the ropes. Slowly, incrementally, he moved his nimble fingers through the folds in his tunic. His armor had been cut from his body, and his gear taken, but he’d broken an arrow yesterday, and he’d pocked the head, intending to have it recrafted by Shanis later...
He was distracted as he sensed movement behind him. He slowly lowered his head, feigning unconsciousness, while his fingers continued their subtle work. Keeping his eyes slightly open, he tried to see what was happening.
A clatter of movement, an odd sound, like dice being rubbed together in the palm. Filcher caught sight of a flash of white out of the corner of one eye, and realized that the noise was made by animated skeletons, bearing burdens. Those burdens turned out to be more of his kin, similarly bound and battered, which were deposited nearby. Once they had been propped up, the skeletons retreated into positions around the perimeter of the chamber.
“Filcher!” came a soft hiss from his right. It was Gnasher, his second-in-command. “Filcher, are you awake?”
The patrol leader responded with a soft whisper of warning, and the other goblin subsided. Their only advantage lay in letting their enemies know that they were beaten, unconscious. The goblin’s fingers continued to probe, and he felt a slight thrill as he felt a hard outline in his tunic pocket. Careful not to betray himself with rapid movement, he slowly fished into the pocket, trying not to think about the agonies that stabbed through his arms with each movement.
A loud clank of metal announced the arrival of others. Filcher stiffened as the sound of armored men drew nearer, but they passed by him without stopping, heading toward the great idol. Hoping that one of the skeletons wasn’t standing right behind him, he grabbed onto the arrowhead, and began cutting at the ropes holding him.
Focused on his task, he was only dimly aware of the sounds of conversation and activity coming from the far side of the room; the priests were doing something unpleasant, no doubt. But when a goblin scream pierced the relative quiet of the place, his head shot up despite himself, and he looked upon the horror of their intended fate.
Several of the goblins in the front rank of captives were conscious, and one had even gotten free of his bonds, leaping up and trying to get away. But the ropes had cut off the circulation to his limbs, and he could only stagger weakly into the arms of a pair of skeletons, which grabbed him easily and dragged him back to his position. Dark shadows, nearly invisible in the poor light, were darting in and around the prisoners, and as Filcher watched in horror, one appeared and passed into the held prisoner. The goblin screamed and stiffened, and then went limp.
A few seconds later, two dark shadows emerged from the dead body of the goblin miner.
The sight gave urgency to his actions, and he ignored the painful cuts on his fingers as he cut at his bonds with the arrowheads. Finally, the cords parted, and his arms were free. Free movement added new agonies as blood poured into his limbs, but the sight of the death spreading amongst his kin allowed him to overcome that hindrance. He cut his legs free, and quietly slipped to the side, trying not to cry out at the new pain that resulted.
Gnasher’s body was trembling with fear, but he held himself still as Filcher cut him free. The patrol leader started to turn toward the next goblin, but as he looked up, he saw a shadow right next to it. The creature’s red eyes shone evilly at him, and as he drew back in horror, it passed into the captive. The goblin’s skin became pale where the undead monster touched it, and it shook slightly.
“Come on!” Filcher hissed, pulling at Gnasher, who was trying to rub feeling back into his legs. The two goblins started crawling among the bound forms of their kin, toward the back of the room where the skeletons and priests had entered. Behind them, the screams of the other prisoners continued, as the undead made progress through the captives.
The two goblins reached the last row of prisoners, and looked up to see a half-dozen skeletons coming for them. With stealth now unnecessary, the two sprang up, and half-ran, half-staggered toward the doors that they could see in the back of the chamber. Filcher ducked under a skeleton’s grasp, but a second seized hold of his arm, locking into him with a heavy grip. The patrol leader tried to break free, but his weakened strength was not enough to fight the unnatural grasp of the larger undead.
Then Gnasher collided into the skeleton, and all three of them fell over, clattering loudly on the ground. The skeleton’s arm-bone snapped, and its fingers loosened, allowing Filcher to get up. He reached over to help Gnasher, but he froze as he saw a terrible black form descending from above.
Gnasher perhaps saw the death reflected in his companion’s eyes, for he glanced over his shoulder, raising his arms in a hopeless effort to stop the wraith from taking him.
Filcher could do nothing to help, and in fact had to stagger back to save himself from another pair of skeletons that tried to grab him. Tumbling backward, barely gaining enough control to come up into a run, he darted for the doors. The heavy portals resisted his initial tug, and as he looked back over his shoulder to see more skeletons coming toward him, he knew he was doomed.
Then the doors opened, and another part of skeletons carrying prisoners entered the room. Filcher shot past them at once, and ran. He kept running, even as the screams grew fainter behind him, and images of nightmare continued to play through his thoughts.
He did not stop running for a long, long time.
* * * * *
Author’s Note: I am using a house rule for spawning undead. This is in response to an issue I raised in a thread here at ENWorld some time back, and which I also addressed in my Travels through the Wild West story. I feel that the current spawn rules would almost inevitably lead to the world being overrun by incorporeal undead. One fifteenth level evil priest could create a shadow in a slum, control it, and in a busy night could create an army of thousands of shadows that could utterly devastate a city. You start by attacking poor people and indigents in their sleep, using silence spells to help keeping an alarm from being raised. Since each shadow created is under the control of its killer, you create a hierarchy that would ultimately answer to the priest controlling shadow #1.
Or, since shadows are pretty stupid, you could wait for 16th level and create wraiths instead. If you started at dusk, you could convert a decent sized town by dawn (assuming a geometric progression once you reach a critical mass of maybe 50-100 wraiths, then you don’t have to be as worried about detection, since nothing is going to be able to stop them). Then you just order the wraiths to go underground during the day, head to the next nearest town, and come up to attack at dusk. Wraiths are also better because they are LE and have Int 14, and thus likely to be better organized.
My house rule is simple: an undead can only create a spawn from a humanoid that has at least as many HD as it has. A creature with fewer levels is consumed, but no spawn is created. In the above chapter, the cultists were using both shadows and wraiths; most of the goblins in RA are at least 3rd level, but patrol leaders are 5th. I am operating under the assumption that incorporeal undead that spawn can sense whether a victim has enough life force to breed a spawn.
Even with this limitation, the people of Camar are in for some tough times ahead.![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
I was looking at the SH forum and saw that the page has over 21k views, now, just shy of 180 views per update. That's more forum exposure than any of my previous story hours, and thanks to everyone for your support!
Today's post brings back a minor character from earlier in the story to add a bit of perspective on how things are going on the "other side". Filcher's the name of a goblin rogue I played in an all-humanoids game about a year ago. Guy couldn't fire off more than 3 or 4 crossbow bolts in a row without a critical fumble, but damned if he didn't have an insane Hide check.
* * * * *
Chapter 118
SOULS OF THE TAKEN
As Filcher regained consciousness, he was greeted with a wave of pain. His first instincts were to run; he tried to move, but found it impossible. The attempt only led to more pain, stabbing through his body into his brain, and nearly dragged him back down into the black.
Instinct told him that would be bad, so he let his muscles relax, and focused on breathing, the way that old Grimax had taught him. The pain receded somewhat, still there, but manageable. Only when he felt reasonably sure that he would not pass out again, did he open his eyes.
When he looked around, he almost wished he had passed out again.
He was not alone; not only were most of the members of his patrol here, but he recognized members of at least two mining teams. There were maybe thirty goblins here in all, and there might have been more behind him that he could not see. All were securely bound with lengths of barbed rope that wrapped around their arms and legs, binding them tightly and holding them in a forced kneeling position. A few had toppled over despite that, and lay unresponsive on the ground. A few of the fellow prisoners looked like they might be conscious, but their heads were bowed, and the only sound he heard from any of them was soft groans of pain. They were in a large chamber of dark stone, lit by a diffuse reddish light. Metal pillars reinforced the ceiling. Even before he turned and saw the huge graven idol on the far side of the room, he knew where he was, but actually seeing it sent a tremor of fear through him that threatened to send him over the edge into uncontrolled panic. It was only through a strong effort that he was able to retain control, although the terror remained a cold pit in the depths of his stomach.
He did not see the creature that had taken them. The thing had been a true horror, a six-armed cross between a woman and a serpent. Their weapons had done nothing to it, and it had easily blocked those who had tried to flee, summoning up walls of deadly blades, or simply vanishing and appearing ahead of those who were running. It had been everywhere at once, or so it had seemed, and Filcher had initially assumed that there were many of the creatures, but in hindsight, he realized that it was likely just one, using magic to confound them.
Small consolation that was; the one was bad enough. The goblins of Grezneck were hardy creatures, toughened by life in such proximity to Rappan Athuk, but even the arts of the goblin wizards and shamans might not be enough to deal with such a monster. The goblins had held a long truce with the cult of Orcus, and many of the goblins themselves even paid homage to the ancient demon god. But now it was clear that the human priests had been biding their time, waiting for the right moment to strike against their neighbors.
Filcher wondered if any of his kin had escaped. A few of his patrol were not present, at least that he could see, but he remembered seeing at least one of them cut in twain by the demon-creature’s swords. He did not know how many miners had been in the other groups that had been attacked, but he hoped that at least one had escaped to warn his kin. Maybe something could be done to prepare for another attack from the snake woman.
He remembered the others that he and his patrol had encountered, some days back. On the spider level, it had been. Those humans had claimed to be enemies of the cult of Orcus. They had fought and beaten the river trolls, so obviously they’d been powerful. What had happened to them?
Filcher tried to relax his muscles—difficult, with the barbs digging painfully into his flesh. His hands were free, but he could not move them far, with his arms immobilized by the ropes. Slowly, incrementally, he moved his nimble fingers through the folds in his tunic. His armor had been cut from his body, and his gear taken, but he’d broken an arrow yesterday, and he’d pocked the head, intending to have it recrafted by Shanis later...
He was distracted as he sensed movement behind him. He slowly lowered his head, feigning unconsciousness, while his fingers continued their subtle work. Keeping his eyes slightly open, he tried to see what was happening.
A clatter of movement, an odd sound, like dice being rubbed together in the palm. Filcher caught sight of a flash of white out of the corner of one eye, and realized that the noise was made by animated skeletons, bearing burdens. Those burdens turned out to be more of his kin, similarly bound and battered, which were deposited nearby. Once they had been propped up, the skeletons retreated into positions around the perimeter of the chamber.
“Filcher!” came a soft hiss from his right. It was Gnasher, his second-in-command. “Filcher, are you awake?”
The patrol leader responded with a soft whisper of warning, and the other goblin subsided. Their only advantage lay in letting their enemies know that they were beaten, unconscious. The goblin’s fingers continued to probe, and he felt a slight thrill as he felt a hard outline in his tunic pocket. Careful not to betray himself with rapid movement, he slowly fished into the pocket, trying not to think about the agonies that stabbed through his arms with each movement.
A loud clank of metal announced the arrival of others. Filcher stiffened as the sound of armored men drew nearer, but they passed by him without stopping, heading toward the great idol. Hoping that one of the skeletons wasn’t standing right behind him, he grabbed onto the arrowhead, and began cutting at the ropes holding him.
Focused on his task, he was only dimly aware of the sounds of conversation and activity coming from the far side of the room; the priests were doing something unpleasant, no doubt. But when a goblin scream pierced the relative quiet of the place, his head shot up despite himself, and he looked upon the horror of their intended fate.
Several of the goblins in the front rank of captives were conscious, and one had even gotten free of his bonds, leaping up and trying to get away. But the ropes had cut off the circulation to his limbs, and he could only stagger weakly into the arms of a pair of skeletons, which grabbed him easily and dragged him back to his position. Dark shadows, nearly invisible in the poor light, were darting in and around the prisoners, and as Filcher watched in horror, one appeared and passed into the held prisoner. The goblin screamed and stiffened, and then went limp.
A few seconds later, two dark shadows emerged from the dead body of the goblin miner.
The sight gave urgency to his actions, and he ignored the painful cuts on his fingers as he cut at his bonds with the arrowheads. Finally, the cords parted, and his arms were free. Free movement added new agonies as blood poured into his limbs, but the sight of the death spreading amongst his kin allowed him to overcome that hindrance. He cut his legs free, and quietly slipped to the side, trying not to cry out at the new pain that resulted.
Gnasher’s body was trembling with fear, but he held himself still as Filcher cut him free. The patrol leader started to turn toward the next goblin, but as he looked up, he saw a shadow right next to it. The creature’s red eyes shone evilly at him, and as he drew back in horror, it passed into the captive. The goblin’s skin became pale where the undead monster touched it, and it shook slightly.
“Come on!” Filcher hissed, pulling at Gnasher, who was trying to rub feeling back into his legs. The two goblins started crawling among the bound forms of their kin, toward the back of the room where the skeletons and priests had entered. Behind them, the screams of the other prisoners continued, as the undead made progress through the captives.
The two goblins reached the last row of prisoners, and looked up to see a half-dozen skeletons coming for them. With stealth now unnecessary, the two sprang up, and half-ran, half-staggered toward the doors that they could see in the back of the chamber. Filcher ducked under a skeleton’s grasp, but a second seized hold of his arm, locking into him with a heavy grip. The patrol leader tried to break free, but his weakened strength was not enough to fight the unnatural grasp of the larger undead.
Then Gnasher collided into the skeleton, and all three of them fell over, clattering loudly on the ground. The skeleton’s arm-bone snapped, and its fingers loosened, allowing Filcher to get up. He reached over to help Gnasher, but he froze as he saw a terrible black form descending from above.
Gnasher perhaps saw the death reflected in his companion’s eyes, for he glanced over his shoulder, raising his arms in a hopeless effort to stop the wraith from taking him.
Filcher could do nothing to help, and in fact had to stagger back to save himself from another pair of skeletons that tried to grab him. Tumbling backward, barely gaining enough control to come up into a run, he darted for the doors. The heavy portals resisted his initial tug, and as he looked back over his shoulder to see more skeletons coming toward him, he knew he was doomed.
Then the doors opened, and another part of skeletons carrying prisoners entered the room. Filcher shot past them at once, and ran. He kept running, even as the screams grew fainter behind him, and images of nightmare continued to play through his thoughts.
He did not stop running for a long, long time.
* * * * *
Author’s Note: I am using a house rule for spawning undead. This is in response to an issue I raised in a thread here at ENWorld some time back, and which I also addressed in my Travels through the Wild West story. I feel that the current spawn rules would almost inevitably lead to the world being overrun by incorporeal undead. One fifteenth level evil priest could create a shadow in a slum, control it, and in a busy night could create an army of thousands of shadows that could utterly devastate a city. You start by attacking poor people and indigents in their sleep, using silence spells to help keeping an alarm from being raised. Since each shadow created is under the control of its killer, you create a hierarchy that would ultimately answer to the priest controlling shadow #1.
Or, since shadows are pretty stupid, you could wait for 16th level and create wraiths instead. If you started at dusk, you could convert a decent sized town by dawn (assuming a geometric progression once you reach a critical mass of maybe 50-100 wraiths, then you don’t have to be as worried about detection, since nothing is going to be able to stop them). Then you just order the wraiths to go underground during the day, head to the next nearest town, and come up to attack at dusk. Wraiths are also better because they are LE and have Int 14, and thus likely to be better organized.
My house rule is simple: an undead can only create a spawn from a humanoid that has at least as many HD as it has. A creature with fewer levels is consumed, but no spawn is created. In the above chapter, the cultists were using both shadows and wraiths; most of the goblins in RA are at least 3rd level, but patrol leaders are 5th. I am operating under the assumption that incorporeal undead that spawn can sense whether a victim has enough life force to breed a spawn.
Even with this limitation, the people of Camar are in for some tough times ahead.
Ghostknight
First Post
i like your house rule- it makes a lot of sense. That said, Rappan Attuck is in for a bit of undead mayhem it seems...
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 119
HOMECOMING
The tall chamber at the top of the tower was dark, the only illumination the faint starlight that filtered in through the narrow windows of stained glass that extended high up toward the peaked ceiling. In that weak radiance, the chamber was populated by a landscape of deep shadows and vague forms that could have been anything. Faint motes of dust hung in the air, and the place had an aura of disuse that lay over it like a faded drape.
Something sparkled faintly in the light of one of the windows. It resolved as a trickle of fine mist, which rolled into the chamber through a tiny crack in one of the windows. The mist thickened as it dropped toward the chamber floor below, even as it disappeared into the shadows.
A moment after the column of mist faded out of view altogether, a new shadow began to move among the gathered collection that crowded the chamber. The intruder moved among the gathered clutter without mishap. Occasionally it paused next to an object of indefinable purpose, running a hand across a dusty metal sphere, or a shelf that supported a row of oddly-shaped jars.
A door opened, suddenly. The intruder turned slowly as someone else entered the chamber. Metal hissed on leather, and a voice of command shattered the sepulchral stillness of the room.
"Light!"
A brilliant radiance filled the chamber, shining from the slender sword of white steel held by the woman standing in the doorway. She was beautiful, with pale skin and short-cropped hair the color of amber. Her face bore the ageless features of the aelfinn, called “elves” by the humans of Camar. She was clad only in a sleeping robe of shimmering silk, although silver bracers shone on her wrists, and a silver amulet dangled from her throat, an intricate pattern twined in fine metal. But the sword in her hand was held in a deadly, ready pose, and its tip did not quiver in the slightest as she brandished it at the intruder. The light from the sword revealed little of the stranger, who was clad in a dark cloak that shrouded its form in indiscriminate cloth.
“Who are you? Reveal yourself!”
The figure reached up with hands so slender as to be frail, and drew back its hood.
The elven woman’s eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, she could not speak. When she finally managed a word, it hissed from her throat as if strangled.
“Father?”
* * * * *
The being that had been called the “mad elf” by the Doomed Bastards of Rappan Athuk sipped tea from an equisitely designed cup of delicate porcelain. He was seated in an ancient armchair of plush velvet cloth, which seemed to swallow up his thin frame. As he placed the cup back down on the adjacent end table, his fingers trembled slightly.
Two elves watched him intently. One was the woman who’d discovered him earlier, clad now in a dressing gown that failed to cover the form of the sword she still wore at her hip. The other was an elven man, his silver hair restrained by a band of platinum filigree at his temples, likewise hastily dressed in houseclothes of fine silk. A small gemstone orbited his head, occasionally flashing in the light of the small magical lamps placed throughout the room. While the woman simply stood there, staring at her guest, the man clearly could not fully control his agitation, and he frequently paced back and forth before pausing to confront the seated elf.
“Lord Alderis... Elegion... your return places us in a difficult position.”
The woman turned to the man. “Selanthas!”
The older elf lifted a hand. “No, Mehlaraine, your consort has the right of it. I had not intended to cause you difficulty, or indeed that any should know of my return to Aelvanmarr.”
Mehlaraine frowned at him. “But... father, surely you intend to come before the Conclave?”
“No, daughter, that would not... I am decided in this matter. No one must know that I have returned. I know it is much to ask, but still I ask it.”
“But father,” the woman said, coming forward to kneel beside his chair, “Surely the Conclave will understand that what happened, before... you were not in command of yourself. They can help you...”
“I have made my decision!” the older elf replied, more sternly than he’d intended. Seeing the look on the woman’s face, he laid his hand over hers, and said, “I am sorry, Melharaine, daughter. I know that this must have been a difficult time for you. For both of you,” he added, looking up at the other man. “But there are greater things at stake.”
“He is right,” Selanthas said. “The Conclave will act to protect the interests of the community before all else, and when your father... departed, he was a danger to himself and others. They will insist that he be taken into protective custody, at the very least.”
The older elf nodded. “I expected nothing less.”
“The Conclave took possession of most of your arcana shortly after your departure,” Selanthas continued. “Since your only heir is not a magic-user, they saw no reason why those materials should not be put to better use. I believe that the Lyceum has your books, and Lord Draelai has custody of your other items.”
“It is of no consequence. But tell me... what did the Conclave do with the crystal that I bore at the time of my arrest?”
“It was destroyed,” Selanthas said bluntly.
The older elf looked up in surprise.
“The Conclave kept it locked up, heavily warded, for a time,” Melharaine said. “Draelai said that there was a considerable arcane potency within it, but that it was dangerous. I think... that is, I suspect that they wanted to access that power themselves.”
“Foolish.”
“Indeed,” Selanthas said. “Your friend, the archmage Sultheros, he agreed with you, and urged caution. The wards put on the artifact were considerable, and few not in the higher ranks of the Conclave even knew of its existence.”
“What happened?”
“A little over a month ago, the artifact began to surge, to release pulses of energy. It caused great disruption; a number of the Sensitive reported terrible dreams, and one of the Keepers took his own life.”
“Most of us felt nothing,” Melharaine said. “But Sultheros insisted that if the device could wreak such havoc beyond our strongest wards, it was too dangerous to keep here. Draelai wanted to take it elsewhere, to continue to study it, but Sultheros acted, and destroyed it himself, thus resolving the issue.”
Her father nodded to himself, counting days in his mind, and coming up with a conclusion that gave him pause. Several long minutes of silence passed.
“Father?” Melharaine finally said. “What do you intend to do?”
He looked up. “I will seek out my friend, and take his counsel. And he has a copy of a certain book in his library that I need to see.”
“It is risky to be seen in Aelvanmarr,” Selanthas said.
“I have learned much about not being seen. But I do not believe that there are many that would recognize me. My daughter, of course... but would you have known me, Selanthas, had we passed on the street?”
The elven man frowned, but did not respond. The older elf nodded.
“You do not wish to say it, but I have seen my face in the glass. I look like an elf two centuries older than my years. I see it in the concern in my daughter’s eyes, if nothing else. And believe me, Selanthas, I feel as I look.”
“What... what happened to you, father?” She held onto his hand tightly, but carefully, as though afraid that she could break him.
The elf looked away, and did not respond.
HOMECOMING
The tall chamber at the top of the tower was dark, the only illumination the faint starlight that filtered in through the narrow windows of stained glass that extended high up toward the peaked ceiling. In that weak radiance, the chamber was populated by a landscape of deep shadows and vague forms that could have been anything. Faint motes of dust hung in the air, and the place had an aura of disuse that lay over it like a faded drape.
Something sparkled faintly in the light of one of the windows. It resolved as a trickle of fine mist, which rolled into the chamber through a tiny crack in one of the windows. The mist thickened as it dropped toward the chamber floor below, even as it disappeared into the shadows.
A moment after the column of mist faded out of view altogether, a new shadow began to move among the gathered collection that crowded the chamber. The intruder moved among the gathered clutter without mishap. Occasionally it paused next to an object of indefinable purpose, running a hand across a dusty metal sphere, or a shelf that supported a row of oddly-shaped jars.
A door opened, suddenly. The intruder turned slowly as someone else entered the chamber. Metal hissed on leather, and a voice of command shattered the sepulchral stillness of the room.
"Light!"
A brilliant radiance filled the chamber, shining from the slender sword of white steel held by the woman standing in the doorway. She was beautiful, with pale skin and short-cropped hair the color of amber. Her face bore the ageless features of the aelfinn, called “elves” by the humans of Camar. She was clad only in a sleeping robe of shimmering silk, although silver bracers shone on her wrists, and a silver amulet dangled from her throat, an intricate pattern twined in fine metal. But the sword in her hand was held in a deadly, ready pose, and its tip did not quiver in the slightest as she brandished it at the intruder. The light from the sword revealed little of the stranger, who was clad in a dark cloak that shrouded its form in indiscriminate cloth.
“Who are you? Reveal yourself!”
The figure reached up with hands so slender as to be frail, and drew back its hood.
The elven woman’s eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, she could not speak. When she finally managed a word, it hissed from her throat as if strangled.
“Father?”
* * * * *
The being that had been called the “mad elf” by the Doomed Bastards of Rappan Athuk sipped tea from an equisitely designed cup of delicate porcelain. He was seated in an ancient armchair of plush velvet cloth, which seemed to swallow up his thin frame. As he placed the cup back down on the adjacent end table, his fingers trembled slightly.
Two elves watched him intently. One was the woman who’d discovered him earlier, clad now in a dressing gown that failed to cover the form of the sword she still wore at her hip. The other was an elven man, his silver hair restrained by a band of platinum filigree at his temples, likewise hastily dressed in houseclothes of fine silk. A small gemstone orbited his head, occasionally flashing in the light of the small magical lamps placed throughout the room. While the woman simply stood there, staring at her guest, the man clearly could not fully control his agitation, and he frequently paced back and forth before pausing to confront the seated elf.
“Lord Alderis... Elegion... your return places us in a difficult position.”
The woman turned to the man. “Selanthas!”
The older elf lifted a hand. “No, Mehlaraine, your consort has the right of it. I had not intended to cause you difficulty, or indeed that any should know of my return to Aelvanmarr.”
Mehlaraine frowned at him. “But... father, surely you intend to come before the Conclave?”
“No, daughter, that would not... I am decided in this matter. No one must know that I have returned. I know it is much to ask, but still I ask it.”
“But father,” the woman said, coming forward to kneel beside his chair, “Surely the Conclave will understand that what happened, before... you were not in command of yourself. They can help you...”
“I have made my decision!” the older elf replied, more sternly than he’d intended. Seeing the look on the woman’s face, he laid his hand over hers, and said, “I am sorry, Melharaine, daughter. I know that this must have been a difficult time for you. For both of you,” he added, looking up at the other man. “But there are greater things at stake.”
“He is right,” Selanthas said. “The Conclave will act to protect the interests of the community before all else, and when your father... departed, he was a danger to himself and others. They will insist that he be taken into protective custody, at the very least.”
The older elf nodded. “I expected nothing less.”
“The Conclave took possession of most of your arcana shortly after your departure,” Selanthas continued. “Since your only heir is not a magic-user, they saw no reason why those materials should not be put to better use. I believe that the Lyceum has your books, and Lord Draelai has custody of your other items.”
“It is of no consequence. But tell me... what did the Conclave do with the crystal that I bore at the time of my arrest?”
“It was destroyed,” Selanthas said bluntly.
The older elf looked up in surprise.
“The Conclave kept it locked up, heavily warded, for a time,” Melharaine said. “Draelai said that there was a considerable arcane potency within it, but that it was dangerous. I think... that is, I suspect that they wanted to access that power themselves.”
“Foolish.”
“Indeed,” Selanthas said. “Your friend, the archmage Sultheros, he agreed with you, and urged caution. The wards put on the artifact were considerable, and few not in the higher ranks of the Conclave even knew of its existence.”
“What happened?”
“A little over a month ago, the artifact began to surge, to release pulses of energy. It caused great disruption; a number of the Sensitive reported terrible dreams, and one of the Keepers took his own life.”
“Most of us felt nothing,” Melharaine said. “But Sultheros insisted that if the device could wreak such havoc beyond our strongest wards, it was too dangerous to keep here. Draelai wanted to take it elsewhere, to continue to study it, but Sultheros acted, and destroyed it himself, thus resolving the issue.”
Her father nodded to himself, counting days in his mind, and coming up with a conclusion that gave him pause. Several long minutes of silence passed.
“Father?” Melharaine finally said. “What do you intend to do?”
He looked up. “I will seek out my friend, and take his counsel. And he has a copy of a certain book in his library that I need to see.”
“It is risky to be seen in Aelvanmarr,” Selanthas said.
“I have learned much about not being seen. But I do not believe that there are many that would recognize me. My daughter, of course... but would you have known me, Selanthas, had we passed on the street?”
The elven man frowned, but did not respond. The older elf nodded.
“You do not wish to say it, but I have seen my face in the glass. I look like an elf two centuries older than my years. I see it in the concern in my daughter’s eyes, if nothing else. And believe me, Selanthas, I feel as I look.”
“What... what happened to you, father?” She held onto his hand tightly, but carefully, as though afraid that she could break him.
The elf looked away, and did not respond.
Firedancer
First Post
LB, I must say, am very much enjoying this story hour.
I am fascinated to see how you've added on real story and character to a quality dungeon bash.
The threads and links are excellent.
On the undead spawn problem, I have used a slightly different concept. Simply put spawn are only created from a creature killed via the undeads "drain" ability, not simply by damage caused. This is similar to ghoul fever - its this abilty that causes the spawning.
What this means is a commoner won't be spawned - the damage from the actual "hit" will kill most of them, not allowing the energy drain to take hold and therefore no spawn. Its not perfect, but its a simple rule of thumb.
I am fascinated to see how you've added on real story and character to a quality dungeon bash.
The threads and links are excellent.
On the undead spawn problem, I have used a slightly different concept. Simply put spawn are only created from a creature killed via the undeads "drain" ability, not simply by damage caused. This is similar to ghoul fever - its this abilty that causes the spawning.
What this means is a commoner won't be spawned - the damage from the actual "hit" will kill most of them, not allowing the energy drain to take hold and therefore no spawn. Its not perfect, but its a simple rule of thumb.
Richard Rawen
First Post
Another great background update, I second Firedancer, the depth of the characters is well done.
Of course creating relationship with these characters also creates all the more tension when they are in peril.
And we know they will encounter plenty of Peril! =-)
Of course creating relationship with these characters also creates all the more tension when they are in peril.
And we know they will encounter plenty of Peril! =-)
Lazybones
Adventurer
That's a workable alternative, but you still need a caveat for shadows, otherwise they still remain very powerful (since they only do ability drain and not regular damage on a hit).Firedancer said:
I'll take them any way I can get them!Vurt said:
Hey, have you been reading ahead?Richard Rawen said:
* * * * *
Chapter 120
THE FIELDS OF WINTER
The weeks passed, and winter descended upon Camar in earnest. The winter storms dumped loads of rain upon the city itself and the adjacent lands that supported it, while to the north and west, the mountains became covered with caps of white. Two of Camar’s legions invested the city of Dalemar, and dug in for a winter siege. Trade upon the Great Eastern Sea dwindled with the season, and ships laid up for the winter in their preferred ports, or sailed south to engage in trade with Drusia and Razhur.
South of the Camar, on the far side of the River Nalos, the countryside extended for leagues over rolling hills covered with vineyards and pastures, along with frequent vales that were covered in lush farmland. Small towns and villages dotted the landscape, providing most of the fresh produce and other provender that the great city needed on a daily basis to survive.
But as one continued further to the south, and the land grew rougher, these settlements became fewer and farther between. The placid little villages were replaced by small hamlets and steadings, more often protected by walls or stockades than not. There was still some trade over the rural roads, but this far from Camar, few had spent any time at all in the capitol, save perhaps for the pilgrimage, the one visit that every citizen of the Duchy tried to make at some point in their lives. The rural folk grew up among their kin, spent their term in the legions, saw a bit of the world, and then returned to their homes, in most cases to spend the rest of their lives tilling the same soil or hunting the same forest that their fathers and grandfathers had worked before them.
One of those isolated settlements was Gundar’s Steading, a tiny community of a half-dozen log buildings set in the shadow of a low hill on the edge of the Forest of Hope. The steading supported about forty people. Most of the adult men were trappers that took furs from the forest’s edge, trading them with the rare merchants that would appear on the Camar Road every few months. The forest provided wood, meat, furs, mushrooms, and other necessities, but few from the steading dared more than a mile or two into it, for the dark wood sheltered dangers as well, and the people of the frontier knew better than to play at dice with Fate.
On a blustery winter day, with gray skies above threatening, a solitary figure worked in a small winter garden about a bowshot from the walls of the steading’s stockade. He was clad in the plain brown wool frock of a priest of the Shining Father, and hard lines from age and the elements were etched deeply into his face. He looked to be about fifty, but he handled the hoe with a vigor that bepoke a strength beyond his years. He whistled softly as he tended rows of winter cabbage and carrots, cutting away weeds with precise strokes of his implement. A low fence, really just enough to keep animals at bay, surrounded the small plot, which was only about ten paces on a side.
A voice on the wind drew the old friar’s attention up. A boy was running toward him, from the direction of the road. “Nelan! Nelan!” the youth shouted, out of breath as he ran up, but clearly agitated.
“What is it, Gustan?” the priest asked, laying his hoe carefully against the adjacent fence.
“There’s... the road... caravan...”
“Take a breath, son.”
The boy nodded, and swallowed heavily. “Caravan, on the road, ser...” he said. “Merchants... attacked...”
“Attacked? By whom?”
“I... I mean, that is, I was a good ways off, watching from the ol’ quarry hill. But they looked... they was white, and skinny, real skinny, just bones, like! They carried off the merchant and his guards, one of them tried to fight, but the things just grabbed him, dragged him off with the rest...”
“Skeletons?” Nelan asked. As the boy nodded, the priest asked, “Are you certain, Gustan? This is important now, no falsehoods.”
“I swear it on the Father’s light,” the boy said. “They carried the people off into the wood, the wagon’s left about a mile down the road.”
“How many were there?”
“Not sure... maybe a half-score?”
Nelan frowned. At this time of day, most of the holders would be in the wood, checking their traps and hunting up food for dinner. Some of them might hear the alarm horn sounded from the steading, but like as not most would be too far off, and would not return for hours yet.
“Nelan?”
“Come with me,” the priest said, stepping out of the garden, and heading toward the steading walls.
An hour later, Nelan passed his garden again, returning from the road with four men from the steading, all of them armed with hunting bows and stout boar spears. They had tracked down the merchant’s wagon, and had found the two horses alive, if skittish. The wagon had gone off the road and shattered a wheel, so they’d left it, taking only a few items that they could sling across the horses’ backs. They’d found nothing of the merchant and his guards, except for a crossbow that had fallen by the wayside, its crossbar snapped.
The steading was as they had left it, its fifteen foot walls imposing and dark. A young man with a bow, standing on the roof of the steading’s main hall, saw them and waved an all-clear.
One of the steaders, a gruff hunter named Gravos, turned to Nelan. “What do you think, cleric?”
“I would recommend that once we get all the steaders together, we send a pair of riders on the road to Highbluff. This could just be a random attack, but where the undead are concerned, any sighting is dangerous.”
The steader nodded. “I agree. I will talk to...”
“Look!” one of the younger men yelled, pointing toward the forest. All five members of the party could see the pale forms that were emerging from the woods, coming toward htem. There were only a few of them, but other movement was becoming visible deeper in the woods.
“To the stockade!” Gravos yelled. The horses were too heavily loaded down to ride, but they ran along with the men, moving quickly across the shoulder of the hill toward the waiting stockade. The guard had seen the skeletons as well, and as the party approached the heavy gate swung open for them. They made it just as the skeletons reached the rear of the stockade, and by the time that the gates were secured, there were almost two dozen of the undead creatures pressing against the walls. The skeletons had already started trying to climb the walls, but the thick logs had been planed smooth, and their probing bone fingers found little purchase.
The young man on the roof of the steading hall had been firing his bow at the skeletons, but while he hit his targets more often than not, most of the shots passed harmlessly through their bodies, doing little or no damage. The men that had just come back with the patrol climbed onto the roof to join him, adding their own fire.
“Bows aren’t working... bring up some heavy rocks!” Gravos shouted. The women and children of the steading were gathered in the courtyard below, or in the doorways of the squat buildings, looking up in fear, listening to the clatter of bones that drifted over the wall. Nelan had vanished into the small structure built against one corner of the stockade that served as the Father’s House at the steading, and he shortly returned clad in a weathered old breastplate, with a light mace clutched tightly in one hand, and a light crossbow in the other. A silver sigil of the Shining Father, the burning torch, hung from a chain around his neck, and several more mundane torches were thrust through his belt.
The steading gate shook slightly, but the bar was as thick as a man’s thigh, and the skeletons did not have enough strength to seriously impact it. Still, the noise sent a tremor of panic through the people in the crowded courtyard.
Gravos’s wife, a slightly plump matron named Kaela, turned to him. “Father save us, Nelan! What do we do?”
The priest did not want to add to their fears, but as soon as he’d spotted the skeletons coming from the wood, he’d felt a sense of dread settle over him. Partly as a sign to them, and partly to help him see as the afternoon sky began to darken, he summoned the power of a light spell, causing his divine focus to glow brightly with a pure white light. “Do not fear, child, His light will shine over us. Get as many torches and lamps as you can, and extra flasks of oil, and help the men set them up along the walls. Set them inside as well; bathe this entire steading in the light of day. Gather every arrow and stone that you can find. Take the two horses we brought in, as well as Haylan’s horse, and the pony, and saddle them all up. Keep them in the stable, for now. Dress all the children warmly, and give them pouches of food and water, and gather them all at Gravos’s house. All of you should carry both a knife, and a stout wooden club; break a chair if you must. Now, go, go, go!”
By his last statement a half-score women had gathered around him, and they all rushed off to obey his commands. The men and older boys were all up on the steading roofs now, although there were still eight men who had not returned from the forest. None of the skeletons had breached the walls, but they continued their attempts to climb, or to batter down the gate. They made no effort to cooperate or coordinate their efforts, and the defenders’ attacks were beginning to make an impact. Gravos had set up a chain of men passing up flat stones hacked from building hearths, up the ladder to the roof of the main hall, over to the men at the edge of the stockade wall. The big man was one of those last, hurling the heavy stones down to smash the bodies of the skeletons. Already a half-dozen were down, and Gravos started to direct them toward the roof of one of the houses closer to the gate, where they could attack the next-largest concentration of attackers.
The sky above continued to darken, as the last remains of the day fled.
“That’s it, men, we’re getting those bastards!” Gravos shouted, as he hurled another heavy rock down. Thus far, none of the defenders of the steading had been injured. On the far side, a skeleton actually managed to clamber up high enough to grasp the top of the wall, but one of the young men shouted a warning, and several archers shot it before it could pull itself over, knocking it back to fall into the seething mass of undead below.
Engaged with the skeletons, none of the defenders spotted the dark shadows that drifted forward out of the forest. Their first warning was Gravos’s yell; twenty sets of eyes spun to see the big man engulfed in what looked like a shifting cloud of pure blackness. Every man and woman that looked upon that sight felt a cold chill of doom fill them.
But then Nelan filled the courtyard with the light of the Shining Father, a brilliant radiance brighter even than his light spell erupting from his holy symbol. The shadows withdrew from that light, screeching faintly as they retreated back into the gathering gloom. Gravos staggered and nearly fell, before two of the men grabbed him and dragged him back to the edge of the roof. The big holder was pale, and could barely move, but he was alive.
Nelan cast another spell, and opened his mind to the power of his god. He spent several seconds in concentration, as the holders continued to fight off the attacking skeletons. Finally, he released his attention from his detect undead spell, his hand trembling as he released his focus.
He opened his eyes to see Kaela in front of him, looking up at her stricken husband in despair. Then she looked at him, hope warring with the darkness in her eyes, a question there.
He opened his mouth to offer assurance, but he found that he could not. “Get the children on the horses,” he said to her. For a moment, she just stood there, clutching her club with white-fingered hands. Some of the other women nearby had heard him as well, and while some let out wails, others simply nodded and ran for Gravos’s house, where the children had been gathered.
More shadows passed through the walls of the steading, attacking both the men above and the women in the courtyard below. Once again Nelan lifted his holy symbol, but before he could call upon its power, dark, insubstantial arms emerged from the ground at his feet, stabbing up into his legs. He felt the cold touch of death pierce him, and he nearly fell, staggering away from the insubstantial grasp. The creature rose up to follow him; a wraith, faded and terrible.
“The Father banishes you!” he tried to yell, but it only came out as a strangled cough.
As the screams of the holders echoed around him, he lifted his symbol up at the wraith. White light flared in the courtyard.
Then everything went black.
DragonLancer
Hero
Fantastic! I love it! Keep it it going!
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