The Doomed Bastards: Reckoning (story complete)
Firedancer
First Post
I had a bit of a break from reading this SH as my interest waned a bit (almost every combat took them to the edge). I've thought to myself why, as I'm sure LB would receive any criticsm as he does praise.
So, the answer is not related to your writing style LB, but derives from the basis of the story; Rappan Athuk. By basing these adventures off a rpg module there's a certain grind designed in the module, as well as the expectation of constant healing (which in 3.5 is easier to come by with such cheap wands). It almost makes the SH one long series of encounters with devastating HP loss, mass healing during the break and then go again. I know this is often how a module plays out, but not so [frequently] for novels.
The continual dungeon bash could relegate the characters to quite shallow constructs; something you've done well to avoid with the interaction they have between encounters.
Not sure how others feel about this, but I do think some of the stronger parts [as in more like a novel] are the bits you've written away from RA. You give time for more character to develop and show us a wider scope, and its this area that makes this more like a novel.
Hope that was helpful.
So, the answer is not related to your writing style LB, but derives from the basis of the story; Rappan Athuk. By basing these adventures off a rpg module there's a certain grind designed in the module, as well as the expectation of constant healing (which in 3.5 is easier to come by with such cheap wands). It almost makes the SH one long series of encounters with devastating HP loss, mass healing during the break and then go again. I know this is often how a module plays out, but not so [frequently] for novels.
The continual dungeon bash could relegate the characters to quite shallow constructs; something you've done well to avoid with the interaction they have between encounters.
Not sure how others feel about this, but I do think some of the stronger parts [as in more like a novel] are the bits you've written away from RA. You give time for more character to develop and show us a wider scope, and its this area that makes this more like a novel.
Hope that was helpful.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Heck, sometimes the constant fighting bores me as well, so no, I don't take that criticism as personally directed at my writing style. When I started I fully intended to skip large parts of the dungeon to avoid the drag of a constant crawl; ultimately they ended up visiting more than I planned, but then again at the start I never intended the story to go this long.
I have even tried to reference it in a few places with asides such as Varo's warning about the psychological impact of the rapid fight-heal-fight sequence. Plus today's post (tonight) will have more on how the RA experience is changing the characters (and not for the better). I imagine every one of the characters is going to end up with PTSD before this story is over.
If I had been writing this as a novel, I probably would have hand-waved whole battle-focused sequences, and focused more on the key encounters that advanced the plot.
Thanks for the feedback.
I have even tried to reference it in a few places with asides such as Varo's warning about the psychological impact of the rapid fight-heal-fight sequence. Plus today's post (tonight) will have more on how the RA experience is changing the characters (and not for the better). I imagine every one of the characters is going to end up with PTSD before this story is over.
If I had been writing this as a novel, I probably would have hand-waved whole battle-focused sequences, and focused more on the key encounters that advanced the plot.
Thanks for the feedback.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 212
AFTERNOON IN CAMAR
The winter sun shone down on the courtyard of the estate at Cattalia. It bore little warmth with it, and the two dozen or so individuals gathered along the portico that faced out into the open center of the court pulled their cloaks close around their bodies for warmth.
The men and women battling in the center of the courtyard did not appear to be cold. They were girded for war, with tunics of chain links and iron skullcaps covering their heads. Each carried a wooden practice sword weighted with lead to simulate the mass of a real weapon, and a small buckler of wood slabs trimmed with a ring of beaten iron.
Talen was armed and apportioned as the others, save for the fact that his chain shirt was of blacksteel, and his helm featured a protruding iron nose guard. But those advantages appeared to be more than offset by the fact that he was battling a dozen enemies all on his own.
The men and women attacking him were young, for the most part, and while they all appeared to have at least a modicum of training with their weapons, they clearly were not the veterans that Talen was. Five of them were already lying on the hard ground of the courtyard, groaning as they clutched cracked limbs or bruised heads. One tried to get up, aided by a companion, but he only managed a staggered step before he slumped back down to the ground.
The others had spread out and were coming at Talen from all sides, seeking to take him out through sheer numbers. However, that advantage worked both ways, as they hindered each other, and had to be wary of the wide sweeping strokes that the long blade favored, lest they strike an ally. Thus far attempts to simply overbear the knight commander had failed; three of those lying onto the ground were the result of an initial rush that had tried to grapple and drag him down. Now the clack of wood on metal filled the courtyard, echoing off the adjacent galleries where the observers watched.
A young woman got her weapon inside the crook of Talen’s shield arm, and she tried to press that advantage, turning to force his shield away from his body. Two men rushed in to deliver strikes against the suddenly vulnerable flank, while from his front another man and a woman thrust at his head, forcing him to defend himself and split his focus.
That should have been the end of it, even for a veteran fighter. But Talen ducked and stepped into the turn of the woman holding his arm. He took two hits to his back from the men on his flank, but other than a grunt did not acknowledge what had to be painful impacts even through his armor. He continued his spin, now catching the woman off-guard, catching her in her own trap. She tried to drop her sword and get away, but before she could release he pinned her wrist and forced her into the rush of the two attacking him from the front. The distraction delayed them only for an instant, as the pair dodged around the falling woman, but it was long enough for Talen to snap his blade around at the two at his back. He caught one with a blow that came in under his shield, hitting under his arm with enough force to crack a rib. The man cried out in pain and fell, and even before he hit the ground Talen stepped back and snapped the hilt of his weapon into the face of the second attacker. The wooden hilt cracked from the impact, and the man collapsed, spitting blood from his broken jaw.
Talen’s weapon was damaged, but he quickly improvised, twisting into another spin that caused a stroke from another attacker to glance harmlessly off the armor of his shoulder, instead of hitting him in the head. As he came around behind her he smashed the edge of his shield into the small of her back. The woman screamed and fell on her face, her legs thrashing. Her movements hindered another attacker, as she inadvertently kicked another of Talen’s foe hard on the ankle, knocking him off balance. Talen exploited that distraction as he slammed his sword into the man’s knee, and he too crumpled. The impact completed the job on Talen’s weapon, as the hilt shivered, and the weighted blade fell away into the dirt.
Talen was down to four foes who could still keep their feet. The woman he’d knocked down earlier got back up, grinding her teeth against the pain in her wrist. The other three, two young men with the fair features of Camar’s old blood and a swarthy Emorite from the provinces, circled warily, held at bay by the beating inflicted on their friends.
“Do not hesitate, you fools!” Talen shouted at them. “My weapon has been destroyed!” He lunged at one enemy, but the motion was to disguise his true intent, as he reached down to grab a weapon dropped by one of his fallen foes. He did not manage it, as the woman lunged at him, forcing him to dart to the side to avoid her thrust. The Emorite followed with a blow to his shield, forcing it high. The two noble youths came in to exploit the advantage, sweeping their swords low.
They were just a heartbeat too slow. Talen snapped his shield down, severing one lad’s sword just below the hilt. The other one connected with Talen’s hip, but Talen seized his wrist, dragging him forward as he smashed his shield up into his face. The young man crumpled back, his nose broken. Talen caught his sword as it fell, and ignoring another pair of hits across his back, he took down the other Camarian youth with a pair of hits to his thigh and gut.
Talen turned to face the woman and the Emorite. He was clearly hurting, now; his breath wheezed in his body, and blood trickled down one side of his jaw. But his eyes burned with an intensity that gave his remaining foes pause.
“Finish it,” he told them, lifting his weapon into a ready position.
They came in strong, timing their attacks perfectly. He met one on his shield, and parried the second with his sword. The woman snapped her sword up, hitting him solidly across the bicep. Talen’s face twisted in a grimace of pain, but he kept his grip on his sword. The distraction cost him, however, as the Emorite brought his sword up over Talen’s guard, striking him hard across the face. Had it not been for his nose-guard, the blow would have broken his nose and probably left him unconscious; even so he staggered back, dazed.
His foes surged forward to finish him, obeying his last command, but Talen roared and unleashed a sudden and violent assault. The woman’s eyes widened as Talen’s blade whipped out, smashing her wrist, knocking her sword flying across the makeshift arena. She tried to fall back, but Talen’s follow up caught her solidly in the gut, knocking the air from her lungs. She crumpled, struggling to breathe.
The Emorite tried to get in another hit, but Talen pivoted smoothly and took the man’s legs out from under him. He coughed as he fell hard onto his back. He blinked as he tried to recover, but even as he tried to lift his swordarm to defend himself Talen stepped hard on his wrist, crushing it. The Emorite cried out in pain, and looked up to see Talen standing above him, the point of his sword aimed at his throat.
“I... I yield!”
“Talen!” Shay yelled, rushing forward into the courtyard.
Talen glanced at her, then down at his victim. For another second he held the man with his gaze, then released him.
“Your enemy will not accept your surrender,” Talen said, his voice lifted to address all of them. “Nor will he fail to take advantage of your mistakes.”
“Make no mistake,” he said. “I am not going to take it easy on you. Regardless of what you may have been in a former life,” he said, his gaze lingering on the two noble youths, “now you are part of the brotherhood of the Dragon. You are like farm tools delivered to the forge; what you were will be beaten out of you, hardened, weakness burned away until you are suitable for being forged into swords.”
“We are the Dragon Knights, and we are the front ranks against those that would destroy Camar.”
They watched him, those that were still conscious, at least.
He made a gesture to the observers. “Take them in, have Philokrates see to them. Tell him not to stint on the healing potions; we have another training session in the morning.”
There were a lot of groans as the trainees helped their fallen companions to their feet. Two of them were unconscious and had to be carried.
Shay lingered behind as the young men and women passed through the double doors into the estate’s main building. Talen walked over and picked up the training sword he’d broken. He ignored the stabbing pains that pierced him at the movements; he’d likely broken a rib or two.
“You disapprove of my training methods,” Talen said without turning.
“I thought you were going to kill him,” Shay said.
“Some may die during the training,” Talen said. “But it will not be by my sword.”
She came around him, forced him to look at her. “Talen, what’s happened to you?”
“You were there with me, Shay. You know what we face.”
“But we defeated the cult, destroyed the Sphere...”
“You don’t believe that was the end of it, any more than I do. Varo was lying when he said he didn’t know what happened with the demon after you destroyed the Sphere... of that I am certain.”
“I don’t know anything for sure, now. I thought I knew you, Talen.” She folders her arms tight against her body, but the shiver that she felt was not from the chill. “During that battle... it seemed almost like you enjoyed beating the living crap out of those trainees.”
Talen looked back at her. “I don’t enjoy any of this, Shay. I hate it. I hate Rappan Athuk, what it’s done to Camar, to our friends, to us...”
“Then why—“
“I do not trust Varo, but there is one thing, at least, about which he was honest to us. The very fate of our world is at stake, Shay! We have already lost so much... and now it falls to us to hold back the enemy.”
“But to what end, if we become that which we destroy...”
The words were quiet, mumbled, but he heard her. “I do not have answers for you, Shay. I can only do what I feel is necessary.”
“And us?”
“I love you, Shay. That will not change, no matter what else happens.”
“And I love you. But I don’t want to see Rappan Athuk destroy the man I love.”
“I cannot see the future, Shay.”
“The future wouldn’t scare me, if I knew that the man I fell in love with was going to stand beside me to face it.”
Talen was silent for a long moment. “I’m trying the best I can,” he finally said. He started toward the half-open doors, then paused. “Shay?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t undermine my authority in front of the recruits again.”
He paused a moment later, as if he wanted to say something more. But then he turned and went inside, leaving the scout alone with the cold wind of the fading afternoon.
AFTERNOON IN CAMAR
The winter sun shone down on the courtyard of the estate at Cattalia. It bore little warmth with it, and the two dozen or so individuals gathered along the portico that faced out into the open center of the court pulled their cloaks close around their bodies for warmth.
The men and women battling in the center of the courtyard did not appear to be cold. They were girded for war, with tunics of chain links and iron skullcaps covering their heads. Each carried a wooden practice sword weighted with lead to simulate the mass of a real weapon, and a small buckler of wood slabs trimmed with a ring of beaten iron.
Talen was armed and apportioned as the others, save for the fact that his chain shirt was of blacksteel, and his helm featured a protruding iron nose guard. But those advantages appeared to be more than offset by the fact that he was battling a dozen enemies all on his own.
The men and women attacking him were young, for the most part, and while they all appeared to have at least a modicum of training with their weapons, they clearly were not the veterans that Talen was. Five of them were already lying on the hard ground of the courtyard, groaning as they clutched cracked limbs or bruised heads. One tried to get up, aided by a companion, but he only managed a staggered step before he slumped back down to the ground.
The others had spread out and were coming at Talen from all sides, seeking to take him out through sheer numbers. However, that advantage worked both ways, as they hindered each other, and had to be wary of the wide sweeping strokes that the long blade favored, lest they strike an ally. Thus far attempts to simply overbear the knight commander had failed; three of those lying onto the ground were the result of an initial rush that had tried to grapple and drag him down. Now the clack of wood on metal filled the courtyard, echoing off the adjacent galleries where the observers watched.
A young woman got her weapon inside the crook of Talen’s shield arm, and she tried to press that advantage, turning to force his shield away from his body. Two men rushed in to deliver strikes against the suddenly vulnerable flank, while from his front another man and a woman thrust at his head, forcing him to defend himself and split his focus.
That should have been the end of it, even for a veteran fighter. But Talen ducked and stepped into the turn of the woman holding his arm. He took two hits to his back from the men on his flank, but other than a grunt did not acknowledge what had to be painful impacts even through his armor. He continued his spin, now catching the woman off-guard, catching her in her own trap. She tried to drop her sword and get away, but before she could release he pinned her wrist and forced her into the rush of the two attacking him from the front. The distraction delayed them only for an instant, as the pair dodged around the falling woman, but it was long enough for Talen to snap his blade around at the two at his back. He caught one with a blow that came in under his shield, hitting under his arm with enough force to crack a rib. The man cried out in pain and fell, and even before he hit the ground Talen stepped back and snapped the hilt of his weapon into the face of the second attacker. The wooden hilt cracked from the impact, and the man collapsed, spitting blood from his broken jaw.
Talen’s weapon was damaged, but he quickly improvised, twisting into another spin that caused a stroke from another attacker to glance harmlessly off the armor of his shoulder, instead of hitting him in the head. As he came around behind her he smashed the edge of his shield into the small of her back. The woman screamed and fell on her face, her legs thrashing. Her movements hindered another attacker, as she inadvertently kicked another of Talen’s foe hard on the ankle, knocking him off balance. Talen exploited that distraction as he slammed his sword into the man’s knee, and he too crumpled. The impact completed the job on Talen’s weapon, as the hilt shivered, and the weighted blade fell away into the dirt.
Talen was down to four foes who could still keep their feet. The woman he’d knocked down earlier got back up, grinding her teeth against the pain in her wrist. The other three, two young men with the fair features of Camar’s old blood and a swarthy Emorite from the provinces, circled warily, held at bay by the beating inflicted on their friends.
“Do not hesitate, you fools!” Talen shouted at them. “My weapon has been destroyed!” He lunged at one enemy, but the motion was to disguise his true intent, as he reached down to grab a weapon dropped by one of his fallen foes. He did not manage it, as the woman lunged at him, forcing him to dart to the side to avoid her thrust. The Emorite followed with a blow to his shield, forcing it high. The two noble youths came in to exploit the advantage, sweeping their swords low.
They were just a heartbeat too slow. Talen snapped his shield down, severing one lad’s sword just below the hilt. The other one connected with Talen’s hip, but Talen seized his wrist, dragging him forward as he smashed his shield up into his face. The young man crumpled back, his nose broken. Talen caught his sword as it fell, and ignoring another pair of hits across his back, he took down the other Camarian youth with a pair of hits to his thigh and gut.
Talen turned to face the woman and the Emorite. He was clearly hurting, now; his breath wheezed in his body, and blood trickled down one side of his jaw. But his eyes burned with an intensity that gave his remaining foes pause.
“Finish it,” he told them, lifting his weapon into a ready position.
They came in strong, timing their attacks perfectly. He met one on his shield, and parried the second with his sword. The woman snapped her sword up, hitting him solidly across the bicep. Talen’s face twisted in a grimace of pain, but he kept his grip on his sword. The distraction cost him, however, as the Emorite brought his sword up over Talen’s guard, striking him hard across the face. Had it not been for his nose-guard, the blow would have broken his nose and probably left him unconscious; even so he staggered back, dazed.
His foes surged forward to finish him, obeying his last command, but Talen roared and unleashed a sudden and violent assault. The woman’s eyes widened as Talen’s blade whipped out, smashing her wrist, knocking her sword flying across the makeshift arena. She tried to fall back, but Talen’s follow up caught her solidly in the gut, knocking the air from her lungs. She crumpled, struggling to breathe.
The Emorite tried to get in another hit, but Talen pivoted smoothly and took the man’s legs out from under him. He coughed as he fell hard onto his back. He blinked as he tried to recover, but even as he tried to lift his swordarm to defend himself Talen stepped hard on his wrist, crushing it. The Emorite cried out in pain, and looked up to see Talen standing above him, the point of his sword aimed at his throat.
“I... I yield!”
“Talen!” Shay yelled, rushing forward into the courtyard.
Talen glanced at her, then down at his victim. For another second he held the man with his gaze, then released him.
“Your enemy will not accept your surrender,” Talen said, his voice lifted to address all of them. “Nor will he fail to take advantage of your mistakes.”
“Make no mistake,” he said. “I am not going to take it easy on you. Regardless of what you may have been in a former life,” he said, his gaze lingering on the two noble youths, “now you are part of the brotherhood of the Dragon. You are like farm tools delivered to the forge; what you were will be beaten out of you, hardened, weakness burned away until you are suitable for being forged into swords.”
“We are the Dragon Knights, and we are the front ranks against those that would destroy Camar.”
They watched him, those that were still conscious, at least.
He made a gesture to the observers. “Take them in, have Philokrates see to them. Tell him not to stint on the healing potions; we have another training session in the morning.”
There were a lot of groans as the trainees helped their fallen companions to their feet. Two of them were unconscious and had to be carried.
Shay lingered behind as the young men and women passed through the double doors into the estate’s main building. Talen walked over and picked up the training sword he’d broken. He ignored the stabbing pains that pierced him at the movements; he’d likely broken a rib or two.
“You disapprove of my training methods,” Talen said without turning.
“I thought you were going to kill him,” Shay said.
“Some may die during the training,” Talen said. “But it will not be by my sword.”
She came around him, forced him to look at her. “Talen, what’s happened to you?”
“You were there with me, Shay. You know what we face.”
“But we defeated the cult, destroyed the Sphere...”
“You don’t believe that was the end of it, any more than I do. Varo was lying when he said he didn’t know what happened with the demon after you destroyed the Sphere... of that I am certain.”
“I don’t know anything for sure, now. I thought I knew you, Talen.” She folders her arms tight against her body, but the shiver that she felt was not from the chill. “During that battle... it seemed almost like you enjoyed beating the living crap out of those trainees.”
Talen looked back at her. “I don’t enjoy any of this, Shay. I hate it. I hate Rappan Athuk, what it’s done to Camar, to our friends, to us...”
“Then why—“
“I do not trust Varo, but there is one thing, at least, about which he was honest to us. The very fate of our world is at stake, Shay! We have already lost so much... and now it falls to us to hold back the enemy.”
“But to what end, if we become that which we destroy...”
The words were quiet, mumbled, but he heard her. “I do not have answers for you, Shay. I can only do what I feel is necessary.”
“And us?”
“I love you, Shay. That will not change, no matter what else happens.”
“And I love you. But I don’t want to see Rappan Athuk destroy the man I love.”
“I cannot see the future, Shay.”
“The future wouldn’t scare me, if I knew that the man I fell in love with was going to stand beside me to face it.”
Talen was silent for a long moment. “I’m trying the best I can,” he finally said. He started toward the half-open doors, then paused. “Shay?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t undermine my authority in front of the recruits again.”
He paused a moment later, as if he wanted to say something more. But then he turned and went inside, leaving the scout alone with the cold wind of the fading afternoon.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 213
EVENING IN CAMAR
The monastery at Kalliades was situated a little less than a league from the city of Camar, a large, squat square of stone surrounded by a few smaller outbuildings. The whole was perched atop a low hill that was just visible from the main road leading west from the city. Despite, or perhaps because of, its proximity to Camar, the monastery received little attention, and received very little traffic for a site just off one of the main trade arteries of the Duchy.
The place seemed almost deserted, these days, although the low stone wall that circled the complex was kept in good repair, and the gardens that connected the outbuildings were tidy and well tended. Only a few monks were visible, silent shapes in dark cloth that blended into the long shadows of the fading day.
The large building in the center of the complex was in turn dominated by the chapel of the Father on its second level. The prize possessions of the monastery were on display there, a pair of large windows of stained glass high on the eastern wall, designed to let the full glory of the morning sun into the chamber. At this time of day, as night descended upon Camar, the room was deep in shadow. There were ample candles about the perimeter of the place, but all but a small handful were unlit. The chamber’s sole occupant, a man in a soft brown robe, seemed to prefer the dark.
A faint creak sounded in the back of the room as one of the tall double doors in the back opened. The noise did not carry far, but it was enough to alert the solitary vigilant, who turned to witness the newcomer. For a moment, he saw only shadows, which suddenly felt malevolent.
“Who is there?” he asked. “Brother Kalvis?”
“No,” said the newcomer, the voice resolving into the form of a figure of average height, his features masked in the depths of a dark cowl. His garments were bulky, possibly enough to conceal weapons or armor within them.
Now more obviously alarmed, the priest rose, one hand rising to the silver torch he wore on a chain upon his chest. “Who are you? This is a sacred place... there is no money or precious goods here.”
“I seek neither,” the stranger said.
“I will ask once more, for you to reveal yourself,” the priest said, a hint of steel creeping into his voice, but belied somewhat by the tense grasp of his fingers upon his divine focus.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” the stranger said, drawing back his cowl. “I am Licinius Varo.”
“Varo...” the priest said, his mouth twisting as though it had sampled a foul taste. “I have heard of you, priest of... of the Dark Creeper.”
“You may speak his name, Nelan. The Father will not take offense.”
“What do you want of me?”
Varo came forward, until he was standing near the altar, opposite Nelan. “Do you not recall, our last meeting? It was on the south road, near Aldenford.”
After a moment, Nelan nodded. “I remember. You were there... That is a night I would prefer to forget.”
“There are many things that we would prefer to forget,” Varo replied. “It is the nature of life that sometimes we must confront those things.”
“I have asked several times, what you want from me.”
Varo continued as if the other man had not spoken. “Names, for example. I found a number of people who spoke the name of Nelan with great favor, especially those that you escorted out of the south during the undead attack. But hardly anyone I encountered knew the name of Nelandro Agathon, even though that name had greater renown associated with it.”
“That was long ago. Now there is only Nelan.”
“I do not seek to refresh old wounds, nor speak of your exile,” Varo said. “Those events are in the past. What concerns me is the present, and the future.”
Nelan chuckled slightly. “My future lies in the hands of the Father.”
Varo did not let him off that easily. “And does the Father wish you to hide in the shadows while the people of Camar suffer?”
“I will not be judged by a priest of... of Dagos.”
“I do not seek to be your judge. But it is a doctrine of the faith you profess to serve that the gift of power brings with it a mantle of duty.”
“I will not fence at words at you. I know about duty. I have dedicated my life to the service of others.”
“True. That much was clear in the testimony of those who know Nelan. But Camar needs Nelandro Agathon.”
Nelan angrily swished a hand across his body in negation. “Nelandro Agathon is no more. He died, thirty years ago.”
“The church that censured you, sent you into exile, may likewise soon be no more.”
Nelan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Varo turned to the altar. He took the candle set in the recess there, and touched it to one of the offering tapers. Nelan watched in silence, although he obviously bristled at the possible blasphemy in the other man’s actions. But there was no mockery in Varo’s motions as he dripped a drop of wax upon the palm of his left hand, and then placed the taper into one of the slots atop the altar.
“You know our rituals.”
“I was once a priest of the Father.”
Nelan betrayed some surprise. “Then... why did you fall from the Light?”
Varo looked at him, and smiled sadly. “Duty,” he said.
Nelan turned back toward the front of the room. “I serve as my conscience commands,” he said.
“You have been given gifts.”
“I no longer seek power. It has been many years since the greater blessings have been granted to me.”
“A flame strike was summoned from the skies at Highbluff,” Varo said, “against the monstrosity that sought to destroy the town. “And yet none of the priests of the Father known to be capable of such magic were present that day. At least that is what people believe.”
Nelan glanced back up, was caught by Varo’s needle stare. “What do you want of me!”
Varo held his stare for a long moment. Finally, he said one word.
“Resolution.”
EVENING IN CAMAR
The monastery at Kalliades was situated a little less than a league from the city of Camar, a large, squat square of stone surrounded by a few smaller outbuildings. The whole was perched atop a low hill that was just visible from the main road leading west from the city. Despite, or perhaps because of, its proximity to Camar, the monastery received little attention, and received very little traffic for a site just off one of the main trade arteries of the Duchy.
The place seemed almost deserted, these days, although the low stone wall that circled the complex was kept in good repair, and the gardens that connected the outbuildings were tidy and well tended. Only a few monks were visible, silent shapes in dark cloth that blended into the long shadows of the fading day.
The large building in the center of the complex was in turn dominated by the chapel of the Father on its second level. The prize possessions of the monastery were on display there, a pair of large windows of stained glass high on the eastern wall, designed to let the full glory of the morning sun into the chamber. At this time of day, as night descended upon Camar, the room was deep in shadow. There were ample candles about the perimeter of the place, but all but a small handful were unlit. The chamber’s sole occupant, a man in a soft brown robe, seemed to prefer the dark.
A faint creak sounded in the back of the room as one of the tall double doors in the back opened. The noise did not carry far, but it was enough to alert the solitary vigilant, who turned to witness the newcomer. For a moment, he saw only shadows, which suddenly felt malevolent.
“Who is there?” he asked. “Brother Kalvis?”
“No,” said the newcomer, the voice resolving into the form of a figure of average height, his features masked in the depths of a dark cowl. His garments were bulky, possibly enough to conceal weapons or armor within them.
Now more obviously alarmed, the priest rose, one hand rising to the silver torch he wore on a chain upon his chest. “Who are you? This is a sacred place... there is no money or precious goods here.”
“I seek neither,” the stranger said.
“I will ask once more, for you to reveal yourself,” the priest said, a hint of steel creeping into his voice, but belied somewhat by the tense grasp of his fingers upon his divine focus.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” the stranger said, drawing back his cowl. “I am Licinius Varo.”
“Varo...” the priest said, his mouth twisting as though it had sampled a foul taste. “I have heard of you, priest of... of the Dark Creeper.”
“You may speak his name, Nelan. The Father will not take offense.”
“What do you want of me?”
Varo came forward, until he was standing near the altar, opposite Nelan. “Do you not recall, our last meeting? It was on the south road, near Aldenford.”
After a moment, Nelan nodded. “I remember. You were there... That is a night I would prefer to forget.”
“There are many things that we would prefer to forget,” Varo replied. “It is the nature of life that sometimes we must confront those things.”
“I have asked several times, what you want from me.”
Varo continued as if the other man had not spoken. “Names, for example. I found a number of people who spoke the name of Nelan with great favor, especially those that you escorted out of the south during the undead attack. But hardly anyone I encountered knew the name of Nelandro Agathon, even though that name had greater renown associated with it.”
“That was long ago. Now there is only Nelan.”
“I do not seek to refresh old wounds, nor speak of your exile,” Varo said. “Those events are in the past. What concerns me is the present, and the future.”
Nelan chuckled slightly. “My future lies in the hands of the Father.”
Varo did not let him off that easily. “And does the Father wish you to hide in the shadows while the people of Camar suffer?”
“I will not be judged by a priest of... of Dagos.”
“I do not seek to be your judge. But it is a doctrine of the faith you profess to serve that the gift of power brings with it a mantle of duty.”
“I will not fence at words at you. I know about duty. I have dedicated my life to the service of others.”
“True. That much was clear in the testimony of those who know Nelan. But Camar needs Nelandro Agathon.”
Nelan angrily swished a hand across his body in negation. “Nelandro Agathon is no more. He died, thirty years ago.”
“The church that censured you, sent you into exile, may likewise soon be no more.”
Nelan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Varo turned to the altar. He took the candle set in the recess there, and touched it to one of the offering tapers. Nelan watched in silence, although he obviously bristled at the possible blasphemy in the other man’s actions. But there was no mockery in Varo’s motions as he dripped a drop of wax upon the palm of his left hand, and then placed the taper into one of the slots atop the altar.
“You know our rituals.”
“I was once a priest of the Father.”
Nelan betrayed some surprise. “Then... why did you fall from the Light?”
Varo looked at him, and smiled sadly. “Duty,” he said.
Nelan turned back toward the front of the room. “I serve as my conscience commands,” he said.
“You have been given gifts.”
“I no longer seek power. It has been many years since the greater blessings have been granted to me.”
“A flame strike was summoned from the skies at Highbluff,” Varo said, “against the monstrosity that sought to destroy the town. “And yet none of the priests of the Father known to be capable of such magic were present that day. At least that is what people believe.”
Nelan glanced back up, was caught by Varo’s needle stare. “What do you want of me!”
Varo held his stare for a long moment. Finally, he said one word.
“Resolution.”
GrolloStoutfoam
First Post
I heartily concur, all your posts are very well written but I love the insight into the characters, especially Varo (my favorite btw, I've modeled a current character on him 
). Now as long as the movie depicts what I see in my head.
). Now as long as the movie depicts what I see in my head.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Thanks for the posts, guys!
* * * * *
Chapter 214
NIGHT OF THE DEAD
A feeling of dread hung over the city of Camar. In addition to the prospects of civil war with Dalemar to the north, there was a constant flow of information—some legitimate, some rumor—about the attacks in the south, and the near-destruction of Highbluff by a monstrosity that became more terrible with each retelling. Uncertainty bred fear, while fear bred panic, and panic bred violence. The Ducal Guard had swollen as the Grand Council had drawn in new recruits, mostly older veterans of the legions. Young men were being impressed into service as well, and a new camp was being constructed a few miles outside of the city, for training of a new Fifth Legion. The survivors of the Border Legion—mostly that handful that hadn’t been able to keep up with Dar’s march in time to make it to the slaughter at Southwatch—were quietly allotted to other units.
Winter had come in full force, and the citizenry of the capital city of the Grand Duchy huddled together for warmth and protection. Business continued, and lives went on, but the stream of people that typically filled the streets had slowed to a trickle. Men and women went about their business with dispatch, pulling their fur-lined cloaks tightly around their bodies, and avoiding eye contact with strangers. The coffee shops and ale houses were crowded with people, but the din that typically filled such places was muted. Even the brothels and gaming dens were quieter than usual, if no less busy as Camarians sought distraction from weighty matters.
Like any city of substantial size, Camar had a considerable indigent population. There were shelters for the poor scattered through the Docks that were maintained by clean-shaven acolytes of the Shining Father, but despite their efforts there was a large and shifting population of the desperate that drifted beneath the surface of the city’s life, like barnacles clinging to the underside of a ship. With winter’s coming this human detritus burrowed deeper into the shadows, taking shelter in abandoned buildings, sewer tunnels, and long-forgotten hollows beneath the city. In this gloom-world a different coda of laws and customs held sway, and few of those living in the civilized realm of urban life a world away had little real understanding of how these people survived and lived.
In the deep of one winter night, a small company of such folk held court in a cellar. The building above, once a two-story tenement, had been consumed by fire almost a decade ago. The place was a stone’s throw from the notorious neighborhood known as the Pike, and the ruined shell had never been cleared, left to rot in gradual decay. The cellar was mostly intact. The fire-scarred beams supporting the ceiling were hardly safe, but those who took shelter here cared little for such niceties.
The five men huddled around a stone hearth, within which a pathetic fire burned fitfully. One slept, shivering in his layered rags, his body wracked by an occasional cough that spoke of damaged lungs. One fortunate soul wore a new wool blanket across his shoulders, a gift from the church of the Father. Several of his brethren eyed it enviously, but its owner had been a man of considerable size before his fall, and he was known to have a furious temper; not someone to trifle with.
A sound, distant and faint, reached them through the tangle of beams and rubble above. The ears of the men twitched, and several made signs against evil. It was midnight, the hour of dark things and fell powers that men of all stripes secretly feared.
The man with the blanket took a swig from the bottle in his fist, and passed it to a neighbor. The man eagerly drank. “Dark things abroad this night,” he said.
“Bah!” the next said, seizing the bottle. But his hands shook slightly as he downed a swallow of the swill within the flask. He wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy fist.
“Cold,” one of the others said.
“It’s winter,” the man next to him said.
“No,” the other replied. “I... I feel a chill... like a tread upon my soul.”
“Supertituous fool,” the man with the blanket said, recovering the bottle as it made its way back around the circle. But as he drank, his eyes shot around the edges of their shelter, where the shadows had suddenly grown malevolent around them.
“Something’s not right,” the superstitious man persisted. “I feel...”
“Death,” another interjected.
“You are all touched,” the man with the blanket said. But his darting eyes betrayed his own fear, and after a moment they settled on the recumbent figure of the sleeping man. After a moment, the others noticed his stare, and they turned to the sleeper as well.
“Rorry’s stopped coughing,” one said.
The four men shared a look. Theirs was a brotherhood founded upon self-interest, but some lingering shred of humanity still clung to them; a sense of concern for the well-being of another. One of the men reached out to the motionless figure, shook him. “Rorry. Rorry, c’mon now, wake up.”
He touched the man’s face, turned back to the others. “He’s cold.”
“Poor bastard,” another said.
The four shared a look; none of them wanted to sleep with a corpse, but neither did they want to stir from the warmth of their shelter. Finally, the man with the blanket said, “Well, I suppose we should...”
He was cut off as Rorry leapt up and seized the man who had tried to rouse him. The color had drained from his face, leaving it a sickly gray. His jaws opened wide, revealing yellowed teeth, and a hiss that stank of charnel erupted from deep within his body. Rorry’s companion screamed and tried to tear free, but was dragged down in the other’s grasp. His cries broke off abruptly as Rorry sank his teeth into the man’s neck, crushing his windpipe and opening the artery with a spray of uncannily bright blood.
The ghoul looked up from his victim, grinning through a mask of crimson.
The other three men cried out and tried to flee.
They were not successful.
* * * * *
Camar was an old city, and it had six graveyards, ranging from the haphazard mounds of Pauper’s Hill to the sculpted marble monuments of the Quiet Meadow. But beyond that there were hundreds if not thousands of unmarked graves scattered throughout the city, and every canal and trash heap had the potential of holding a collection of remains from some long-forgotten soul.
Screams of horror and pain filled the night, as these repositories of death came alive. Skeletons, burrowing up from old graves, poured out into the streets, seeking the living. Zombies, their bodies covered with caked dirt, followed slowly in their wake. Scattered in desperate places throughout the city, the occasional ghoul rose where someone on the brink of death had been pulled over the boundary by the pulse of negative energy that had enveloped the city. There were even a few wights, here and there, where a particularly corrupt soul had succumbed to the power of unlife.
Pockets of resistance sprang up as houses were fortified, and men and women gathered to fight against the dead. Fire was a favored weapon, but it was a fickle ally, and within an hour after midnight dozens of blazes poured thick streams of black smoke into the sky over the city. Scenes of carnage were everywhere, but densest in the Docks, where the city’s poor faced the largest numbers of undead. Ships overflowing with desperate refugees sailed out into the harbor, leaving behind screaming people at the ends of long piers. Their cries attracted knots of skeletons and zombies. Many of the citizens leapt into the river to swim for their lives; many drowned.
The long night dragged slowly onward, as Camar burned, and screamed, and suffered.
* * * * *
Chapter 214
NIGHT OF THE DEAD
A feeling of dread hung over the city of Camar. In addition to the prospects of civil war with Dalemar to the north, there was a constant flow of information—some legitimate, some rumor—about the attacks in the south, and the near-destruction of Highbluff by a monstrosity that became more terrible with each retelling. Uncertainty bred fear, while fear bred panic, and panic bred violence. The Ducal Guard had swollen as the Grand Council had drawn in new recruits, mostly older veterans of the legions. Young men were being impressed into service as well, and a new camp was being constructed a few miles outside of the city, for training of a new Fifth Legion. The survivors of the Border Legion—mostly that handful that hadn’t been able to keep up with Dar’s march in time to make it to the slaughter at Southwatch—were quietly allotted to other units.
Winter had come in full force, and the citizenry of the capital city of the Grand Duchy huddled together for warmth and protection. Business continued, and lives went on, but the stream of people that typically filled the streets had slowed to a trickle. Men and women went about their business with dispatch, pulling their fur-lined cloaks tightly around their bodies, and avoiding eye contact with strangers. The coffee shops and ale houses were crowded with people, but the din that typically filled such places was muted. Even the brothels and gaming dens were quieter than usual, if no less busy as Camarians sought distraction from weighty matters.
Like any city of substantial size, Camar had a considerable indigent population. There were shelters for the poor scattered through the Docks that were maintained by clean-shaven acolytes of the Shining Father, but despite their efforts there was a large and shifting population of the desperate that drifted beneath the surface of the city’s life, like barnacles clinging to the underside of a ship. With winter’s coming this human detritus burrowed deeper into the shadows, taking shelter in abandoned buildings, sewer tunnels, and long-forgotten hollows beneath the city. In this gloom-world a different coda of laws and customs held sway, and few of those living in the civilized realm of urban life a world away had little real understanding of how these people survived and lived.
In the deep of one winter night, a small company of such folk held court in a cellar. The building above, once a two-story tenement, had been consumed by fire almost a decade ago. The place was a stone’s throw from the notorious neighborhood known as the Pike, and the ruined shell had never been cleared, left to rot in gradual decay. The cellar was mostly intact. The fire-scarred beams supporting the ceiling were hardly safe, but those who took shelter here cared little for such niceties.
The five men huddled around a stone hearth, within which a pathetic fire burned fitfully. One slept, shivering in his layered rags, his body wracked by an occasional cough that spoke of damaged lungs. One fortunate soul wore a new wool blanket across his shoulders, a gift from the church of the Father. Several of his brethren eyed it enviously, but its owner had been a man of considerable size before his fall, and he was known to have a furious temper; not someone to trifle with.
A sound, distant and faint, reached them through the tangle of beams and rubble above. The ears of the men twitched, and several made signs against evil. It was midnight, the hour of dark things and fell powers that men of all stripes secretly feared.
The man with the blanket took a swig from the bottle in his fist, and passed it to a neighbor. The man eagerly drank. “Dark things abroad this night,” he said.
“Bah!” the next said, seizing the bottle. But his hands shook slightly as he downed a swallow of the swill within the flask. He wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy fist.
“Cold,” one of the others said.
“It’s winter,” the man next to him said.
“No,” the other replied. “I... I feel a chill... like a tread upon my soul.”
“Supertituous fool,” the man with the blanket said, recovering the bottle as it made its way back around the circle. But as he drank, his eyes shot around the edges of their shelter, where the shadows had suddenly grown malevolent around them.
“Something’s not right,” the superstitious man persisted. “I feel...”
“Death,” another interjected.
“You are all touched,” the man with the blanket said. But his darting eyes betrayed his own fear, and after a moment they settled on the recumbent figure of the sleeping man. After a moment, the others noticed his stare, and they turned to the sleeper as well.
“Rorry’s stopped coughing,” one said.
The four men shared a look. Theirs was a brotherhood founded upon self-interest, but some lingering shred of humanity still clung to them; a sense of concern for the well-being of another. One of the men reached out to the motionless figure, shook him. “Rorry. Rorry, c’mon now, wake up.”
He touched the man’s face, turned back to the others. “He’s cold.”
“Poor bastard,” another said.
The four shared a look; none of them wanted to sleep with a corpse, but neither did they want to stir from the warmth of their shelter. Finally, the man with the blanket said, “Well, I suppose we should...”
He was cut off as Rorry leapt up and seized the man who had tried to rouse him. The color had drained from his face, leaving it a sickly gray. His jaws opened wide, revealing yellowed teeth, and a hiss that stank of charnel erupted from deep within his body. Rorry’s companion screamed and tried to tear free, but was dragged down in the other’s grasp. His cries broke off abruptly as Rorry sank his teeth into the man’s neck, crushing his windpipe and opening the artery with a spray of uncannily bright blood.
The ghoul looked up from his victim, grinning through a mask of crimson.
The other three men cried out and tried to flee.
They were not successful.
* * * * *
Camar was an old city, and it had six graveyards, ranging from the haphazard mounds of Pauper’s Hill to the sculpted marble monuments of the Quiet Meadow. But beyond that there were hundreds if not thousands of unmarked graves scattered throughout the city, and every canal and trash heap had the potential of holding a collection of remains from some long-forgotten soul.
Screams of horror and pain filled the night, as these repositories of death came alive. Skeletons, burrowing up from old graves, poured out into the streets, seeking the living. Zombies, their bodies covered with caked dirt, followed slowly in their wake. Scattered in desperate places throughout the city, the occasional ghoul rose where someone on the brink of death had been pulled over the boundary by the pulse of negative energy that had enveloped the city. There were even a few wights, here and there, where a particularly corrupt soul had succumbed to the power of unlife.
Pockets of resistance sprang up as houses were fortified, and men and women gathered to fight against the dead. Fire was a favored weapon, but it was a fickle ally, and within an hour after midnight dozens of blazes poured thick streams of black smoke into the sky over the city. Scenes of carnage were everywhere, but densest in the Docks, where the city’s poor faced the largest numbers of undead. Ships overflowing with desperate refugees sailed out into the harbor, leaving behind screaming people at the ends of long piers. Their cries attracted knots of skeletons and zombies. Many of the citizens leapt into the river to swim for their lives; many drowned.
The long night dragged slowly onward, as Camar burned, and screamed, and suffered.
It's times like these I really have to question the sanity of any fantasy society that doesn't simply cremate the remains of their dead. I mean, really, even in the best of times there are simply waaaaaay too many evil necromancers wandering about, just itching for an excuse to bring back the bones of brother Barnum and uncle Ulysses and cause mischief.
Mind you, I suspect Camar's issues to be several dozen orders of magnitude larger than a few mere necromancers...
Great update as usual, Lazybones!
Cheers,
Vurt
Mind you, I suspect Camar's issues to be several dozen orders of magnitude larger than a few mere necromancers...
Great update as usual, Lazybones!
Cheers,
Vurt
