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The Fall of Civilization
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<blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 4809266" data-attributes="member: 1210"><p>Drums beat. Around Fandelose, virtually encircling the city, the fires of the Six-Fingered Hand glare like bloodshot eyes in the night. </p><p></p><p>“Next attack is gonna be ugly,” grunts one of the sentries atop the wall. </p><p></p><p>“You say that every time,” his companion on the battlements sighs. She shakes her head. “We can hold ‘em forever if we need to, so long as we keep the General alive.” </p><p></p><p>“Yeah, but holding them off forever is no good.” The soldier hawks up a massive blob of phlegm and spits it over the edge of the wall. “I mean, I’d like to do something else with my life. Maybe have a family, settle down, get back into tanning- I used to be a tanner, did you know that?”</p><p></p><p>The other sentry heaves another sigh. “No, I don’t really listen when you say the same things night after night.”</p><p></p><p>Stung by her rebuke, the first sentry falls silent, staring out into the night for signs of movement. <em>Well, that’s what I get,</em> he thinks. <em>Not like the old days, when my charm would win me a girl a week. But Cherm’s right- I do bitch about this all the time, now. And why not? It’s been years! This damned war, it seems like it’s never going to end.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>I guess it’s like the General always says- </em>defense won’t win the war, but it will prevent you from losing a battle.<em> But how do we go on the offense? We have just enough people to hold out against their big attacks, when they come. We can’t spare a big enough force to take the field and try to engage them. My guess is, our best chance is to kill the enemy general. But he’s got to be surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands of guards. No, no way I can see it that this ends good for us. No way at all. I guess the best we can hope for is to stay alive in the middle of the squeeze until- if- the enemy runs out of supplies.</em></p><p></p><p>“What really worries me,” Cherm says suddenly, “is that the Hand army has been encamped for almost six years now. So why hasn’t the Empire struck back?” Her voice cracks. “Is Fandelose all that’s left?”</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Just after dark. The upper part of the city- now rice fields, once the district of the wealthy- is walled and shielded by the steep slopes of the mountains above Fandelose. It is the hardest part of the city for the enemy to assault, the easiest to defend. With the exception of a few desultory attacks, some siege engine fire and the goblin raid on the rice fields, it has been uncontested throughout the years of siege. It is from here that our heroes- newly outfitted with magical gear constructed by the city’s ritualist, Yabin*- lead their small groups of skirmishers, twenty each, over the wall (except, of course, for Cook, who is not technically a member of the army at all, yet is accompanying them ostensibly as a cook). Quietly, with no light and as little noise as possible, the group disappears into the mountains, heading towards a rendezvous with the warforged two days hence. </p><p></p><p>They creep along, spread out a fair amount. At one point, a goblin soldier spies Cook, but before he can raise an alarm the dwarf sinks a shuriken into his throat. </p><p></p><p>Otherwise, things proceed as planned. The skirmishers drift quietly through the mountains, moving undetected until they are outside of the area of encirclement of the Six-Fingered Hand. Then, as dawn breaks, they meet up and take shelter in a cave which they screen with brush. Sentries are posted, and the group gets a bit of shut-eye. </p><p></p><p>In the late afternoon, as the officers (our heroes) are discussing when to break cover, a scout hurries up. “Sirs!” he exclaims.</p><p></p><p>“What is it, soldier?” asks Captain Ligir. “Have you spotted the warforged?”</p><p></p><p>“No, sir. We have encountered a scout who claims to be from another Imperial legion in the area!”</p><p></p><p>“What?” exclaims Captain Vann-La.</p><p></p><p>“Take us to him,” Major Torinn demands, “immediately!”</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The scout, Hyracuse, claims to be a member of a lost unit that was destroyed. However, it is clear that he is hiding something. He is evasive and won’t name the unit that he is with. Still, he does seem to hate the Six-Fingered Hand and, while wary, is friendly and seems eager to slay goblins and kobolds himself. He asks the party for their story. </p><p></p><p>Captain Heimall replies, “We are from Fandelose, which still stands, but is under siege by the Six-Fingered Hand. We intend to break that siege- but I think we had best wait to say more until we know more of who you are.”</p><p></p><p>Hyracuse glances around at the hard-looking soldiers everywhere, scarred from years of fighting on the walls. He nods. “Why don’t you follow me, and I’ll take you to them. If you really are fighting the good fight, my commander will be overjoyed to help in any way that he can.”</p><p></p><p>Warily, our heroes agree, and they follow Hyracuse to a hidden vale. Indeed, his words prove to be true; there is a tattered legion hidden in the valley. There are around 800 men in the camp- a huge number of soldiers, compared to the less-than-200 skirmishers that Fandelose has dispatched. “We call ourselves the Lost Legion, now,” the scout says sadly, but will not say more.</p><p></p><p>Captain Heimall, however, has already seen enough to draw his conclusions. <em>The standards, the insignia on the uniforms... I know what legion this is. It has some men mixed in from other legions, no doubt survivors that they took in- but it is unmistakable. And now they call themselves the Lost Legion.</em> A cold dread settles into Heimall’s chest cavity. <em>What has happened to them?</em></p><p></p><p>The party is shown to the command tent of the leader of the Lost Legion. Runners have already announced their arrival, and they are shown in immediately. An older man, tall, with skin like leather and dark eyes set beneath a thin brow, stands awaiting them. As they walk in, a staggering realization hits the party.</p><p></p><p><em>Grand Marshall Prieve. </em>The<em> Grand Marshall of the Imperial Army. The head of the Imperial Army. He outranks everyone except the Emperor himself in matters military.</em></p><p></p><p>Everyone immediately salutes. </p><p></p><p>Grand Marshall Prieve returns their salute. He is ramrod-straight, his spine like iron. “Gentlemen, ladies,” he nods to them. “Welcome to our encampment. It seems that you have around 150 soldiers in your group, yes? You will be a welcome addition to our forces. Now, report. Where are you from? Who commands you? What is your status?”</p><p></p><p>“Sir,” replies Captain Vann-La, “we are troops from the nearby city of Fandelose, under General Argos. Fandelose still holds, but remains besieged. We are on a mission to attack their supply train, to draw off the guards from the commanders’ tent, and then assassinate Heshwat the Eviscerator and his ranking officers.” Carefully, she omits mention of the warforged. <em>He wants to add us to his command,</em> she thinks. <em>We can’t allow that to happen. And if we can convince him to back us in our mission, it might just make it significantly easier. No, best to leave out all mention of the warforged until the last minute. Besides, I don’t think Grand Marshall Prieve would like their answer when he tried to put them under his command.</em> </p><p></p><p>At Argos’ name, the Grand Marshall’s eyes widen and he seems to stand even more fiercely straight. “Argos, eh?” There is no disguising the satisfaction in his voice. Clearly, General Argos is a name that Prieve knows- and respects. It is writ as plain as day on his features: <em>There is no other general that I would rather have at my side for this terrible doomed war.</em></p><p></p><p>“With all due respect, sir,” Captain Heimall speaks up, “what about you? Why are you calling this the Lost Legion now? Isn’t,” he hesitates for a moment, “isn’t this the Sun Legion?</p><p></p><p>“The Emperor’s own?</p><p></p><p>“And if it is, sir- where is the Emperor?”</p><p></p><p>Grand Marshall Prieve draws in a deep breath. “Emperor Panthos died in battle just about two months ago. Yes, captain, we were the Sun Legion, but we failed. We are lost, now. We guard the heir, but he is only three years old- far too young to be a viable ruler. He may never become the Emperor at all if he does not reach the age of majority.” </p><p></p><p>“Sir, please- aid us,” says Hkatha. His voice is like silk. “We could use your help, and you would be able to strike back. Obviously you have not been inactive for the last five years; your legion is clearly not at full strength and you have obviously had to recruit from other groups of survivors. Clearly you haven’t given up. If you help us break the siege on Fandelose, you will have somewhere to rest, to re-equip. A base from which we can counterattack.”</p><p></p><p>Grand Marshall Prieve declares, “My legion has been playing a hiding game while looking for any sign of a place where they can either weather the storm or strike back, but so far without any luck. Now you tell me that the chance to make such a place is before me?” He slams his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Aye, we shall aid you!”</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Over the next couple of days, the party convinces Grand Marshall Prieve to leave them under Argos’ command. Then they mention the warforged- which, it turns out, the Lost Legion has had under observation for several years but had not previously revealed themselves to. The party then establishes contact with the warforged, who are already aware of General Argos’ plan somehow. A lot of coordination and a couple of days later, they are ready to make their move. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>First the Lost Legion and the warforged successively draw off the majority of the baggage train’s guards, then the skirmishers move in and annihilate a great deal of the train itself, shooting them down with arrows. A few of them focus on destroying the token force of rabble and archers that are still present to defend the train, and in less than an hour, the attack is over, with the supply line cut and a huge reserve force of Hand troops setting off in pursuit. </p><p></p><p>Including almost all of the forces surrounding the command tent. </p><p></p><p>Carefully, the party sneaks forward. Now it is just eight of them- no more. Any more would be too obvious- it would be impossible to pass unseen through the pickets, even as diffused as they are with all of the forces that are pursuing the three groups that struck the baggage trains only half an hour apart each.</p><p></p><p>“There are still troops up beyond the tent, not too far ahead,” hisses Loridell. “We won’t have too long before there’s a major response.”</p><p></p><p>“We knew that already, though,” Torinn mutters back. “Doesn’t change anything.”</p><p></p><p>“Oi, this is a bad idea,” Cook groans to nobody in particular.</p><p></p><p>The pavilion tent up ahead is large, well-lit from within. Voices, some sounding arrogant, others whining, emanate from inside of it. Hkatha whispers a spell and fades from view as Vann-La moves up, drawing a dagger, and quietly cuts a long vertical slit in the wall of the tent. She peers through it- huddled on the floor beyond the slit are a bunch of exhausted, hungry-looking human slaves. She motions them to be quiet and stay low. </p><p></p><p>Cook slips past her, silent and unseen in the shadows. He peers through the curtains into the pavilion’s main compartment. <em>There they are,</em> he thinks. </p><p></p><p>There they are indeed. Dominated by a growling, foul-tempered hobgoblin with a wicked-looking glaive strapped to him, the party sees a group that includes a goblin dressed in jewels and finery, a robe-wearing kobold drinking a glass of wine, an orcish axeman in plate armor that dangles with trophies- especially fingers, a savage-looking gnoll gnawing on a piece of human jerky and clutching a rod topped with a hyena skull, and five uniformed hobgoblin guards. </p><p></p><p></p><p>Before he can chicken out, Cook hurls a shuriken at the kobold.</p><p></p><p><em><strong>Next Time:</strong></em> Our heroes in battle with Heshwat the Eviscerator, Morl the Goblin King, Vypp the Director of Kobolds, the Orcish Warlord Tursh and the Mouth of Yeenoghu!</p><p></p><p>*Due to many war encounters that yielded no treasure, I awarded each pc a major magic item before they started the “sneak out of the walls” bit, to wit:</p><p> </p><p>Cook: A pair of flanker’s boots (AV 129).</p><p>Heimall: A flaming glaive +3 (PH 234).</p><p>Hkatha: A robe of defying storms +3 (AV 49).</p><p>Kratos: An ironskin belt (PH 253).</p><p>Loridell: A righteous greatsword +3 (AV 77).</p><p>Sta’Ligir: A necklace of fireballs +3 (AV 153).</p><p>Torinn: A torc of power preservation +3 (AV 154).</p><p>Vann-La: A pair of breach bracers (AV 116).</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="the Jester, post: 4809266, member: 1210"] Drums beat. Around Fandelose, virtually encircling the city, the fires of the Six-Fingered Hand glare like bloodshot eyes in the night. “Next attack is gonna be ugly,” grunts one of the sentries atop the wall. “You say that every time,” his companion on the battlements sighs. She shakes her head. “We can hold ‘em forever if we need to, so long as we keep the General alive.” “Yeah, but holding them off forever is no good.” The soldier hawks up a massive blob of phlegm and spits it over the edge of the wall. “I mean, I’d like to do something else with my life. Maybe have a family, settle down, get back into tanning- I used to be a tanner, did you know that?” The other sentry heaves another sigh. “No, I don’t really listen when you say the same things night after night.” Stung by her rebuke, the first sentry falls silent, staring out into the night for signs of movement. [i]Well, that’s what I get,[/i] he thinks. [i]Not like the old days, when my charm would win me a girl a week. But Cherm’s right- I do bitch about this all the time, now. And why not? It’s been years! This damned war, it seems like it’s never going to end. I guess it’s like the General always says- [/i]defense won’t win the war, but it will prevent you from losing a battle.[i] But how do we go on the offense? We have just enough people to hold out against their big attacks, when they come. We can’t spare a big enough force to take the field and try to engage them. My guess is, our best chance is to kill the enemy general. But he’s got to be surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands of guards. No, no way I can see it that this ends good for us. No way at all. I guess the best we can hope for is to stay alive in the middle of the squeeze until- if- the enemy runs out of supplies.[/i] “What really worries me,” Cherm says suddenly, “is that the Hand army has been encamped for almost six years now. So why hasn’t the Empire struck back?” Her voice cracks. “Is Fandelose all that’s left?” *** Just after dark. The upper part of the city- now rice fields, once the district of the wealthy- is walled and shielded by the steep slopes of the mountains above Fandelose. It is the hardest part of the city for the enemy to assault, the easiest to defend. With the exception of a few desultory attacks, some siege engine fire and the goblin raid on the rice fields, it has been uncontested throughout the years of siege. It is from here that our heroes- newly outfitted with magical gear constructed by the city’s ritualist, Yabin*- lead their small groups of skirmishers, twenty each, over the wall (except, of course, for Cook, who is not technically a member of the army at all, yet is accompanying them ostensibly as a cook). Quietly, with no light and as little noise as possible, the group disappears into the mountains, heading towards a rendezvous with the warforged two days hence. They creep along, spread out a fair amount. At one point, a goblin soldier spies Cook, but before he can raise an alarm the dwarf sinks a shuriken into his throat. Otherwise, things proceed as planned. The skirmishers drift quietly through the mountains, moving undetected until they are outside of the area of encirclement of the Six-Fingered Hand. Then, as dawn breaks, they meet up and take shelter in a cave which they screen with brush. Sentries are posted, and the group gets a bit of shut-eye. In the late afternoon, as the officers (our heroes) are discussing when to break cover, a scout hurries up. “Sirs!” he exclaims. “What is it, soldier?” asks Captain Ligir. “Have you spotted the warforged?” “No, sir. We have encountered a scout who claims to be from another Imperial legion in the area!” “What?” exclaims Captain Vann-La. “Take us to him,” Major Torinn demands, “immediately!” *** The scout, Hyracuse, claims to be a member of a lost unit that was destroyed. However, it is clear that he is hiding something. He is evasive and won’t name the unit that he is with. Still, he does seem to hate the Six-Fingered Hand and, while wary, is friendly and seems eager to slay goblins and kobolds himself. He asks the party for their story. Captain Heimall replies, “We are from Fandelose, which still stands, but is under siege by the Six-Fingered Hand. We intend to break that siege- but I think we had best wait to say more until we know more of who you are.” Hyracuse glances around at the hard-looking soldiers everywhere, scarred from years of fighting on the walls. He nods. “Why don’t you follow me, and I’ll take you to them. If you really are fighting the good fight, my commander will be overjoyed to help in any way that he can.” Warily, our heroes agree, and they follow Hyracuse to a hidden vale. Indeed, his words prove to be true; there is a tattered legion hidden in the valley. There are around 800 men in the camp- a huge number of soldiers, compared to the less-than-200 skirmishers that Fandelose has dispatched. “We call ourselves the Lost Legion, now,” the scout says sadly, but will not say more. Captain Heimall, however, has already seen enough to draw his conclusions. [i]The standards, the insignia on the uniforms... I know what legion this is. It has some men mixed in from other legions, no doubt survivors that they took in- but it is unmistakable. And now they call themselves the Lost Legion.[/i] A cold dread settles into Heimall’s chest cavity. [i]What has happened to them?[/i] The party is shown to the command tent of the leader of the Lost Legion. Runners have already announced their arrival, and they are shown in immediately. An older man, tall, with skin like leather and dark eyes set beneath a thin brow, stands awaiting them. As they walk in, a staggering realization hits the party. [i]Grand Marshall Prieve. [/i]The[i] Grand Marshall of the Imperial Army. The head of the Imperial Army. He outranks everyone except the Emperor himself in matters military.[/i] Everyone immediately salutes. Grand Marshall Prieve returns their salute. He is ramrod-straight, his spine like iron. “Gentlemen, ladies,” he nods to them. “Welcome to our encampment. It seems that you have around 150 soldiers in your group, yes? You will be a welcome addition to our forces. Now, report. Where are you from? Who commands you? What is your status?” “Sir,” replies Captain Vann-La, “we are troops from the nearby city of Fandelose, under General Argos. Fandelose still holds, but remains besieged. We are on a mission to attack their supply train, to draw off the guards from the commanders’ tent, and then assassinate Heshwat the Eviscerator and his ranking officers.” Carefully, she omits mention of the warforged. [i]He wants to add us to his command,[/i] she thinks. [i]We can’t allow that to happen. And if we can convince him to back us in our mission, it might just make it significantly easier. No, best to leave out all mention of the warforged until the last minute. Besides, I don’t think Grand Marshall Prieve would like their answer when he tried to put them under his command.[/i] At Argos’ name, the Grand Marshall’s eyes widen and he seems to stand even more fiercely straight. “Argos, eh?” There is no disguising the satisfaction in his voice. Clearly, General Argos is a name that Prieve knows- and respects. It is writ as plain as day on his features: [i]There is no other general that I would rather have at my side for this terrible doomed war.[/i] “With all due respect, sir,” Captain Heimall speaks up, “what about you? Why are you calling this the Lost Legion now? Isn’t,” he hesitates for a moment, “isn’t this the Sun Legion? “The Emperor’s own? “And if it is, sir- where is the Emperor?” Grand Marshall Prieve draws in a deep breath. “Emperor Panthos died in battle just about two months ago. Yes, captain, we were the Sun Legion, but we failed. We are lost, now. We guard the heir, but he is only three years old- far too young to be a viable ruler. He may never become the Emperor at all if he does not reach the age of majority.” “Sir, please- aid us,” says Hkatha. His voice is like silk. “We could use your help, and you would be able to strike back. Obviously you have not been inactive for the last five years; your legion is clearly not at full strength and you have obviously had to recruit from other groups of survivors. Clearly you haven’t given up. If you help us break the siege on Fandelose, you will have somewhere to rest, to re-equip. A base from which we can counterattack.” Grand Marshall Prieve declares, “My legion has been playing a hiding game while looking for any sign of a place where they can either weather the storm or strike back, but so far without any luck. Now you tell me that the chance to make such a place is before me?” He slams his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Aye, we shall aid you!” *** Over the next couple of days, the party convinces Grand Marshall Prieve to leave them under Argos’ command. Then they mention the warforged- which, it turns out, the Lost Legion has had under observation for several years but had not previously revealed themselves to. The party then establishes contact with the warforged, who are already aware of General Argos’ plan somehow. A lot of coordination and a couple of days later, they are ready to make their move. *** First the Lost Legion and the warforged successively draw off the majority of the baggage train’s guards, then the skirmishers move in and annihilate a great deal of the train itself, shooting them down with arrows. A few of them focus on destroying the token force of rabble and archers that are still present to defend the train, and in less than an hour, the attack is over, with the supply line cut and a huge reserve force of Hand troops setting off in pursuit. Including almost all of the forces surrounding the command tent. Carefully, the party sneaks forward. Now it is just eight of them- no more. Any more would be too obvious- it would be impossible to pass unseen through the pickets, even as diffused as they are with all of the forces that are pursuing the three groups that struck the baggage trains only half an hour apart each. “There are still troops up beyond the tent, not too far ahead,” hisses Loridell. “We won’t have too long before there’s a major response.” “We knew that already, though,” Torinn mutters back. “Doesn’t change anything.” “Oi, this is a bad idea,” Cook groans to nobody in particular. The pavilion tent up ahead is large, well-lit from within. Voices, some sounding arrogant, others whining, emanate from inside of it. Hkatha whispers a spell and fades from view as Vann-La moves up, drawing a dagger, and quietly cuts a long vertical slit in the wall of the tent. She peers through it- huddled on the floor beyond the slit are a bunch of exhausted, hungry-looking human slaves. She motions them to be quiet and stay low. Cook slips past her, silent and unseen in the shadows. He peers through the curtains into the pavilion’s main compartment. [i]There they are,[/i] he thinks. There they are indeed. Dominated by a growling, foul-tempered hobgoblin with a wicked-looking glaive strapped to him, the party sees a group that includes a goblin dressed in jewels and finery, a robe-wearing kobold drinking a glass of wine, an orcish axeman in plate armor that dangles with trophies- especially fingers, a savage-looking gnoll gnawing on a piece of human jerky and clutching a rod topped with a hyena skull, and five uniformed hobgoblin guards. Before he can chicken out, Cook hurls a shuriken at the kobold. [i][b]Next Time:[/b][/i][b][/b] Our heroes in battle with Heshwat the Eviscerator, Morl the Goblin King, Vypp the Director of Kobolds, the Orcish Warlord Tursh and the Mouth of Yeenoghu! *Due to many war encounters that yielded no treasure, I awarded each pc a major magic item before they started the “sneak out of the walls” bit, to wit: Cook: A pair of flanker’s boots (AV 129). Heimall: A flaming glaive +3 (PH 234). Hkatha: A robe of defying storms +3 (AV 49). Kratos: An ironskin belt (PH 253). Loridell: A righteous greatsword +3 (AV 77). Sta’Ligir: A necklace of fireballs +3 (AV 153). Torinn: A torc of power preservation +3 (AV 154). Vann-La: A pair of breach bracers (AV 116). [/QUOTE]
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