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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Herremann the Wise" data-source="post: 2084355" data-attributes="member: 11300">The Threads of Fate Twist Once MoreHello again everyone.Apologies for the delay, it has been a busy time with our office moving as well as other commitments. It has taken me a while to get this story in order but I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labour.The Dawn of the Following Morning…A small tattered group who had miraculously escaped the previous day’s sea raid finally make it to the rugged shoreline holding onto several planks and a barrel, barely a league to the south of the primary encampment of the Strauchn Clan. Dehydrated, exposed and without significant equipment, there is conflict within the group.Isaac looked across the narrow beach of darkened sand. He searched for any signs of hostility but failed to see more than several birds flying in low swift swoops from place to place in the dawn light. The beach was bordered by a mass of high rocky crags at its northerly end and a hillside of brush and gorse to the south skirted by scree, loose sticks and other detritus. Large grey boulders emerged from the southern hillside like massive granite monitors surveying and guarding the vicinity. An unnatural quiet pervaded the place as the sun momentarily breached the foreign horizon before several darkened clouds hid its rays once more.Less than two days before, the Sea Lady’s Passion had been making excellent Northerly progress towards its Ayland destination when the terror of several Derman longships had struck. The Captain had initially tried to outrun the barbarians but a slackening breeze, frenzied Derman passion and a momentary lapse of concentration from the helmsman resulted in the ship thrusting to windward, the rudder jamming and the force of it all throwing the helpless pilot to the deck. The defences of the ship while significant were not used to the determined methods of the Derman and thus barbarian purchase upon board was gained without significant resistance.Between the firing of the ship, a caustic smoke and the hell of numerous barbarians unleashing their terrible strength and might upon sailor, mercenary and passenger alike, the ship had little hope of survival. Seeing this, Isaac disobeyed his charge of the ship’s protection and fled with several others. Through what could be no better described than the hand of fate herself protecting them from the Derman, half the group had survived the elements and exposure to make land, somewhere upon the Northern Derman coastline. The quiet of the beach with only the subtle hush of the sea’s wash to augment it was almost like a nirvana. At least the situation could have been worse if not by much thought Isaac at this point.He tried to look down at the two other men who had survived the horrific journey but his legs were like jelly underneath him, the rush of blood forcing his body painfully back to the harsh shale sand. All three of them were naked except for the sodden bloodstained rags that clung to their bodies. The fat bastard of a priest had somehow survived when others more able had disappeared in the water behind them. He had held to a barrel of wine with a faith far surpassing that to his god.  No wonder he had been useless on board; Isaac could spot a charlatan a mile away and this fat bastard was one of the worst. How fickle was fate when one such as he could survive but one like Kalar fall. The other man lying there, he did not know except that his name was Moro, a wiry sailor from the ship. His features where sparse, his body lean. He attempted to say something but could not utter more than a hoarse and scratched whisper.The priest’s podgy fingers still grabbed onto the barrel as it was buoyantly lifted from the sand by the incoming water, threatening to return to the sea once more. His fat, pink and bruised body was doubled over like some quivering mass of rotten jellyfish. His voice was then heard, a surprisingly clear tenor. “Is this land I feel beneath my bones? Hath our pilgrimage to hell finished?”“I believe it has only just begun priest,” croaked Isaac as he looked up the slopes once more to see if they had attracted any native attention. The hillside was still clear. “We must find shelter and soon. I have no idea where exactly we are or who else lives here except perhaps more of those barbarians. I don’t wish to find out either so hurry up and find your legs, we need to get out of here.”Moro stood stretching his legs painfully with a limp while the priest rolled over onto his stomach, his gut the size of two men. The priest then heaved his awful mass upon his knees with a protracted groan. By Terrefin he must have some strength to lug that body around Isaac thought. “Ize ave me a knife. Tis all but”, Moro said as he checked the back of his leg, the gash reddening as he spoke. It seeped fresh blood with his movements, the anger of infection having taken hold. Isaac knew the man would not be walking in a day, would be fevered the next and likely dead the day after. He looked to his own wounds – several gashes and a raft of broken fingers on his useless left hand – as a sense of hopelessness gripped him. Isaac realised the full consequences of their situation. They were as good as dead.“If we stay on the beach, we may be able to hail a passing boat”, said the priest, a ridiculous sense of hope upon his features.Moro not believing what he’d just heard quickly retorted in stupefied anger, “You stinkin’ stupid massa orse turds. Who the hell dya thinks gonna come past here? A ship fulla whores to plays with your toddle? Those Derman bastards will take one look atcha un be feasting on ya privates before ya can say…”“Quiet!” whispered Isaac with intensity. “There ain’t going to be no ship and I don’t want no Derman choking on the priest’s slug. We’ll get away from here and then work out what we’re going to do. Moro, with luck, you’ll walk for another day. And you priest{1}… just don’t upset him… or me.”The priest looked away as if hurt by the comments and language while Moro swore in pain as he tried to walk past him. Isaac himself looked up at the darkening sky as if the early morning storm was waiting for the worst possible moment to start reaping the coastline. With no idea of direction, nothing but rags upon their bodies and little more than a sailor’s knife to protect them, they headed slowly over the hillside. Little did they realise that the sharp eyes of a clansman almost a mile away had spotted movement high upon the southern hills – the area known by the Strauchn as the Furg Harta or “Lonely Hills”. With speed and alacrity, the clansman headed back to gather others for the hunt.***Dannikin, former priest of Galasso fell once more to the ground, his bare feet stumbling upon a hidden rock. Well over six foot tall, he did his best to keep up with the other two but he kept falling further and further behind. His lack of faith had tortured him for many months since his expulsion. His current circumstance was the result of trying to gain his faith once more. He had sworn that he would find Galasso’s faith to which the cruel Arch-cleric of their monastery said that indeed he would. In fact Galasso would forgive him if he journeyed to the Aylish{2} territories far abroad. The snide little man! He must have known that something like this would happen. Such were the thoughts of the former priest.Dannikin’s misguided and hateful reverie was only disturbed by the two ahead quickly going to ground.  They had ventured to the top of a craggy hillside. The man he only knew as Isaac got up slowly, realising that what he had quickly glimpsed had not moved. Even though Dannikin was a ways behind, he could smell a thoroughly putrescent tang in the air. Dannikin cautiously stepped to the others position. They all ventured a dozen steps towards a disgusting scene ahead. Rotting half eaten heads had been jammed on stakes, a mass of feculent flesh stuffed into the distended jaws. The three men once of Amborna stood still and in silence, the extreme brutality before them totally and barbarically foreign.As they all stood as cold and frozen granite a rasping voice of anguished despair was heard. “You will all die soon, like those of the Pianatha if you continue towards yonder valley.”The three turned around as one to see the ragged form of an old woman, naked except for a grey staff. Her body had been withered to blotched skin and in fact the feint reek of noisome decomposition emanated directly from her position several strides behind them. She had appeared as if by the foulest magic. They would have run except for fear. Moro drew his knife and held it timidly in front of him as he mouthed a prayer to Terrefin.“Put your impotent steel away fool. I do not seek your deaths and its edge would do nothing to me besides.”“If ever your faith was worth anything priest, now is the time to show us” said Isaac, his desperation palpable amongst the rotten air.Dannikin heard the voices but quivered, the entire situation surreal and beyond his comprehension. Surely they had all passed on unknown to a hell on Urth or elsewhere.“Your friend is no priest. His god’s foul trinket has not been hung from his neck for some time. Even as I speak to you, your death is but moments away; those of the Strauchn seek your death and will take your lives as easily as they will spit on your corpses and rend your pathetic heads from your bodies. However, I have need of you and can promise you safety for a while. Follow me if you value what life is left to each of you.”With this she turned away and headed back down the valley they had traversed. She cast her staff in a circle, a dark cave appearing from craggy nothingness in front of her. She waited patiently, beckoning them inside.Isaac looked at the other two before staggering ahead. He stopped short of her foul form before continuing. They had no options left. Surely any death at her hand would be better than that at the hands of some barbaric clansman. Unfortunately, his imagination was not as good as Dannikin's. Fearfully, the priest joined the other two quickly as the hoots and echoed calls of several barbarian half-orcs were heard. They entered the cave just in time as the clansman launched themselves with long strides into the shallow valley, the threatening storm erupting at this precise moment. The undead form of Ochrisi na Dura(3) laughed at the foolishness of mortals as she shadowed the cave entrance once more. The revenge that drove her hatred was almost complete. She now had the prophesised tools she had been waiting so long for.***{1} Most priests had no divine ability; they were merely experts of theology and some of healing. At this point, Isaac believed the "Priest" of Galasso a fraudster, out to mulct good citizens and live on their misguided good will.{2} The Aylish territories were best described as a province stuck in the old ways. Barely expressing a desire to leave its dark aged and feudalistic outlook, Ayland traded with the far away southern Ambornan ports for an erratic if sometimes spectacular profit. Various merchantmen could be found traversing the Sea of Amber periodically throughout the Urthen calendar year.(3) Ochrisi na Dura was the former shaman of the Strauchn, defeated by the current Shamaness Ugari.</blockquote>

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