The Realms of Enlightenment: The Grey Companions

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #329] Stop the Rot

The sound pushed the already troubled mob closer to full on panic. A loud shout split the crowd in two. "EVERYBODY MOVE OUT!!!" Feln roared, opening a corridor down which Karak clanked, cursing as he came.

"Blast! What have we 'ere?" he bellowed, his voice carrying over Goodwife Nedhne's cries and the fearful mutterings of the crowd. Constable Taunen-baum - or rather what remained of him - looked up at the dwarf's approach, hesitating long enough for Karak to get close to it. "Why the Rot Queen sent us a coach full of chaos puss!" He unsheathed his magical longsword and grinned.

There was nothing resembling intelligence or sanity in Constable Taunen-baum's rheumy eyes or the slack expression on his face. But he did pause to regard Karak rather than drawing to his mouth the panicked woman in his tentacle. That, at least, was something.

"Now listen up everyone!" Karak shouted to the gathered throng. "Don't panic! My companions and I have seen and dealt with a lot worse than this!" Morier stepped up beside him and Karak shot the eldritch warrior a sidelong glance. "Stay calm and let no one leave this circle."

"I can attend to crowd control, sir dwarf," Demetrius Wyverneye said as he drew his greatsword and took a place at Morier's side.

"Good man," Karak muttered. "Keep everyone back and let us handle the chaos spawn." The dwarf eyed Constable Taunen-baum, ready to act if he made any threatening motion. Taunen-baum maintained his grip on Goodwife Nedhne, but didn't seem to be further injuring the woman.

"Feln, can you wrestle that lass free?" Karak asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Karak, that beast and all it has touched are cursed with disease," the half-ogre snorted. The dwarf nodded his agreement.

"But we all go in a swingin', she's likely to end up hurt worse than the Constable there," he replied.

"Constable?" Huzair asked. He squinted and recognized beneath the puss and mucous the man the chaos spawn had been. "I guess you were right, Morier. That cheese factory situation was not important enough to deal with."

"Shut up!" Morier hissed at the wizard.

"Where does your little head pull us now, Morier?" Huzair pressed. "Do we leave this town to plague, too?"

"Shut up!" the eldritch warrior said again, unsheathing Ravager with a savage hiss. Karak harrumphed and eyed the spellcasters.

"Either of you got a shot?" asked the dwarf, keeping his gaze fixed on the chaos spawn. "Without hitting the good wife?"

"Of course I do," Huzair snapped indignantly all the while looking pointedly at Morier. The albino set his jaw grimly and looked away.

"Stop worrying about her," Feln argued, eyeing the crowd warily, realizing just how easily disease could spread here. "I think it be best to burn everything inside this circle... coach, monster... even the girl."

"Feln!" Lela chirped. "How could you?!"

"We'll save the lass if we can," Morier added. Feln rolled his eyes.

"Fine!" he growled and surged suddenly forward. He tried to attack quickly, reaching in fast to wrest Goodwife Nedhne from Taunen-baum's grasp, but the chaos spawn reacted just as quickly. It swung at Feln as the half-ogre grabbed for the woman, using Goodwife Nednhe as a club to spoil Feln's grapple. The damage to the half-ogre was minimal; he'd been training himself to take a hit and keep on coming. The woman faired less well, and she swooned on the edge of unconsciousness, blood flowing freely from her smashed mouth.

Morier spoke the words of a True Strike spell and moved into a position flanking Feln. Huzair opened up with a pair of Magic Missiles that swerved unerringly to strike the center mass of the chaos spawn. It let out a pained cry but seemed little injured by the spell.

"For the Fallen!" Karak bellowed, the battle cry heralding his charge. He clanked forward, stepping between Feln and Morier and slashing mightily with his longsword. The chaos spawn defended itself well, using the semi-conscious Goodwife as a human shield and forcing Karak to abort his attack. The dwarf's enchanted blade skittered uselessly off Taunen-baum's chitinous shoulder.

In retaliation, the former Constable opened his jaws impossibly wide, a wet, unholy sound bubbling from its cavernous maw for the instant before it vomitted a cone of diseased vitriol over Karak, Huzair, Lela, Demetrius and a half-dozen commoners in the crowd.

Guided by the hand of his goddess, Karak evaded the noisome cone entirely and Lela's spritely reflexes allowed her to avoid the worst of it. Huzair, Demetrius and the hapless citizenry weren't nearly so lucky. The mage was horribly burned and dropped in shock without even screaming. Demetrius maintained his feet, but the majority of his skin had been melted off his body and it seemed to be willpower alone that kept him from collapsing. The few commoners who had been in the area of effect were reduced to little more than sizzling puddles of flesh.

 

[Hairy Minotaur]

"Why the Rot Queen sent us a coach full of chaos puss!"

Well, to be perfectly honest with the puss, I've never known any Lawful puss. Seems to me puss would be neutral, so the fact that this puss leans towards anarchy would be pretty scary.

 

[Jon Potter]

In case it isn't blatantly obvious several of us played a bit of WHFRP back when the first edition came out. The guy who plays Karak introduced me to the game and he continues to play a lot of WH40K. It was he who first started talking about the taint of Chaos and he who dubbed the wererats to be skaven. The rest of the players just started following suit, so that's the terminology that I started using as well.

I've gone so far as the buy things like Monte Cook's Chaositiech because of the Warhammer bledding into our D&D.

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #330] Something Rotten in the Floxen

Demetrius Wyverneye had always feared that he was something of a disappointment to his father. The elder Wyverneye spent his early years as an Archer of the Green, but the son disdained the longbow in favor of melee. Demetrius always felt that a bit of the reason his father founded the Wyverneye School was to provide them with a shared experience. And what an experience it was! Borrowing a bit from the Three Thunders style and influenced heavily by the falchion work taught at the Kurshwan Academy, Arwold Wyverneye's One Hit, One Kill style provided Demetrius with everything he could want from battle. It was quick and dangerous and undeniably effective.

At least it typically was... Today - as the younger Wyverneye darted forward, putting all of his not-inconsiderable strength behind the sword stroke - was not a typical day. He had been burned horribly by the mutant's unlikely acid attack and the pain was sufficient to throw off his own attack. The greatsword split the air beside Constable Taunen-baum, missing its target by over a foot.

Lela had been burned as well, but she was small enough and quick enough that she avoided most of the acid's damage. Still, she had seen what it had done, both to Huzair and, even worse, to the innocent bystanders. There was nothing she could do for the commoners, but she could fan the tiny spark of life that still smoldered in the wizard.

"Everybody back up!" the sprite shouted at the top of her tiny lungs. "Give me some room to cast Entangle!" Then she dropped to the ground beside Huzair and channelled a little healing magic into the fallen mage.

His eyelids fluttered, but he didn't rise.



Nearby, Shamalin picked her way through the crowd in a determined, but unhurried pace. As a member of the Speckled Band she had faced much evil, and this was no different; it was base and horrible. So, why, she wondered, didn't this disturb her more? She felt an odd detachment from the scene, as if none of it was real, but rather some elaborate play put on for her... her what? Pleasure? No she felt none at the sight of such carnage. But neither did she feel fear or loathing as she ought. Was this a gift from Flor - strength gained from surviving the trials she'd been through? Or was it just less concern for life all around?

She stepped through the oily sludge that had been a local man and looked down at Huzair. She could save him, she knew, and the voice of every teacher she'd ever had in the temple told her that it was her duty to do so. But another voice worried her as well, a voice that sounded suspiciously like her own. It cut through the cacophony in her head with a simple question: Would it matter if he died?

"Let me," the cleric said to Lela. Shamalin pushed aside her dark thoughts and reached out to the divine. Energy flowed through her and into Huzair, Curing his Serious Wounds. Lela watched with envy as Shamalin's magic did what the sprite's could not; the wizard's burned flesh sloughed off, revealing healthy ebon skin beneath.



Feln tapped his hidden reserves as he'd been taught at the monastery, pushing his strength and agility beyond their normal limits through force of will. His fist struck the chaos spawn twice to devastating effect each time. And with Morier on the Constable's flank forcing the mutant to split its attention, he was able to target some particularly vulnerable parts of Taunen-baum's anatomy. The thing that had once been a man cried out in pain as the half-ogre's fists worked him over.

Seizing the opportunity to Strike True, Morier slashed with Ravager. The eldritch warrior had practiced with Ledare's former blade since it was decided that he would be the weapon's new wielder, but he so far hadn't used it with his Elemental Blade ability. And he hadn't tested his Thunderstrike power in combat at all. As the blade slid hungrily into the chaos spawn's flesh, Morier channelled both of his second valance spells through the weapon and into Constable Taunen-baum.

The market was filled with the deafening crack of thunder and the stench of ozone as the eldritch warrior released the raw elemental power of the storm into the mutant. Electricity danced across Taunen-baum's body and sonic energy hammered at him. Torrents of foul-smelling blood streamed from the chaos spawn's ears and nose as it swayed in place, reeling from the gruesome beating it had just received. Its tentacle relaxed, dropping Goodwife Nedhne's limp body to the ground and Karak raised his longsword to finish the thing.

Huzair's Scorching Ray did the honors, however, burning a hole clear through the mutant's chest before Karak could lower his blade. The thing toppled and fell wetly to the ground.

"It's dead!" Lela cheered. "Good thing too. I don't really feel that good." And saying thus, she dropped to her knees and began to vomit uncontrollably.

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #331] The Hand of Aphyx

"Oi," Karak said despondently. "That's that, I guess." Feln and Morier had dispatched the chaos spawn so quickly that the dwarf hadn't had a chance to land a single telling blow.

"Gods..," Armsman Culun gasped, his expression awe-filled. He held his longspear loosely in one hand. "That was amazing!"

"Get these people back!" Demetrius Wyverneye ordered staggering toward the Armsman. Wyverneye was barely standing, but still possessed a commanding presence that the young Culun could little resist. "And send a runner to the temple! We need healing!"

"Aye, sir," Culun said, quickly electing a young boy to head off to the temple. He then began working the crowd.

Demetrius turned, catching Karak's eye. He apologetically added, "I hope that wasn't overstepping my place, sir dwarf." Karak harrumphed, waving off the apology.

"Ye did nae but what I was preparing to do myself," the dwarf said. Pointing to the fallen Goodwife, he said, "Help me with the girl. Then let's check out the carriage."



Shamalin meanwhile looked down at Lela hunched over on the ground nearby; the sprite looked like nothing so much as a queerly animate doll. The cleric hadn't seen much of the tiny creature since returning to Floxen as Lela had spent the fast majority of her time in the wilderness surrounding the town. But Shamalin did remember kindly the faen's words of comfort upon finding her chained and broken within Blackheart's lair. And so it was with a gentle touch that Shamalin called upon Flor's granted miracle to Remove Disease, hoping to quickly rid Lela of the sickness which had taken hold of her.

There was little gentle about Huzair at the best of times, and today wasn't anywhere near the best of times. The mage had found himself unexpectedly at death's door, and while Shamalin's healing magic had pulled him away from any immediate danger, the experience had left him... irritable.

And he directed that ire at Morier.

"Look at all these people!" he chided, stepping up to the albino. "I even feel bad for Tannen Baum!" Morier just sighed.

"I know what you're thinking, Huzair. Indeed that carriage and the rot it carried did come from Relfren, but we couldn't have stopped it had we stayed there a fortnight," the eldritch warrior said. He gestured with Ravager at the misshapen body beside him. "We spoke to the Constable, here, and he made us well aware of his intentions that the festival go ahead no matter what. I wonder if he had second thoughts about it before the madness took hold?"

"Look at me, Morier!" Huzair snapped, caring little for the elf's calm demeanor. The lanky mage stood a foot and more taller than Morier and he glowered down at him as he shouted. His long black finger stabbed at the eldritch warrior's chest. "Kael's Loom! You think I was ostracized before now?! Gods! I don't even want to look in a ferking mirror!"

"I didn't do this to you," Morier replied, not giving any ground. He was smaller in stature, but a good deal stronger none the less.

"Didn't you? Whose idea was it to walk away from Relfren?" the mage continued. "We need to save what we can when we can, not walk away until an even bigger mess finds us later on!"

"We warned them, Huzair. But we must remember, there are few who have travelled the land as thoroughly as we have, and even fewer who have seen all that we've seen. We can't blame them for not knowing the power of this evil," Morier said, wiping Ravager clean before sheathing it over his shoulder. "That's why we need to push on... to kill it at its root. We've seen that we'll never be able to convince everyone how truly black this thing is until they experience it for themselves... and by then it will be too late. Let's press on while we still know which way we're being pulled. We'll rest today and move out before first light in the morning."

"You have no clue where your head is pulling you," the mage hissed, but much of the venom had been drained from his words by Morier's argument.

Pausing to sense the pull in his head, he repeated the words aloud that had been burned into his memory by the Water Guardian in the Grove, as though trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle: "...The Keepers, Dridana's most powerful servants, were able to craft four keys that would breach Lady Rot's defenses. These keys we hid away in a pocket not unlike the Grove itself, apart from the Green but linked to it. Each key grants its wielder great power over one of the four elements. And each key must be brought to bear to free Dridana's heart..."

He blinked and turned to look at Huzair. "We need the keys first, and I can lead us there. So you see I have some idea where I'm being pulled," the elf told the mage. Then he looked at the others and added, "We must each vow before we leave here tomorrow that that is our goal, and understand that we cannot continue to be pulled off course by the trivialities of fighting evil for people who won't do it for themselves. We could spend a thousand lifetimes on that course and be no further ahead than we are now."

Huzair looked at the eldritch warrior for a long moment, before turning, deflated. "Second mistake I have made! " Huzair muttered angrily. "Garan Zak said: always stay at maximum range in combat... Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" He kicked Constable Tannen Baum's corpse in the head and it burst like a rotten melon, sending dark, blood-tinged puss splattering away from the mage's boot. The thick globs of diseased slime fell on Feln, eliciting a roar of disgust from the half-ogre.

"I hate the filth of Aphyx!!" Feln bellowed, looking in horror at the tainted scum that clung to him. "Someone needs to help me clean this... mung... off!" He looked at the nearby well and at the stream, immobilized by indecision about which would be the best choice to wash off.

"Oops!" Huzair said simply. "Damned chaos scum caused me to lose my temper. Sorry about that."

"Don't just stand there!" the half-ogre replied heading toward the stream. "Help me wash this mess off before I catch something!"

"Stay out of the water supply!" Morier sternly cautioned the martial artist.

"Yeah! What a good way to spread the filth to the town's drinking water," Huzair sneered condescendingly. "Great idea, Feln."

"Well, we need to do something!" the martial artist cried, his voice a full octave higher than normal. Huzair laughed, producing a cigar from his pocket.

"I can take care of burning the remains," the wizard told him, lighting his smoke. "That's the best way to be rid of it. And we've got a priestess of Flor in the group to take care of you. Get a grip."



"What's wrong," Lela asked, shuddering. Shamalin had been quietly humming a tune that Lela vaguely recognized; it was a song about kindnesses and nature that enhanced the sprite's feelings of well-being. But the tune had abruptly died in the cleric's mouth. There was a growing look of fear in Shamalin's eyes that the faen - even sick as she was - couldn't miss. The cleric twisted her lips into a false, rubbery smile as she spoke.

"Nothing's wrong," she lied. "You'll be fine."

The truth of it was that Shamalin had cast Remove Disease on the sprite expecting her to make a swift and complete recovery. She didn't, however, which was troubling. There were certain diseases so virulent, she knew, that they required application of other curative magicks in conjunction with Remove Disease before relinquishing their hold on their victim. She racked her brain but could think of only one: Mummy Rot. The Constable clearly hadn't been a mummy, and anyway Shamalin wouldn't be able to cast Remove Curse before extensive prayer and meditation.

The cold rush of doubt was quick to flood Shamalin's soul once more. Was she completely unable to work curative magicks any more? Had Flor turned her healing gaze away from her at last? Had the things she'd said and done at Blackheart's request caught up to her finally?

She closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. When she opened her eyes again, the self-doubt had abated enough for her to try another spell. She channelled the power of a Lesser Restoration into the faen and saw some of the color return to her tiny, ashen cheeks.

Shamalin smiled. She had only treated the symptoms, not the disease, but it was good to be able to do even that much. It reaffirmed her connection to the divine. "We need to get you back to the temple," she said at last.

"Thank you so much for your healing," Lela replied, smiling wanly. "I am so glad you will be traveling with us." The faen's confidence seemed misplaced to Shamalin and the genuine affection in the words stung her.

"Shhh," she sighed. "Rest and be well."



"There's nothing we can do for her," Melonna admitted, wringing her hands as she spoke. "This is The Hand of Aphyx we're dealing with here; not Cackle Fever or some such. This is a disease crafted by the Rot Queen herself and no mere spell can put the faen right now."

"What?" Karak growled, hefting his frost-rimed waraxe - freshly-enchanted in Balazaar's workshop. Melonna raised a reassuring hand.

"There is hope, good dwarf," she went on. "There is another temple of Flor to the south in a city called Rhadcliffe. Therein is a shrine famous throughout Pellham; the ill travel there from leagues away to be healed. Shamalin knows the area. She spent some time there with the Speckled Band."

The half-elf nodded. She and the others had done battle with bizarre creatures that seemed conceived in some madman's nightmare. They had dubbed the things gestalt monsters because they each seemed to be the fusion of one or more familiar creatures into a single, disturbing whole. She remembered well a battle with a giant whose head had been replace with the body of a belohder; that encounter had almost cost Amaury his life.

"It is some distance away," Shamalin said after a moment and Melonna nodded.

"True, and Lela will certainly need continued attention during the journey," the high priestess confirmed. "You can use spells of Resistance to help the sprite prevent further deterioration and Restorations to offset the damage that has already been done.

"I thought you guys were supposed to be a temple of healing," Huzair scoffed. "Why can't you just work some magic to fix her?" Melonna sighed.

"I wish it were that easy, but this is a disease without counter, the ultimate fruition of the Rot Queen's dark art," she said. "We are fortunate indeed that the rest of you did not succumb to the illness as Lela has. If that chaos spawn had rampaged wantonly through Floxen, the situation would be far, far worse. I thank Flor that you were here to deal with the situation."

"As it is, the situation to the northeast might be every bit as grave as I fear," she added. "I'm dispatching a team of clerics in the morning to follow the coach's trail and alleviate what misery they can along the way. We must find the point of infection and cleanse it; if a disease such as this were to spread..." She left the thought unfinished as a shudder of fear travelled through her.

 

[Hairy Minotaur]

"Oops!" Huzair said simply. "Damned chaos scum caused me to lose my temper. Sorry about that."

heh, heh. Suuurrrrreeee totally the reason.

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #332] On the Road Again

It took little convincing for the group to decide that reaching the shrine in Rhadcliffe was in everyone's best interest. Not even Morier argued against the detour, which was a small miracle in and of itself. When he and Karak agreed on a course of action, Feln fully expected fish to fall from the sky or some other end-of-the-world events.

"Lookie here, Morier. The poor, wee lass is ill, and the cure may lay in Rhadcliffe. I say we off to Rhadcliffe. We need to restock supplies of healing draughts too and charges for this 'ere wand," the dwarf explained, patting at the two healing sticks he had stuffed in his belt. "I know we have Shamalin now and, believe me, I know the power of a full fledged cleric, but she can nae do it all. Plus if'n I do remember proper, there be an apprentice or two that was heading to Rhadcliffe, mayhaps we will find out about that old note we found back in Hillville Junction."

"I agree that we need to get Lela cured," said Morier with a nod. "Rhadcliffe is where we need to go, and fast."

"Now do nae get me wrong, I can see the merit in chasing down those keys with a singular purpose. But I think there be more to it than that. I mean look at the harm we could have stopped if'n we had stayed in Relfren to figure out the goings on with the Constable," Karak continued. "I agree that the way to kill a Medusa is to lop off her head. The problem bein' the snakes will keep bitin' you on the way in." The eldritch warrior sighed.

"Karak, we could chase the evil out of every village and every town and every city from now to eternity, and never even leave so much as a mark for anyone to notice what we've done," Morier explained for what seemed like the millionth time. "A hundred of us couldn't stop every plague and every disease and every sickness brought on by the rot queen, a thousand couldn't... ten thousand couldn't. But maybe, just maybe, this small group of us can find a way to bring down the cause of the whole thing. But if we stand any chance at all, it will be because we hold the four keys the guardians spoke of." Karak harrumphed.

"Aye. We be only one group and we can nae be in all places at once, but that be why we be settin' up the Manor house, no?" the dwarf argued, gesturing at Demetrius. "Then we can add to our number; we can add to the Order."

Huzair threw up his hands in disgust, tired of watching the circular argument unfold yet again. "I'm going to the Lantern for a drink," he grumbled as he stalked off toward the front doors. "Try to have this debate finished by morning, would you!"

Shamalin took the opportunity to duck away as well, saying, "I have some things that I must attend to before we leave as well. I will meet you at dawn." Then she bowed politely to Melonna and disappeared deeper into the temple.

"I too should take my leave," Demetrius said. "I must return to Miller's Pond in the morning. Those I left to supervise the clean-up are capable, but it won't do to be absent from my post for too long. The recruits will get restless."

"We'll check back with you when we return to the area, Demetrius," Morier said, placing a reassuring hand on the human's shoulder. "With any luck we'll have more spoils to add to the manor's war chest." Wyverneye smiled, wryly.

"That would be good," he said. "We've several capable hunters in the group and more than a few farmers who have been able to glean some grain and vegetables from the abandoned farms around the village, so food will not be an issue. But there are other necessities that we'll need gold to buy."

"We'll do our best, Demetrius," Morier said. "You just hold the place together until we return. I have every confidence in your ability."

"Aye, lad, you held your own against that Chaos Spawn and did nae fall prey to the fear 'o it. I can see we made a good choice in you to set up the manor house," Karak said, thumping Demetrius on the back hard enough to make the man stumble. "Why do you nae take that lad, Culun, as one o' your charges? He seemed rightly impressed with what we be about."

"Perhaps, sir dwarf," Demetrius said as they headed for the front of the temple. "I don't wish to deplete Floxen's guard force and we've already got at least two men at the manor with former armsman experience. And it's my personal experience that watchman training isn't all that helpful in learning my father's fighting style." Karak harrumphed again.

"I still think the best way to fight is to have your feet planted with a goodly-made dwarven waraxe, hefty dwarven muscle, and the mind of a goradz to take down an enemy," the dwarf went on, his earlier argument with Morier entirely forgotten. "But I can see the merit in the sword method, too. Aye, I can." His voice trailed off as the double doors closed behind them, sealing out the autumn chill.

Feln sat awkwardly beside Lela's bed, watching the sprite's tiny form with a concerned eye long after the rest of the temple had gone to bed.

Godsday, the 7th of Harvester, 1269 AE​

Shamalin woke well before dawn and, resigned, she donned her new armor - Blackheart's armor. She strapped in on piece-by-piece, slowly and methodically, willing it to become more hers and less of whose it once was. It was different than what she was used to... covering her more fully, and twice as heavy. She could barely move inside the armored shell, but she had to admit that, once on, it felt right. And the thought of that sent a shudder through her. She ran her fingers lightly over the symbols of Flor she'd had hastily etched into the shoulder plates and whispered a prayer for guidance.

Next she reached for the sword. If she was to hold her own in this new party, she was going to need to develop her skills with a blade. She hadapproached the VQS, seeking an instructor. They seemed wary at first. Perhaps it had been because of the Janissary, she did not know. But in the endthe albino had agreed to teach her. She thought maybethe timing of Demetrius' arrival and his story of his father's death had played into the decision somehow. Whatever his reasons, Morier was willing andshe had set her mind to it.

She slid herpalm around the hilt of the longswordrecommended by Crofton Mallareupon her last market trip. As with her new armor, Shamalin had requested some manner of personalization. There had been a large jewel set into the hilt. It had easily paid for the smith's work and was now replaced with a smooth silver tear drop. She had done much soul searching before deciding upon Flor's mark on the sword. The goddess of mercy's symbol on her weapon seemed almost blasphemous, butit filled a need within her. It did not change her calling. It did not lessen her capacity for mercy - such as it was these days. The White Lady had not struck her down upon her first grasp of the newly constructed sword. She took that as permission to bear the symbol.

The sword had arrived the previous day, before her ill-fated trip to the market, and her temple sisters whispered upon seeing it. But that only fueled her decision. And so with renewed purpose she packed her belongings and took her place amongst the VQS - The Order, they were now calling themselves. It was time for new beginnings.



As they moved south toward Rhadcliffe, Shamalin did what she could to recall details of her experience in that area which might aid them in their quest to find Lela a cure. At first she had expected the memories to be tinged with sadness, but as it turned out she felt a certain fondness for her time spent there. It had been difficult, of course; the gestalt monsters had been frightening to behold, and infinitely worse to fight. But her former party had all been alive - something so simple and yet so significant. And - she blushed to recall it, glancing around furtively when her mind wandered thusly - there had been other memories as well. She made a vow to herself never to take such things for granted again.

She calculated it would take them nine days on foot. They had considered buying mounts in Floxen to speed their travels. But Feln's size was an issue, and in the end they had settled on a brisk footpace instead. Something that she quickly regretted once she realized how much of a burden her new armor placed upon her. She found she could move no faster than Karak, which she supposed was just as well; they couldn't really move faster than that anyway without leaving the dwarf behind. Despite the heavy armor, it felt good to be moving again, and when Shamalin wasn't monitoring Lela's condition, she drank in the changing scenery with renewed appreciation for its beauty.

She also considered the best manner to approach the clerics within the temple of Flor in Rhadcliffe. If things were really as gruesome throughout the land as was evidenced in Floxen, Shamalin suspected that miracle healing would be at a premium.

Waterday, the 8th of Harvester, 1269 AE​

"Ooooff!" Again the broad side of Morier's wooden training sword hit her in the gut. With a graceful sweeping motion, he twisted and pushed at her with both arms. Shamalin lost her balance and then her footing, falling unceremoniously to the ground in a heap. She swore a litany of words that the eldritch warrior hadn't realized had been in the Florian's vocabulary as she struggled to her feet.

"Sorry," she apologized sheepishly. Morier wasn't sure if she was referring to her failed maneuver or her language. It didn't matter, he determined, and sighed deeply.

"Let's stop for today," he suggested, tossing the wooden sword which Feln had crafted for training purposes aside. For a moment Shamalin looked hurt, but she nodded acquiescence and stared down at her own sword.

"I'm really bad," she admitted.

Morier, who couldn't help but agree, searched for the right words to encourage her. His mind raced back to his own experiences with Arwold Wyverneye, and his heart grieved again for the loss of his former mentor. Wyverneye had been an outstanding teacher - demanding yet patient when necessary. Sometimes Morier regretted learning no more than the most basic maneuvers of the man's fighting style before concentrating instead on the path of the eldritch warrior.

"You'll improve," he said simply, lost in the memories of his years spent under the man's tutelage. Shamalin, sensing that his mind was elsewhere, picked up both swords. She could hear Karak's bellowing from the clearing where the company had camped for the night and knew that it meant he was eager to move on. Truthfully, she was thankful. Her whole body ached, and she didn't have much to show for it save one good parry which had really been more about luck than skill.

As she picked her way back to camp, her own thoughts began to wander - a luxury she did not allow herself often. Amaury would laugh hysterically if he could see her now. How many times had he encouraged her to learn to fight? And she had rebuffed his offers to teach her, just as she had turned away so many other things - at least in the beginning. Maybe if she had decided differently...and thus her thoughts ended as they always did. Guilt and shame washed over her, emotions that were almost comforting in their familiarity. Thankfully, the commotion from the clearing ripped her back to the present and she trudged back to camp, ready to strap on her heavy plate once more.

Earthday, the 9th of Harvester, 1269 AE​

The last village they'd passed through was several miles distant when the road they were traveling was intersected by another that ran perpendicular to the rising bluff of land that would become the Risilvar Escarpment further south. A weathered signpost standing off to the side indicated that the town of Rhadcliffe lay five leagues ahead. About 20 yards down that road however, was a split-rail fence running across the full width of the roadway, blocking it entirely.

To the side, and slightly in front of this roadblock stood several makeshift lean-to’s arranged around a large cook fire outfitted with an iron spit and cauldron. Behind the lean-to's stood a picket line of about a dozen horses and several low wagons covered with oiled tarpaulins. There were eight men relaxing around the bivouac, all wearing the same dark green tabard over their chain-mail armor. Long swords were clearly visible strapped at their sides, or hanging from nearby pegs on the lean-tos’ walls, accompanied by short bows and quivers full of arrows. One of the men move away from the others and approached the group in a purposeful manner, calling out: “Good-day, neighbors! Where might your business be taking you this day?”

"We're bound for Rhadcliffe," Morier called in reply and the man shook his head.

"That would be a bad idea, friend," the man answered. "There's a sickness that's broken out in that direction and the Duke's ordered us to close the border to try to contain it. Bad stuff. Lots of people are dead." He shook his head sadly.

"We're not allowed in?" Shamalin asked. "The temple of Flor lies in that direction."

"I can't stop you from going in if that's your intent, ma'am," the guardsman said, hooking his thumbs into his sword belt. "But I'll sure as hells keep you from coming out again. The Duke has-"

One of the men at the roadblock suddenly called out ,“Cap’n! We got breakers coming!”

Without another word, the man they'd been briefly conversing with - the captain of these men, obviously - turned and hurried back toward the roadblock. The other soldiers too were suddenly on alert, most of them grabbing bows and quivers from where they hung. About 50 yards down the road beyond the roadblock the group could see a man in peasant’s garb leading a small, gray donkey. Another person, a woman from her dress, was draped over the donkey’s back - either dead or unconscious. The captain called out loudly to the traveler: “You there, with the donkey! I order you to return to your home immediately under the authority of Duke Eram Diliham. If you do not obey I am ordered to prevent you from passing this roadblock by any means necessary up to, and including your death.”

The man either did not somehow hear the captain’s warning or chose to ignore it for he continued forward without slowing, so once again the captain called out to the approaching man, and as he did so the other soldiers began nocking their bows and taking aim. The man was now barely 20 yards away and it was clear that he was not well. His face was sallow, his eyes rheumy and sunken and his clothes hung on his emaciated body like castoffs on a scarecrow. After a third warning, which again went unheeded, the captain gave the signal to fire, and the soldiers let fly their arrows. All the arrows hit their mark and the man crumpled to the ground, his hand still wound around the donkey’s rope lead. The soldiers nocked their bows a second time and proceeded then to shoot the donkey who likewise fell dead in the road.

As the soldiers slowly lowered their bows and turned around, they all had a look of both dismay and resignation. They were obviously not happy with the events that had transpired, and from their manner it was plain that it was not the first time they had had to perform this sad duty.

 

[Jon Potter]

Yikes!!!

Pretty nasty prune here. Fortunately, I've got all my original files, so I can probably update the missing bits in pretty short order. And I'm sure happy to see EN World back up and running!

It's sad to lose what little reader feedback I had though.

 

[Hairy Minotaur]

Well, I'll still be here.

 

[Funeris]

I'm still here, too.

~Fune