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The Red Hand of Doom - Completed 8 February 2008: Against Tiamat and Epilogue
- Thread starter Pedestrian
- Start date
Pedestrian
Explorer
Session 5: New faces, the Battle of Drellin's Ferry
Xerxes pushed the door to the Apple, the humbler of Drellin’s Ferry’s two alehouses, aside. It was near empty, noted the northerner, only a few off-duty guards in attendance. There was another as well, a cloaked figure. His pulse quickened, images of Seraphim dancing across his mind, cruel swords cutting his flesh. Usurpers. He shook his head, banishing the thought. The stranger was no enforcer of the faith, just some broken traveller nursing his hurts alongside his mug. Xerxes was a student of mysteries, passing through this barbarous land in the guise of a magi. The native tribes of this area – Argyles they called themselves – believed the lie easily enough. The dark-skinned man nodded, and his accomplices filed into the shady inn, a burly half-orc and an athletic Salacian.
Sol, the Half-Orc, was massive, looking every inch the gladiator he had once been, bristling with weaponry. Born in the frozen Wazlad, Sol had been captured at a young age by a rival tribe, taken across the Glass Sea and sold to the goblinoids of Srax. He had fought his way to freedom, only to be cast out onto the burning sands. Xerxes had first found Sol – or rather been found by him – while exploring the ruins of Srax, ancient Gnomish cities left to decay by the Goblish conquerors. One secret of many Xerxes possessed. Sol had saved his life, and the two had been fast allies. Xerxes had even taught the Half-Orc to read, for which the warrior was eternally grateful, in his own way.
The other man, Kayan, was one of the other tribes of the southern continent. Salac styled itself the seat of a reborn Great Empire, bolstered by a reborn Orthodoxy. Betrayers. Xerxes always smiled at that thought. Perhaps someone should send a ship north, across the Gateway, to inform the Empire of this change. Kayan himself, a whip-thin man of corded muscle, was part of this new Orthodoxy. Eaters of filth! Xerxes had been surprised to learn of the man’s ordination upon meeting him. Kayan certainly looked like no priest the northerner had ever seen, resembling more the chancers and robbers of tombs he had worked with previously. Yet the man was a fellow of singular learning, and had called down the powers of the gods on more than one occasion.
The three of them had been hired in Dennovar, a sprawling trade city to the east, to investigate the halt of trade along the Dawn Way, brought on by increasing tales of hobgoblin banditry. As was always the case in Dennovar, they had been approached by a shady figure in an inn, ready with gold, but not with details of for whom they were working. City fathers or city crime lords, it mattered little.
“Take that table” Xerxes said to Sol over his shoulder, pointing over at the corner of the room, near the cloaked figure, but far enough away to respect his privacy. Pelor – Liar – knew, Xerxes could understand the need for it.
“And you get the drinks in” replied Sol with a crooked grin. Xerxes grunted affirmation, and moved up to speak with the barkeep, a short woman, a “Dwarf” of the south lands, who introduced herself as Tharrma. She seemed interested in small talk, but Xerxes didn’t have the head for it this day. He ordered three mugs of ale – good stuff, not the cheap swill he and Sol usually contented themselves with – as well as a pie. He was starving.
Xerxes pushed the door to the Apple, the humbler of Drellin’s Ferry’s two alehouses, aside. It was near empty, noted the northerner, only a few off-duty guards in attendance. There was another as well, a cloaked figure. His pulse quickened, images of Seraphim dancing across his mind, cruel swords cutting his flesh. Usurpers. He shook his head, banishing the thought. The stranger was no enforcer of the faith, just some broken traveller nursing his hurts alongside his mug. Xerxes was a student of mysteries, passing through this barbarous land in the guise of a magi. The native tribes of this area – Argyles they called themselves – believed the lie easily enough. The dark-skinned man nodded, and his accomplices filed into the shady inn, a burly half-orc and an athletic Salacian.
Sol, the Half-Orc, was massive, looking every inch the gladiator he had once been, bristling with weaponry. Born in the frozen Wazlad, Sol had been captured at a young age by a rival tribe, taken across the Glass Sea and sold to the goblinoids of Srax. He had fought his way to freedom, only to be cast out onto the burning sands. Xerxes had first found Sol – or rather been found by him – while exploring the ruins of Srax, ancient Gnomish cities left to decay by the Goblish conquerors. One secret of many Xerxes possessed. Sol had saved his life, and the two had been fast allies. Xerxes had even taught the Half-Orc to read, for which the warrior was eternally grateful, in his own way.
The other man, Kayan, was one of the other tribes of the southern continent. Salac styled itself the seat of a reborn Great Empire, bolstered by a reborn Orthodoxy. Betrayers. Xerxes always smiled at that thought. Perhaps someone should send a ship north, across the Gateway, to inform the Empire of this change. Kayan himself, a whip-thin man of corded muscle, was part of this new Orthodoxy. Eaters of filth! Xerxes had been surprised to learn of the man’s ordination upon meeting him. Kayan certainly looked like no priest the northerner had ever seen, resembling more the chancers and robbers of tombs he had worked with previously. Yet the man was a fellow of singular learning, and had called down the powers of the gods on more than one occasion.
The three of them had been hired in Dennovar, a sprawling trade city to the east, to investigate the halt of trade along the Dawn Way, brought on by increasing tales of hobgoblin banditry. As was always the case in Dennovar, they had been approached by a shady figure in an inn, ready with gold, but not with details of for whom they were working. City fathers or city crime lords, it mattered little.
“Take that table” Xerxes said to Sol over his shoulder, pointing over at the corner of the room, near the cloaked figure, but far enough away to respect his privacy. Pelor – Liar – knew, Xerxes could understand the need for it.
“And you get the drinks in” replied Sol with a crooked grin. Xerxes grunted affirmation, and moved up to speak with the barkeep, a short woman, a “Dwarf” of the south lands, who introduced herself as Tharrma. She seemed interested in small talk, but Xerxes didn’t have the head for it this day. He ordered three mugs of ale – good stuff, not the cheap swill he and Sol usually contented themselves with – as well as a pie. He was starving.
Pedestrian
Explorer
Marcus stared into his cup, as if a sage trying to divine the future. He had awoken only fully that morn, five days since… He’d had enough time to the recover strength to travel. He had decided to return to the Ferry, to warn them of the threat, and perhaps to gather willing swords to go north and put the creature that had slain his friends to the sword. The magi winced in pain, more of the heart than the flesh, as the memory of the beast’s scything teeth, wicked claws. Another sip banished it.
Marcus was oblivious to the comings and goings of the Inn, lost in his thoughts. The quiet whispers and soft scrape of chairs fell on deaf ears. Only when the seats around his own table were moved did he look up from under his hood. Speaker Wiston, Captain Anitah, Kellin the Halfling and a woman he vaguely recalled, Delora Zann, owner of the stables sat around him, eyes intent.
“Hello, Master Marcus,” said Wiston, his voice quiet, hesitant, looking at the mage with a look both fearful and insistent. “A runner was sent to my home telling me you had returned” the old man gulped deeply “Could you tell us what happened? Where are your allies? Is the… the threat ended?”
“No.” Marcus looked away from them, draining his mug. His heart clenched, tears pooling in his eyes, so he barked out a harsh chuckle to drown them. “No. It is worse than we suspected. And my friends… are dead.” He ran the fingers of one hand around the rim of his mug, revealing a jagged, half-healed gash running across it.
Speaker Wiston gasped. “Blessed Light, my apologies Master Marcus. You need a healer” he waved to Tharrma, who cast scowls at Kellin every now and again. “Good Tharrma, despatch one of your servants to the Temple, have them bring a priest from there.” He did not wait for her reply, returning his fearful eyes to the tale-teller.
“We pressed through the Witchwood, guided by tracker Jorr as you suggested Captain Soranna. We found a camp at Vraath Keep, routed them there, and pressed on to the Skull Gorge, investigating information we’d found the indicated we would find the mass of this Red Hand there.” Marcus looked into his cup, and Speaker Wiston called Tharrma over to refresh him. The sorcerer swallowed the drink in one gulp, then pressed on. “The leader from Vraath Keep had escaped and alerted the rest of the Hand, whose number included a-” Marcus closed his eyes, struggling to continue. His voice became clipped, and he motioned for more drink. “There was a dragon. It killed my friends. I was only saved when Jorr snuck back. I came here as soon as I could walk again.”
Marcus drank in silence, regarding the faces of the Ferrymen. Wiston looked shocked, horrified. The Captain and the blonde woman had expressions of grim resignation. Kellin seemed incredulous.
“Well… well I am… I am sorry for your loss.” Wiston finally spoke. “Perhaps, having routed them from the keep, you’ve routed th-“
“Did you not hear me!?” Marcus shot to his feet, flinging his chair backwards. The movement was too much, and he had to brace himself on the table. “They have a dragon. Yes, we slew hobgoblins, by the dozen, but the dragon is the real threat. So long as that remains, there can be no hope for peace!”
“Sounds to me like you ran into a rearguard.” Kayan had been listening intently to the conversation – better that the frankly off-putting sounds of Sol and Xerxes eating their pies – and was unable to restrain himself from speaking. This seemed to involve what they had been sent here for anyway.
“And who might you be, Sir?” Speaker Wiston enquired. Marcus reseated himself, graciously accepting the help of one of the tavern servants.
“That’s Kayan, who doesn’t know to keep his thoughts to himself” supplied Xerxes, with a grin that looked more like a grimace. “I’m Xerxes, and this is Sol” the half-Orc grunted over his pie “we’ve just been sent from Dennovar. Some of the people that way are concerned about the trade troubles hereabouts.”
Speaker Wiston considered this a moment, a flicker of terror crossing his face, before he indicated the three should move closer. “We would welcome any and all input from experienced champions such as yourselves.” Xerxes and the others obliged. “Tharrma, bring food and drink for us.” He turned back to the table. “So, a rearguard you say? That would indicate we face a far larger force.”
“Yes.” Supplied Kayan. He thought a moment. “Though if it is, it means the larger bulk of this Red Hand is heading north” he reached for his mug, but the look of relief on Wiston’s face paused his hand “but that would only be my guess.” He looked at the sorcerer. “Marcus? That was your name? Did you manage to discern anything of the motives of this Red Hand?”
Marcus looked at the stranger, Kayan, remembering the map covered in goblin scrawl they had recovered from Vraath Keep. He felt an odd reluctance to be parted from it. Not after so much blood had been shed for it. The Argyle pushed aside his hesitation, grabbed the scroll from his pack and all but flung it at the Salacian. Xerxes and Sol exchanged a glance, but Kayan was already lost in translation.
“Hmm. How man did you say you slew, Marcus? Goblins I mean.”
“Perhaps two dozens. But the real threat is-“
“That’s a… good effort. I commend you and your friends. But” he placed the map on the table, his finger over a patch of scratchy writing on western side of the vale “this says ‘All tribes assemble here’. I think we are dealing not with a rag-tag band of bandits, but an invasion.” Kayan traced his finger along a line running through the Vale. “Skull Gorge Bridge, where you fought the dragon? Ozzurandeon was to hold it until the Hand arrives. Hmm. Not a rear guard at all then. An advance force, to hold the area.” He nodded to himself. “The map says they intend to reach – and sack – Drellin’s Ferry on Day 5.”
Wiston’s face drained of all colour. Sweat began to bead his brow, and a strangled sob escaped his lips, drawing a look of concern from the three other Ferrymen at the table. “What… we must…”
“You need to fight” Sol’s hand was a fist, eyes bright with fury “It’s the only thing those orange scum understand. You have to show ‘em if they go for you, you’ll come back twice as hard.”
It seemed too much for Wiston, who nodded dumbly before pulling away from the table. “I must… I will gather a council, to discuss our options.”
“You don’t have no options!” But Sol’s call fell on deaf ears, as the speaker hurried from the Inn. Wordlessly, Captain Soranna, Kellin and Delora Zann. Xerxes and Kayan watched them leave, while Sol shook his head, a scowl edged into his pallid features.
“That doesn’t bode well for the defence of this place” muttered Xerxes as he pulled Speaker Wiston’s untouched plate over. “Marcus, would you show us the way to Skull Gorge? Maybe we can look around, try and slow them down. Kayan will ensure you are fit to travel.”
“I would relish the opportunity.” Beneath the table, Marcus’s hands clenched into fists.
Marcus was oblivious to the comings and goings of the Inn, lost in his thoughts. The quiet whispers and soft scrape of chairs fell on deaf ears. Only when the seats around his own table were moved did he look up from under his hood. Speaker Wiston, Captain Anitah, Kellin the Halfling and a woman he vaguely recalled, Delora Zann, owner of the stables sat around him, eyes intent.
“Hello, Master Marcus,” said Wiston, his voice quiet, hesitant, looking at the mage with a look both fearful and insistent. “A runner was sent to my home telling me you had returned” the old man gulped deeply “Could you tell us what happened? Where are your allies? Is the… the threat ended?”
“No.” Marcus looked away from them, draining his mug. His heart clenched, tears pooling in his eyes, so he barked out a harsh chuckle to drown them. “No. It is worse than we suspected. And my friends… are dead.” He ran the fingers of one hand around the rim of his mug, revealing a jagged, half-healed gash running across it.
Speaker Wiston gasped. “Blessed Light, my apologies Master Marcus. You need a healer” he waved to Tharrma, who cast scowls at Kellin every now and again. “Good Tharrma, despatch one of your servants to the Temple, have them bring a priest from there.” He did not wait for her reply, returning his fearful eyes to the tale-teller.
“We pressed through the Witchwood, guided by tracker Jorr as you suggested Captain Soranna. We found a camp at Vraath Keep, routed them there, and pressed on to the Skull Gorge, investigating information we’d found the indicated we would find the mass of this Red Hand there.” Marcus looked into his cup, and Speaker Wiston called Tharrma over to refresh him. The sorcerer swallowed the drink in one gulp, then pressed on. “The leader from Vraath Keep had escaped and alerted the rest of the Hand, whose number included a-” Marcus closed his eyes, struggling to continue. His voice became clipped, and he motioned for more drink. “There was a dragon. It killed my friends. I was only saved when Jorr snuck back. I came here as soon as I could walk again.”
Marcus drank in silence, regarding the faces of the Ferrymen. Wiston looked shocked, horrified. The Captain and the blonde woman had expressions of grim resignation. Kellin seemed incredulous.
“Well… well I am… I am sorry for your loss.” Wiston finally spoke. “Perhaps, having routed them from the keep, you’ve routed th-“
“Did you not hear me!?” Marcus shot to his feet, flinging his chair backwards. The movement was too much, and he had to brace himself on the table. “They have a dragon. Yes, we slew hobgoblins, by the dozen, but the dragon is the real threat. So long as that remains, there can be no hope for peace!”
“Sounds to me like you ran into a rearguard.” Kayan had been listening intently to the conversation – better that the frankly off-putting sounds of Sol and Xerxes eating their pies – and was unable to restrain himself from speaking. This seemed to involve what they had been sent here for anyway.
“And who might you be, Sir?” Speaker Wiston enquired. Marcus reseated himself, graciously accepting the help of one of the tavern servants.
“That’s Kayan, who doesn’t know to keep his thoughts to himself” supplied Xerxes, with a grin that looked more like a grimace. “I’m Xerxes, and this is Sol” the half-Orc grunted over his pie “we’ve just been sent from Dennovar. Some of the people that way are concerned about the trade troubles hereabouts.”
Speaker Wiston considered this a moment, a flicker of terror crossing his face, before he indicated the three should move closer. “We would welcome any and all input from experienced champions such as yourselves.” Xerxes and the others obliged. “Tharrma, bring food and drink for us.” He turned back to the table. “So, a rearguard you say? That would indicate we face a far larger force.”
“Yes.” Supplied Kayan. He thought a moment. “Though if it is, it means the larger bulk of this Red Hand is heading north” he reached for his mug, but the look of relief on Wiston’s face paused his hand “but that would only be my guess.” He looked at the sorcerer. “Marcus? That was your name? Did you manage to discern anything of the motives of this Red Hand?”
Marcus looked at the stranger, Kayan, remembering the map covered in goblin scrawl they had recovered from Vraath Keep. He felt an odd reluctance to be parted from it. Not after so much blood had been shed for it. The Argyle pushed aside his hesitation, grabbed the scroll from his pack and all but flung it at the Salacian. Xerxes and Sol exchanged a glance, but Kayan was already lost in translation.
“Hmm. How man did you say you slew, Marcus? Goblins I mean.”
“Perhaps two dozens. But the real threat is-“
“That’s a… good effort. I commend you and your friends. But” he placed the map on the table, his finger over a patch of scratchy writing on western side of the vale “this says ‘All tribes assemble here’. I think we are dealing not with a rag-tag band of bandits, but an invasion.” Kayan traced his finger along a line running through the Vale. “Skull Gorge Bridge, where you fought the dragon? Ozzurandeon was to hold it until the Hand arrives. Hmm. Not a rear guard at all then. An advance force, to hold the area.” He nodded to himself. “The map says they intend to reach – and sack – Drellin’s Ferry on Day 5.”
Wiston’s face drained of all colour. Sweat began to bead his brow, and a strangled sob escaped his lips, drawing a look of concern from the three other Ferrymen at the table. “What… we must…”
“You need to fight” Sol’s hand was a fist, eyes bright with fury “It’s the only thing those orange scum understand. You have to show ‘em if they go for you, you’ll come back twice as hard.”
It seemed too much for Wiston, who nodded dumbly before pulling away from the table. “I must… I will gather a council, to discuss our options.”
“You don’t have no options!” But Sol’s call fell on deaf ears, as the speaker hurried from the Inn. Wordlessly, Captain Soranna, Kellin and Delora Zann. Xerxes and Kayan watched them leave, while Sol shook his head, a scowl edged into his pallid features.
“That doesn’t bode well for the defence of this place” muttered Xerxes as he pulled Speaker Wiston’s untouched plate over. “Marcus, would you show us the way to Skull Gorge? Maybe we can look around, try and slow them down. Kayan will ensure you are fit to travel.”
“I would relish the opportunity.” Beneath the table, Marcus’s hands clenched into fists.
Pedestrian
Explorer
Having set off at mid-day, the four of them had managed to reach the Witchwood by nightfall. The forest was still and silent, the quiet broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl. A faint rumble in the distance seemed to herald a storm.
Sol lead the way, his great axe rested on his shoulder casually. Marcus consulted with Xerxes and Kayan, describing in detail the dragon at Skull Gorge. Xerxes was flicking through a thick, leatherbound tome that glowed with an ethereal quality, making his features seem washed out.
“You are certain it was a green?” Kayan asked. Orthodox trained, he would not readily trust the knowledge of a haphazardly educated hedge magi.
“Yes. It bore a dramatic crest, crocodilian features, spat clouds of acid and, oh wait, it was green!” Replied Marcus with a scowl.
“Hey, what’s that?” Sol point ahead at something his orc eyes could make out. Xerxes hurried to stand beside him, his eyes momentarily flickering with a dull flame.
“Someone… something approaches.” Xerxes nodded to the half-Orc, who readied his axe. Xerxes raised his hands, and his gloves began to crackle and spark with electricity. “Kalibosh am Lboo!” A blot of electricity exploded just to the left of the creature, who shielded his face from the sudden light, and eliciting barks from the two hounds at his side.
“Hold! Don’t attack” cried Marcus, hurrying forward. “Jorr, what brings you out of your retreat?”
The old man glared at Xerxes with his good eye, hunched over and sucking in breath. “Trying to stay ahead of that damned Red Hand” he paused, wiping a hand across his face. Marcus noticed the jagged cut, shallow but bloody, on his face. “After you got back to the Ferry, I thought I would look around the Bridge, see what I could find” a pained expression crossed his face “I’m sorry Marcus… They’ve strung up Tarnus and Tom. I thought to try and cut them down but, well, I was lucky to escape with my life, and this” he reached around behind him, pulling out a white ashwood staff, passing it to Marcus “I remembered that you found it in the keep.” Shadows passed over the old man’s face. “They’ve reached Vraath. I’ve just managed to stay ahead of them. You’ve warned the locals, yes?”
“Aye, he did. Fat lot of good it did too.” Sol sneered. “The old man that run’s the place’ll probably be wandering around even now.” The warrior snorted. “Probably keep on going in circles when the goblins take his head. Like a chicken.”
“Sol has the right of it,” supplied Xerxes “Wiston said something about needing to assemble a council, to ‘discuss options’.”
“C’mon then. Maybe I can prod them along. There’s no use staying here. The Witchwood’ll be red before day break.”
Sol lead the way, his great axe rested on his shoulder casually. Marcus consulted with Xerxes and Kayan, describing in detail the dragon at Skull Gorge. Xerxes was flicking through a thick, leatherbound tome that glowed with an ethereal quality, making his features seem washed out.
“You are certain it was a green?” Kayan asked. Orthodox trained, he would not readily trust the knowledge of a haphazardly educated hedge magi.
“Yes. It bore a dramatic crest, crocodilian features, spat clouds of acid and, oh wait, it was green!” Replied Marcus with a scowl.
“Hey, what’s that?” Sol point ahead at something his orc eyes could make out. Xerxes hurried to stand beside him, his eyes momentarily flickering with a dull flame.
“Someone… something approaches.” Xerxes nodded to the half-Orc, who readied his axe. Xerxes raised his hands, and his gloves began to crackle and spark with electricity. “Kalibosh am Lboo!” A blot of electricity exploded just to the left of the creature, who shielded his face from the sudden light, and eliciting barks from the two hounds at his side.
“Hold! Don’t attack” cried Marcus, hurrying forward. “Jorr, what brings you out of your retreat?”
The old man glared at Xerxes with his good eye, hunched over and sucking in breath. “Trying to stay ahead of that damned Red Hand” he paused, wiping a hand across his face. Marcus noticed the jagged cut, shallow but bloody, on his face. “After you got back to the Ferry, I thought I would look around the Bridge, see what I could find” a pained expression crossed his face “I’m sorry Marcus… They’ve strung up Tarnus and Tom. I thought to try and cut them down but, well, I was lucky to escape with my life, and this” he reached around behind him, pulling out a white ashwood staff, passing it to Marcus “I remembered that you found it in the keep.” Shadows passed over the old man’s face. “They’ve reached Vraath. I’ve just managed to stay ahead of them. You’ve warned the locals, yes?”
“Aye, he did. Fat lot of good it did too.” Sol sneered. “The old man that run’s the place’ll probably be wandering around even now.” The warrior snorted. “Probably keep on going in circles when the goblins take his head. Like a chicken.”
“Sol has the right of it,” supplied Xerxes “Wiston said something about needing to assemble a council, to ‘discuss options’.”
“C’mon then. Maybe I can prod them along. There’s no use staying here. The Witchwood’ll be red before day break.”
Pedestrian
Explorer
Marcus looked out across the Elsir at the massed numbers of the Red Hand. They were numberless, baying wolf-riders from the Wazlad Steppe, hulking giantkin out of the Iron Peaks, and row upon row of disciplined Hobgoblin Clansmen from Srax. Crowding the sky were chimera and wyverns, and above them a massive red dragon. He smiled at the chimera, remembering the thrashing they had given an advance scout to the Ferry. The strangers from Dennovar had shown their mettle then.
The council had taken place the morning they had returned from the wood. Jorr had managed to gather together the wise and, after some initial hick-ups, the voices of reason had been heard, and the four of them had been put in charge of arranging defences. Those too old or infirm to fight had been sent on ahead. The town guards, along with his new companions and he, had opted to remain behind and try and slow down the Red Hand. Jorr, that old fool, had run off in the Witchwood some time the previous night. Marcus doubted him a coward, but suspected guilt over the death of his friends weighed heavy on the old man’s heart.
He was not the only one to feel such. Staring across the teeming numbers, Marcus thought someone else might have thought them a fool to contemplate remaining behind. Feeling the thrum of magic through his blood, he smiled grimly, spooking the three guards who had been chosen to guard him. He cared not if he were a fool. He relished the chance for revenge.
The horde had come well prepared, with hewn logs to craft rafts from. No doubt, they were surprised to see the Ferry still bobbing on the river currents. His smile cracked into a manic grin as the hobgoblins began to board the ferry. Curls of flame flickered about his fingers as he reached forward…
The council had taken place the morning they had returned from the wood. Jorr had managed to gather together the wise and, after some initial hick-ups, the voices of reason had been heard, and the four of them had been put in charge of arranging defences. Those too old or infirm to fight had been sent on ahead. The town guards, along with his new companions and he, had opted to remain behind and try and slow down the Red Hand. Jorr, that old fool, had run off in the Witchwood some time the previous night. Marcus doubted him a coward, but suspected guilt over the death of his friends weighed heavy on the old man’s heart.
He was not the only one to feel such. Staring across the teeming numbers, Marcus thought someone else might have thought them a fool to contemplate remaining behind. Feeling the thrum of magic through his blood, he smiled grimly, spooking the three guards who had been chosen to guard him. He cared not if he were a fool. He relished the chance for revenge.
The horde had come well prepared, with hewn logs to craft rafts from. No doubt, they were surprised to see the Ferry still bobbing on the river currents. His smile cracked into a manic grin as the hobgoblins began to board the ferry. Curls of flame flickered about his fingers as he reached forward…
Pedestrian
Explorer
Itching from the countless phantom arrow wounds that punctured his heavy plate mail, Xerxes watched as a bolt of flame blossomed over the Elsir. Pained screams and the stench of cooked flesh wafted over the waters, filtering through his spirit-forged helm. Marcus had set the fireball rolling.
Xerxes spared a glass to the positions the guards had taken up on the roof tops, bows in hand. He grunted to Sol and Kayan who stood with him in the centre of the main road, before returning his gaze to the horde over the river. He saw that the entire army had drawn back from the Elsir seemed a shame, greater numbers, greater glory and all that. Then, from the mass, the grim looking beasts, chimeras, soared out over the river, blade bearing hobgoblins sat astride their backs. Two of the creatures, one the white of bleached bone, the other the tawny colours of a desert cat, sped towards Marcus’s position. A larger, fierce orange-red chimera, banked to it’s right, drawn by arrow fire from Captain Sorrana and her men, exhaling a cloud of roiling flame over them. The hobgoblin eagerly sprung from the creature’s back, disembowelling one of the guardsmen, his bow falling from numbed hands.
The next few moments were, to say the least, chaotic. Sol immediately dashed off through crooked back-streets in an attempt to assist Marcus, while Kayan invoked the blessings of the gods, bathing himself, Xerxes and a fair portion of the guards in heavenly light. Bolstered by this, and hoping to draw the Chimera away from Captain and her archers and what a glorious scene it would make he shouted some random syllables and flung crackling lightning from his hands, but it sailed wide of the
“Aim for spaces where the heads join the body!” cried Kayan “their hide is softer there.” Xerxes nodded as he flung more bolts of energy at the creature, to no avail, and the creatures ravenous heads tore and bit at the men on the roof. With all but one of her men dead, Captain Soranna quaffed a potion, grabbed the remaining warrior and flew deeper into Drellin’s Ferry, to where another squad of guards had set up a position. The Red Chimera, forgetting it’s hobgoblin ally, pursued.
A cry echoed out from across the rooftops, and Xerxes turned in time to see Sol beaten down by the twin assault of the White and Blue Chimeras, the two of which were themselves bleeding from terrible wounds inflicted by the half-Orc. Weighing his options, the northerner ran as fast as he could, Kayan beside him.
Kayan muttered something, and one of the hobgoblins on the roof froze as it was about to deliver a killing stroke to Sol. Xerxes concentrated a second, reaching out with his mind to Sol’s unconscious form. There was a moment, a wrenching as his mind touched the half-Orcs, and then he had time to see Marcus bolt down the stairway, pursued by the other hobgoblin, before the Chimeras closed in on him and here was the chance for glory!
Xerxes forced himself to move carefully, not wanting to plunge through the roof due to his heavy armour, gripping his spear in both hands. He recalled Kayan’s advice, and thrust at the gap between the goat and lion’s heads of the Blue Chimera. He heard a clattering sound from the stairway, and prayed to the Good Son that Marcus was well. More distant, Sol’s familiar warcry brought a smile to his lips. He tried another jab, this time at the White Chimera, but was thrown off balance by a paw lashing out from the Blue, though his enchanted armour reflect the swipe. The White bounded forward, slashing apart the last guardsman casually as it headed for the stairs. Footsteps clattered up the stairs
Panicking slay them all and the songs would be that much better Xerxes dived forward, weighing heavily into his spear as he aimed for the wound Sol had already inflicted. He struck true and pushed his spear forward, levelling the extra weight of his armour into the thrust. The Chimera roared, desperately trying to turn it’s crackling, lightning spewing Blue Dragon head to face him. To no avail. Xerxes bore down, blood drenching his hands, his arms, mixing with the blood that flowed from his own spectral wounds. He heard distant thunder, the blood pounding in his ears, the beast thrashing on the roof. Stillness.
The stench of charred flesh reached his nose, wafting over the tang of blood. He turned around, saw Marcus, weary, bloody and hurt, his arm around Kayan, who supported the mage. Behind them was the still steaming corpse of the other Chimera.
From across the roof-tops came Soranna’s Bugle. The retreat had been called.
Xerxes spared a glass to the positions the guards had taken up on the roof tops, bows in hand. He grunted to Sol and Kayan who stood with him in the centre of the main road, before returning his gaze to the horde over the river. He saw that the entire army had drawn back from the Elsir seemed a shame, greater numbers, greater glory and all that. Then, from the mass, the grim looking beasts, chimeras, soared out over the river, blade bearing hobgoblins sat astride their backs. Two of the creatures, one the white of bleached bone, the other the tawny colours of a desert cat, sped towards Marcus’s position. A larger, fierce orange-red chimera, banked to it’s right, drawn by arrow fire from Captain Sorrana and her men, exhaling a cloud of roiling flame over them. The hobgoblin eagerly sprung from the creature’s back, disembowelling one of the guardsmen, his bow falling from numbed hands.
The next few moments were, to say the least, chaotic. Sol immediately dashed off through crooked back-streets in an attempt to assist Marcus, while Kayan invoked the blessings of the gods, bathing himself, Xerxes and a fair portion of the guards in heavenly light. Bolstered by this, and hoping to draw the Chimera away from Captain and her archers and what a glorious scene it would make he shouted some random syllables and flung crackling lightning from his hands, but it sailed wide of the
“Aim for spaces where the heads join the body!” cried Kayan “their hide is softer there.” Xerxes nodded as he flung more bolts of energy at the creature, to no avail, and the creatures ravenous heads tore and bit at the men on the roof. With all but one of her men dead, Captain Soranna quaffed a potion, grabbed the remaining warrior and flew deeper into Drellin’s Ferry, to where another squad of guards had set up a position. The Red Chimera, forgetting it’s hobgoblin ally, pursued.
A cry echoed out from across the rooftops, and Xerxes turned in time to see Sol beaten down by the twin assault of the White and Blue Chimeras, the two of which were themselves bleeding from terrible wounds inflicted by the half-Orc. Weighing his options, the northerner ran as fast as he could, Kayan beside him.
Kayan muttered something, and one of the hobgoblins on the roof froze as it was about to deliver a killing stroke to Sol. Xerxes concentrated a second, reaching out with his mind to Sol’s unconscious form. There was a moment, a wrenching as his mind touched the half-Orcs, and then he had time to see Marcus bolt down the stairway, pursued by the other hobgoblin, before the Chimeras closed in on him and here was the chance for glory!
Xerxes forced himself to move carefully, not wanting to plunge through the roof due to his heavy armour, gripping his spear in both hands. He recalled Kayan’s advice, and thrust at the gap between the goat and lion’s heads of the Blue Chimera. He heard a clattering sound from the stairway, and prayed to the Good Son that Marcus was well. More distant, Sol’s familiar warcry brought a smile to his lips. He tried another jab, this time at the White Chimera, but was thrown off balance by a paw lashing out from the Blue, though his enchanted armour reflect the swipe. The White bounded forward, slashing apart the last guardsman casually as it headed for the stairs. Footsteps clattered up the stairs
Panicking slay them all and the songs would be that much better Xerxes dived forward, weighing heavily into his spear as he aimed for the wound Sol had already inflicted. He struck true and pushed his spear forward, levelling the extra weight of his armour into the thrust. The Chimera roared, desperately trying to turn it’s crackling, lightning spewing Blue Dragon head to face him. To no avail. Xerxes bore down, blood drenching his hands, his arms, mixing with the blood that flowed from his own spectral wounds. He heard distant thunder, the blood pounding in his ears, the beast thrashing on the roof. Stillness.
The stench of charred flesh reached his nose, wafting over the tang of blood. He turned around, saw Marcus, weary, bloody and hurt, his arm around Kayan, who supported the mage. Behind them was the still steaming corpse of the other Chimera.
From across the roof-tops came Soranna’s Bugle. The retreat had been called.
Pedestrian
Explorer
They met with Captain Soranna and Speaker Wiston in the dense forest east of Drellin’s Ferry. Already the Red Hand Horde were setting about their barbarous work, as lurid flames clawed the night sky with crimson fingers. Soon, Worg Riders would be ranging ahead, and the Chimera, Wyverns and other Dragonkin that supported the Horde would control the skies.
“What will you do next?” Asked Speaker Wiston, not taking his eyes from the burning ruin that his home was swiftly becoming. “Where will you go?”
“We intend to head north, to investigate the ruins of Rhest in the Blackfens” said Xerxes, still clad in plate, his voice booming and authoritative from within the confines of his helm. “The map Marcus recovered from Vraath keep indicates that something of interest to this Red Hand is there.”
“And Saarvith, the man hunter.” Uttered Kayan, a look that was almost haunted across his face. “A goblin that renowned turning up in here at the time of this conquering army is more than mere coincidence.”
“Good, that is good” muttered Wiston, his mind far away.
Captain Soranna, seeing her Speaker in such disarray, spoke up. “There may still be boats, tied up river, used by fishers of the Ferry… or at least, before this” she sighed “please, take them. Even rowing up river, it will be quicker than walking.”
Xerxes nodded his accord “Very well. We’d best waste no time” he looked to the other three “every moment we tarry, the Hand moves further into the Vale. Let’s find these boats.” He grabbed up his pack, Kayan and Sol doing the same.
“I am… deeply sorry, Master Xerxes,” Marcus’ soft voice cut across the night “but I think our paths shall separate here” the sorcerer tried to smile reassuringly “at least for the time being. I feel my talents will better serve protecting the refugees of the Ferry, and warning those ahead of the Horde.”
Xerxes did not miss the hard look in the man’s eyes. “And should a certain Green Dragon happen to fly over…?”
“So much the better.”
The northerner shrugged. He could understand the thirst for glory. He breathed out, a deep wind that carried the weight of the day, and with it the armour he wore faded, swept away with the smoke. The arrows were the last part of the binding to fade, revealing unscarred flesh beneath. “Come then Sol, Kayan. We travel light.”
“What will you do next?” Asked Speaker Wiston, not taking his eyes from the burning ruin that his home was swiftly becoming. “Where will you go?”
“We intend to head north, to investigate the ruins of Rhest in the Blackfens” said Xerxes, still clad in plate, his voice booming and authoritative from within the confines of his helm. “The map Marcus recovered from Vraath keep indicates that something of interest to this Red Hand is there.”
“And Saarvith, the man hunter.” Uttered Kayan, a look that was almost haunted across his face. “A goblin that renowned turning up in here at the time of this conquering army is more than mere coincidence.”
“Good, that is good” muttered Wiston, his mind far away.
Captain Soranna, seeing her Speaker in such disarray, spoke up. “There may still be boats, tied up river, used by fishers of the Ferry… or at least, before this” she sighed “please, take them. Even rowing up river, it will be quicker than walking.”
Xerxes nodded his accord “Very well. We’d best waste no time” he looked to the other three “every moment we tarry, the Hand moves further into the Vale. Let’s find these boats.” He grabbed up his pack, Kayan and Sol doing the same.
“I am… deeply sorry, Master Xerxes,” Marcus’ soft voice cut across the night “but I think our paths shall separate here” the sorcerer tried to smile reassuringly “at least for the time being. I feel my talents will better serve protecting the refugees of the Ferry, and warning those ahead of the Horde.”
Xerxes did not miss the hard look in the man’s eyes. “And should a certain Green Dragon happen to fly over…?”
“So much the better.”
The northerner shrugged. He could understand the thirst for glory. He breathed out, a deep wind that carried the weight of the day, and with it the armour he wore faded, swept away with the smoke. The arrows were the last part of the binding to fade, revealing unscarred flesh beneath. “Come then Sol, Kayan. We travel light.”
Aholibamah
First Post
I like that you've written this purely as a story, and also the vividness of a party breaking up not once but twice shows how deadly the encounters can be--thought it seems to me that you've made them a lot more so.
Pedestrian
Explorer
Session 6: Into the Blackfens
Sol had decided. He wasn’t fond of boats, didn’t like swamps and downright hated bugs. The first night after getting the little fisher boat, they’d pulled up to the banks of the river, and near immediately been ambushed by goblins. Goblins and worgs. They’d beaten most of them up – Kayan had scared one of with some witchery – but then Xerxes had decided, and Kayan agreed, that it would be best to press up the river for a bit, to make sure that they weren’t stabbed in the night when that one who’d run off came back.
Of course, it had to be he, Sol, who pulled the boat back into the river, and he who did most of the rowing. Oh sure, the other two chipped in, but their arms were like match-sticks, and just not up to rowing the little boat for more than an hour at a time.
It was also he who had to drag in the boat every night when it was time to rest. Sol had thought they could just tie the boat down somehow and sleep in it. Much simpler. But nope. Kayan and Xerxes both needed their rest so they could do their magic. It didn’t help things that every morning, Xerxes’d wake up like a bear with a sore head, stagger off into the woods and only come back after Sol was sure he’d been stabbed by a goblin. Or ate by a dragon, which seemed common in these parts.
About the sixth day on, while still on the river, was when the bugs came. The first of them anyway. Sol had seen bugs before, remembered peeking at swarms of them as a runt in the tribe during summers up in the Wazlad before he was sold. But these bugs were big. Big as his hand! Kayan and Xerxes had done some sorcerery, and the bugs couldn’t get at them. But poor Sol? He ended up crawling with the little blood-suckers. “Stirgees” Xerxes said. Sol didn’t think they looked like fish, but then, he was no book learner.
He couldn’t very well chop at them with his axe, even his hammer was too big for the job. He’d had to resort to grabbing them and squishing them, even throwing one of the Stirgees at another. That had been funny, though maybe only because he had been light headed after the little beasts had done their work. And who had had to row the boat, even with feeling so sick he just wanted to curl up and sleep for a month?
That’s right, Sol.
A few days later, they’d come onto a big lake. Lake Rhestilor. Sol though that was the city they were going to, but he wasn’t sure. As he’d been rowing the boat along, humming a little tune to himself, he’d looked into the water. It was dark, and seemed pretty deep, but every now and again he was sure that he could see stone buildings down in the murk. When he said so to Xerxes, his friend had nodded and stroked his beard. Sol wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he just kept rowing.
At least by that point, Kayan had done some magic to make him feel better from the Stigees. And just in time too! More bugs! Even bigger. Sol hadn’t needed the other two to tell him that these were wasps, but he hadn’t known they could grow to the size of a horse! That had been a hard fight, and he’d been stung a few times, which made him feel pretty rough, but they’d won. No sooner had the last bug been dropped into the water, than he’d had to sit himself right back down and start rowing again.
That was yesterday. About lunchtime, they’d managed to hit land. Well, sort of land. More mud. But they could walk on it. Xerxes and Kayan hadn’t wanted to leave the boat behind, and Sol figured that it was better not to waste it.
So now he was dragging a boat along through a swamp. The other two helped every now and then, but they just didn’t have the arms for it.
Sol had decided. He wasn’t fond of boats, didn’t like swamps and downright hated bugs. The first night after getting the little fisher boat, they’d pulled up to the banks of the river, and near immediately been ambushed by goblins. Goblins and worgs. They’d beaten most of them up – Kayan had scared one of with some witchery – but then Xerxes had decided, and Kayan agreed, that it would be best to press up the river for a bit, to make sure that they weren’t stabbed in the night when that one who’d run off came back.
Of course, it had to be he, Sol, who pulled the boat back into the river, and he who did most of the rowing. Oh sure, the other two chipped in, but their arms were like match-sticks, and just not up to rowing the little boat for more than an hour at a time.
It was also he who had to drag in the boat every night when it was time to rest. Sol had thought they could just tie the boat down somehow and sleep in it. Much simpler. But nope. Kayan and Xerxes both needed their rest so they could do their magic. It didn’t help things that every morning, Xerxes’d wake up like a bear with a sore head, stagger off into the woods and only come back after Sol was sure he’d been stabbed by a goblin. Or ate by a dragon, which seemed common in these parts.
About the sixth day on, while still on the river, was when the bugs came. The first of them anyway. Sol had seen bugs before, remembered peeking at swarms of them as a runt in the tribe during summers up in the Wazlad before he was sold. But these bugs were big. Big as his hand! Kayan and Xerxes had done some sorcerery, and the bugs couldn’t get at them. But poor Sol? He ended up crawling with the little blood-suckers. “Stirgees” Xerxes said. Sol didn’t think they looked like fish, but then, he was no book learner.
He couldn’t very well chop at them with his axe, even his hammer was too big for the job. He’d had to resort to grabbing them and squishing them, even throwing one of the Stirgees at another. That had been funny, though maybe only because he had been light headed after the little beasts had done their work. And who had had to row the boat, even with feeling so sick he just wanted to curl up and sleep for a month?
That’s right, Sol.
A few days later, they’d come onto a big lake. Lake Rhestilor. Sol though that was the city they were going to, but he wasn’t sure. As he’d been rowing the boat along, humming a little tune to himself, he’d looked into the water. It was dark, and seemed pretty deep, but every now and again he was sure that he could see stone buildings down in the murk. When he said so to Xerxes, his friend had nodded and stroked his beard. Sol wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he just kept rowing.
At least by that point, Kayan had done some magic to make him feel better from the Stigees. And just in time too! More bugs! Even bigger. Sol hadn’t needed the other two to tell him that these were wasps, but he hadn’t known they could grow to the size of a horse! That had been a hard fight, and he’d been stung a few times, which made him feel pretty rough, but they’d won. No sooner had the last bug been dropped into the water, than he’d had to sit himself right back down and start rowing again.
That was yesterday. About lunchtime, they’d managed to hit land. Well, sort of land. More mud. But they could walk on it. Xerxes and Kayan hadn’t wanted to leave the boat behind, and Sol figured that it was better not to waste it.
So now he was dragging a boat along through a swamp. The other two helped every now and then, but they just didn’t have the arms for it.
Pedestrian
Explorer
As the last hours of light in their first day in the Fens faded into shadows, dark as the waters of the lake they had just exited, the drone of nocturnal insects began. Tired, caked in mud and irritable from countless tiny bites, Sol trudged ahead, his axe resting on one thick shoulder, his other hand effortlessly dragging their little boat through the slick mud, leaving a track like a thick belied snake. Xerxes followed a little behind. For once, the northerner’s mercurial mood had abated and his compassionate, calm manner came to the fore. The good days came less and less, Kayan thought. What demons drove him from his homeland still pursued him.
Sol let out an excited whoop, dropped the boat-tether and set off at a run, cutting the water sodden marsh with all the grace of a frenzied bull. Kayan sighed, but his pace quickened as he struggled to catch up and see what had so excited the half-Orc. He could see a hillock rising from the boggy waters, capped by two trees and what looked to be the corpse of a horse sized owl. The bird had been killed by massive injury to the chest. As he drew closer, Kayan saw that the wound appeared to have been caused by some greenish chemical which still nibbled at the corpse, raising a noxious fume like fouled eggs.
The first he knew of the beast was a crocodilian rumble, followed by crashing water. A sinuous creature had burst from the fen, armoured in green scales, the same dim shade as polluted waters. The beast’s movements were hopping and erratic, but possessed a chilling speed. Kayan noted the serrated jaws, spined wings and cocky crested head, features reminiscent of several creatures but unfamiliar in this united form. Kayan felt fear grip his heart. He had neither witnessed for himself, nor in all his times working in the Orthodoxy’s Archives, seen such a creature.
Stunned by enigma, it was only the rapid action of Xerxes that spared Kayan a worse fate, as the horned reptilian belched forth a cloud of acrid, acidic vapour, a mist that devoured flesh as sure as the locust would wheat. Kayan felt his comrade’s powerful body shield his own as they dipped under the water, then the weight was relinquished.
Kayan staggered to his feet, gasping for air, calling upon the relic powers of his belt to alleviate the more serious wounds sustained by now grim faced Xerxes. His vision blurred by muddy water, he only recognised Sol by his guttural bellow as the warrior charged by, axe held high. The creature, viper quick, lashed about with its wings, the black growths along the ridges tearing at Sol’s exposed arms as he slashed at the creature with his axe. The monster set off once more, slashing Sol across the face, only to be caught in a jet of potent flame exhaled by Xerxes. Kayan invoked a miracle, bolstering his allies while placing a malediction against the creature.
But to no avail. The bloody jawed monster, no doubt the killer of the great owl, exhaled another cloud of acid, this time on Sol, who had no chance to shelter beneath the shrouded waters of the fen. Sol attempted to pursue, but was lanced through the shoulder by a blood-hungry spike, and the mighty warrior tumbled into the now gore glutted water.
Xerxes bellowed, a ram sound of anger and pain, as two curling horns sprouted from his forehead, slick with viscera and tattered skin. Kayan muttered a prayer to the Sun Lord for understanding of his sorcerous friend’s demonic aspect. Xerxes ran at the monster, which stood triumphant over fallen Sol, its back to the charging northerner. The crack of split stone echoed across the fen as Xerxes’ blow connected with the creature’s spine, shattering it as lightning hews a tree.
Kayan hurried up and poured the last blessing of his belt into Sol, recalling his friend from the shores of death.
Sol let out an excited whoop, dropped the boat-tether and set off at a run, cutting the water sodden marsh with all the grace of a frenzied bull. Kayan sighed, but his pace quickened as he struggled to catch up and see what had so excited the half-Orc. He could see a hillock rising from the boggy waters, capped by two trees and what looked to be the corpse of a horse sized owl. The bird had been killed by massive injury to the chest. As he drew closer, Kayan saw that the wound appeared to have been caused by some greenish chemical which still nibbled at the corpse, raising a noxious fume like fouled eggs.
The first he knew of the beast was a crocodilian rumble, followed by crashing water. A sinuous creature had burst from the fen, armoured in green scales, the same dim shade as polluted waters. The beast’s movements were hopping and erratic, but possessed a chilling speed. Kayan noted the serrated jaws, spined wings and cocky crested head, features reminiscent of several creatures but unfamiliar in this united form. Kayan felt fear grip his heart. He had neither witnessed for himself, nor in all his times working in the Orthodoxy’s Archives, seen such a creature.
Stunned by enigma, it was only the rapid action of Xerxes that spared Kayan a worse fate, as the horned reptilian belched forth a cloud of acrid, acidic vapour, a mist that devoured flesh as sure as the locust would wheat. Kayan felt his comrade’s powerful body shield his own as they dipped under the water, then the weight was relinquished.
Kayan staggered to his feet, gasping for air, calling upon the relic powers of his belt to alleviate the more serious wounds sustained by now grim faced Xerxes. His vision blurred by muddy water, he only recognised Sol by his guttural bellow as the warrior charged by, axe held high. The creature, viper quick, lashed about with its wings, the black growths along the ridges tearing at Sol’s exposed arms as he slashed at the creature with his axe. The monster set off once more, slashing Sol across the face, only to be caught in a jet of potent flame exhaled by Xerxes. Kayan invoked a miracle, bolstering his allies while placing a malediction against the creature.
But to no avail. The bloody jawed monster, no doubt the killer of the great owl, exhaled another cloud of acid, this time on Sol, who had no chance to shelter beneath the shrouded waters of the fen. Sol attempted to pursue, but was lanced through the shoulder by a blood-hungry spike, and the mighty warrior tumbled into the now gore glutted water.
Xerxes bellowed, a ram sound of anger and pain, as two curling horns sprouted from his forehead, slick with viscera and tattered skin. Kayan muttered a prayer to the Sun Lord for understanding of his sorcerous friend’s demonic aspect. Xerxes ran at the monster, which stood triumphant over fallen Sol, its back to the charging northerner. The crack of split stone echoed across the fen as Xerxes’ blow connected with the creature’s spine, shattering it as lightning hews a tree.
Kayan hurried up and poured the last blessing of his belt into Sol, recalling his friend from the shores of death.
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