Travels through the Wild West: Books V-VIII (Epilogue)
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Black Bard
First Post
I was really saddened by the passing of Gorath, I was thinking that maybe he and Lariel would share some of the information they gathered on Ascore ( which may involve some shades , I wonder...
) ,but now I don't know how Lariel will react to the death of his friend... On the brighter side, now there's one less "G " character to worry about...
) ,but now I don't know how Lariel will react to the death of his friend... On the brighter side, now there's one less "G " character to worry about...
Lazybones
Adventurer
Book VII, Part 31
The following morning, things continued to happen quickly for the now-five companions. They rested throughout the remainder of the day and the night that followed, sleeping in shifts and preparing a hot but sparse evening meal from their stores. Even going outside the circle of stones briefly to recover some of the plentiful deadwood from the scarred and blackened trees was unnerving, and Lariel and Lok returned speaking of shadows moving through the dead forest, and unseen eyes that seemed to track their progress. With that grim news, they ate their meal silently and quickly, and returned to their bedrolls as the night fell around them.
Nothing emerged out of the dark to threaten them, however, and the morning dawned with a welcome brightness, as the grim clouds above finally broken enough to reveal a clear sky high above. The clear dawn did not banish the sharp chill of morning in the forest, but at least it cheered their spirits somewhat after the darkness through which they had all passed. For some of them, that darkness would linger for a time, but they all took solace in their friendship and shared purpose.
While the spellcasters attended to their prayers or spellbooks, Lariel sat with Lok by their fire. They’d laid in an extra supply the previous night, so they did not have to venture out to secure more fuel. The elf opened his cloak and withdrew a small silver pin attached to his shirt, laying it on a flat stone between them.
“While I have kept this hidden before now, I feel that there is no need for secrets between us now, given what we have shared. The pins we Harpers wear carry an enchantment that protects us from detection by those with prying magical eyes. Every fifth morning, as the sun rises, I remove it for an hour, so that my superiors may make contact, to make a report and learn if there is important news to be related.”
Lok nodded, seeing the advantage of such a system.
Suddenly Lariel straightened. Cal, apparently, felt it too, for he looked up from his spellbook, scanning the area around them. Lok shook his head—he felt nothing.
But all of them could hear the voice, the whisper that sounded as if someone were at their shoulders speaking into their ear. A woman’s voice, soft and gentle.
“Greetings, Lariel. It is good to see you once more, for my thoughts have often visited you of late, with great concern. I see you have found new companions, and I have included them in my spell, for their faces are known to me, the faces of friends who have already done great deeds in the struggles against Evil in the West. I fear I must bring sad tidings of events, but first, speak quickly of what you have found, for time grows short for all of us.”
“I must share my own tale of woe, Cylyria,” Lariel replied. His mouth barely moved, forming a soundless whisper, but they could hear the words over the connection that the Harper leader had created through her scrying. “We reached the core of the Reaching Woods, and found that the source of the evil here was nothing less than a foul dracolich, a transformed green, a fairly young specimen but deadly nonetheless.” A few of the companions exchanged a look—if their adversary had been “fairly young,” what might an older version have done? Even Lok paled a bit at the thought.
Lariel continued, his face drawing tight with emotion, sadness and anger mixing in his words. “Gorath fell in battle with the creature, and I fear his body is too ravaged for a raise dead to be effective.” Dana had tried, praying for the intervention of Selûne with the coming of the new day, but the half-orc ranger had been too far gone, his body too ravaged by the dragon’s deadly breath and rending teeth to restore his spirit to it.
“We made contact with one of the surviving druids of the Woods, and through him the spirits of those that were slain by the dracolich. The Woods will be cleansed of the evil that has infested it, but I fear that our old foe, the Cult of the Dragon, have done a great deal of damage that cannot soon be mended.” At those words the elf’s normally smooth features twisted briefly into a mask of rage, and his grip on the bow at his side tightened noticeably.
There was a pause, and then Cylyria’s voice came to them once more through the link. “You have all done well, all of you, and my sorrow joins with yours at the loss you have suffered. But I am afraid that the Cult will have to wait, for darker days have settled upon us in your absence.”
The companions exchanged another look, guessing at what foul news now awaited. Cylyria did not leave them waiting long, and with a tired sigh told them.
“Three days ago, a potent force of hobgoblins, trolls, and hill giants wearing the symbol of Bane descended from the Far Hills into Sunset Vale. With them came a dark monstrosity brought from the Abyss, a powerful demon. These forces fell upon Asbravn in the night, and razed the town, putting to the sword those not lucky enough to flee the carnage.”
The crackling of the fire was the only sound, as the companions stared at each other in stunned silence.
“So now what do we do?” Benzan finally asked.
The following morning, things continued to happen quickly for the now-five companions. They rested throughout the remainder of the day and the night that followed, sleeping in shifts and preparing a hot but sparse evening meal from their stores. Even going outside the circle of stones briefly to recover some of the plentiful deadwood from the scarred and blackened trees was unnerving, and Lariel and Lok returned speaking of shadows moving through the dead forest, and unseen eyes that seemed to track their progress. With that grim news, they ate their meal silently and quickly, and returned to their bedrolls as the night fell around them.
Nothing emerged out of the dark to threaten them, however, and the morning dawned with a welcome brightness, as the grim clouds above finally broken enough to reveal a clear sky high above. The clear dawn did not banish the sharp chill of morning in the forest, but at least it cheered their spirits somewhat after the darkness through which they had all passed. For some of them, that darkness would linger for a time, but they all took solace in their friendship and shared purpose.
While the spellcasters attended to their prayers or spellbooks, Lariel sat with Lok by their fire. They’d laid in an extra supply the previous night, so they did not have to venture out to secure more fuel. The elf opened his cloak and withdrew a small silver pin attached to his shirt, laying it on a flat stone between them.
“While I have kept this hidden before now, I feel that there is no need for secrets between us now, given what we have shared. The pins we Harpers wear carry an enchantment that protects us from detection by those with prying magical eyes. Every fifth morning, as the sun rises, I remove it for an hour, so that my superiors may make contact, to make a report and learn if there is important news to be related.”
Lok nodded, seeing the advantage of such a system.
Suddenly Lariel straightened. Cal, apparently, felt it too, for he looked up from his spellbook, scanning the area around them. Lok shook his head—he felt nothing.
But all of them could hear the voice, the whisper that sounded as if someone were at their shoulders speaking into their ear. A woman’s voice, soft and gentle.
“Greetings, Lariel. It is good to see you once more, for my thoughts have often visited you of late, with great concern. I see you have found new companions, and I have included them in my spell, for their faces are known to me, the faces of friends who have already done great deeds in the struggles against Evil in the West. I fear I must bring sad tidings of events, but first, speak quickly of what you have found, for time grows short for all of us.”
“I must share my own tale of woe, Cylyria,” Lariel replied. His mouth barely moved, forming a soundless whisper, but they could hear the words over the connection that the Harper leader had created through her scrying. “We reached the core of the Reaching Woods, and found that the source of the evil here was nothing less than a foul dracolich, a transformed green, a fairly young specimen but deadly nonetheless.” A few of the companions exchanged a look—if their adversary had been “fairly young,” what might an older version have done? Even Lok paled a bit at the thought.
Lariel continued, his face drawing tight with emotion, sadness and anger mixing in his words. “Gorath fell in battle with the creature, and I fear his body is too ravaged for a raise dead to be effective.” Dana had tried, praying for the intervention of Selûne with the coming of the new day, but the half-orc ranger had been too far gone, his body too ravaged by the dragon’s deadly breath and rending teeth to restore his spirit to it.
“We made contact with one of the surviving druids of the Woods, and through him the spirits of those that were slain by the dracolich. The Woods will be cleansed of the evil that has infested it, but I fear that our old foe, the Cult of the Dragon, have done a great deal of damage that cannot soon be mended.” At those words the elf’s normally smooth features twisted briefly into a mask of rage, and his grip on the bow at his side tightened noticeably.
There was a pause, and then Cylyria’s voice came to them once more through the link. “You have all done well, all of you, and my sorrow joins with yours at the loss you have suffered. But I am afraid that the Cult will have to wait, for darker days have settled upon us in your absence.”
The companions exchanged another look, guessing at what foul news now awaited. Cylyria did not leave them waiting long, and with a tired sigh told them.
“Three days ago, a potent force of hobgoblins, trolls, and hill giants wearing the symbol of Bane descended from the Far Hills into Sunset Vale. With them came a dark monstrosity brought from the Abyss, a powerful demon. These forces fell upon Asbravn in the night, and razed the town, putting to the sword those not lucky enough to flee the carnage.”
The crackling of the fire was the only sound, as the companions stared at each other in stunned silence.
“So now what do we do?” Benzan finally asked.
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Wow! Asbravan gone! Is Irieabor next? or Berdusk?
Lazybones
Adventurer
Broccli_Head said:
Well, either of those cities would be too large and powerful for an army the size of the humanoid force to assault, and really the attack on Asbravn only worked because of surprise and the added effect of the vrock on their side. I figured that the town had maybe 100 more regular Guard (the famed Riders in Red Cloaks), of which around 20 were >2nd level, and around 500 militia (which had not been called up on account of the lack of warning). Figure in maybe 50 assorted low-to-mid-level folks in the town for one reason or another (residents, travelers, or adventurers). On the other side we had about 200 hobgoblins, most of which were 2nd-3rd level warriors (with a few higher-level leaders, like our archer friend), with 7 shamans (3rd-8th level, adept and/or cleric levels mostly), 12 trolls, 3 hill giants, and the demon. We'll learn more about the details of the attacks later through flashbacks from some of the participants.
I hadn't realized it before, but vrocks are the perfect siege weapons. With unlimited use of darkness and mass charm, they can wreck havoc on a typical defense (especially if unalerted). And they are accessible through a mere lesser planar ally spell...
Still, we shall be seeing the ripples that this action has had upon the West, starting, oh... now.
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 32
“So now what do we do?” asked one of the robed men gathered in the marble-floored chamber, richly adorned with decorative hangings and gilded furnishings, with tall windows that looked out over the tops of many-towered Irieabor.
The circular chamber was dominated by a ring of well-crafted high-backed chairs, two dozen in number, all facing inward under a dome of stone so polished it reflected the light from the half-dozen lamps in sconces around the chamber’s perimeter. The speaker sat in one of those chairs, nearly all of which were currently occupied by similar men and a pair of women, a diverse collection of individuals linked by the aura of wealth and power that hung about them like the expensive cloaks that hung from their shoulders. Behind the ring of chairs sat portable desks for scribes and assistants, but at the moment, the room was empty save for those gathered in the central circle. This was a private meeting, of great import for one of the most important trading cities of the West.
At the robed man’s question more than one set of eyes turned to the tall figure standing within the circle, the only one who did not have a chair of his own. That individual was also the only one clad for war, dressed in an ornamental breastplate chased with detail in silver. He bore no weapon, but even so he looked dangerous, a wolf holding himself at bay in a gathering of sheep. If he was affected by the attention of the powerful men and women fixed upon him, he gave no sign of it.
“I have told you all that I know of this foul attack, most learned from the few refugees that have managed to reach the city.” he intoned, his voice filling the chamber. His hands tightened into fists as he continued. “And I share your sentiments at this dire news. This time, the Zhents have gone too far!” At his words, a few of the gathered lords—for lords they were, even though the leaders of the Guild Council of Iriaebor eschewed the title—shouted harsh cries of encouragement, dire pronouncements upon the perpetrators of this disaster.
Once the tumult had died down, one of the robed men, an aged figure whose eyes still burned with a potent light, leaned forward and spoke. “General Goran, I am sure many of us are grateful that you are here to aid in the defense of our city, at this time. What advice can you offer this council?”
The man in armor took in all of those gathered in a sweeping gaze. “I am sure we will learn more as more survivors make it to the city, but the basic fact remains. One of the major towns of the Sunset Vale lies in ruins, more than half its population dead or taken, like as not destined for the slave blocks of Zhentil Keep. No doubt the leaders of the Black Network are laughing at our impotence right now, their forces retreating unscathed back into their mountain hideaways. The Lords’ Alliance will no doubt talk of sanctions, of counter-raids, of dealing the Zhents punishment for this ‘setback’, but I do not need to remind you that they have proven reluctant to take direct action against Darkhold in the past. Meanwhile we will cower within the security of our walls, safe for the moment, but afraid of venturing out on the roads that carry the lifeblood of Iriaebor, its trade.”
Some of the faces around the circle darkened further, but they waited for him to finish.
“With great foresight, you approved my plans to expand the city guard and increase training for the militia, but I have barely begun to implement those designs. I have, however, not been idle since word of this disaster reached us. The entire Guard, reinforced by the mercenary companies that I have just recently engaged at your direction, is at high alert, ready to ride at an hour’s notice, a force four hundred strong in total. Just hours before this meeting I received confirmation from several of my riders. Easting stands with Iriaebor, if she will act, with a company of armored dwarves ready to march, and six-score prime mounts offered by her breeders. I have already sent the order to the outlying villages to raise the alert, and between their able manhood and what we can rally here in the city, can reliably count on two thousand militia to call to the banners, if they are raised. Scornubel is hard-pressed enough with the raids coming out of the Reaching Woods, once thought secure due to the watchful eyes of its ‘druids’; I would not be surprised to learn, however, that the Zhents are behind those attacks as well, and thus cannot count on reinforcements from the north. I have not heard yet from Berdusk or the cities further west; perhaps the Harpers will send aid, perhaps not; as you well know they keep their own counsel and pursue their own agenda. In any case, by the time that the Lords’ Alliance intervenes, the Sunset Vale may very well be a scorched graveyard.”
Scattered voices arose, forming a verbal clutter that Goran simply ignored, standing alone in the center of the swirling conversations. There was anger here, an anger like a hot fury, but also fear, and uncertainty. It was, in all, a tumult. None at first noticed the door that opened in the side of the chamber, admitting a nervous-looking page in the livery of the Guild Council. He crossed swiftly to the aged man who had spoken earlier, whispering a message in his ear. The commotion quickly eased as the other councilors realized that news was being delivered, and when the page departed as quickly as he had come, silence had fallen again over the chamber. Goran simply watched with the same grim impassivity that he’d carried throughout, though his eyes were those of a hawk. He’d had to manage the timing quite carefully, with a subtle touch, and the outcome was still not certain.
The old man sat there a moment, his shoulders sagging as if under a great weight. “Magical detection has revealed a Zhentarim army moving south with great haste through the Far Hills, in the shadow of the Sunset Mountains. They have already bypassed Hluthvar, and according to the wizard that scried them, number at least five hundred, and they have at least one skymage with them.”
A general gasp of dismay greeted the news. A few clear statements penetrated the grim whispers between the councilors. “Do they seek to seize the entire Vale?” “If they join with the raiders, they could march on the city itself...” “How long until they reach us?” “No time for the Lords’ Alliance to intervene...”
The old man simply leaned back in his overly large chair, his dark eyes fixed on the soldier. Finally, he raised his hand again, drawing the attention of his peers back to himself.
“It would seem that we have no choice, now,” he said. Still looking at Goran, he said, “I advance the motion, that this Council empower General Goran with the powers of the First Consul for a duration of six months, or until the current crisis is resolved. Furthermore, I grant that he be given full powers to levy additional troops and coordinate the defenses of the city as needed, and full command in the field over whatever forces we and our allies are able to muster. I call the question on this issue immediately, before any other matters are discussed.”
Another of the lords rose, a powerful half-elf with a square jaw and fiery red hair that fell across his shoulders and the fur lining of his cloak. “I agree that the need is great, fellow councilors,” he began. “But we must not act without caution. The charter of our city grants the First Consul virtually the powers of a king, if appointed in a time of war. We can invest Goran with the powers he needs to lead our armies, but retain overall executive authority in this body. Let us not, in our haste, raise up another Bron.”
Even as he sat, another man rose to speak. “While I share Councilor Macros’s general sentiment, I believe that the situation has advanced past the time of half-measures. I second your motion, sir Chair.”
The old man nodded. “I thank you, Councilor Ilgarten. General Goran, if you would remove yourself while the Council votes on this action... I, for one, encourage you to begin making your preparations. As you have said, the time for planning and deliberation has passed—it is now time for bold action.”
Goran nodded, and with a bow left the chamber. Twenty pairs of eyes watched him go, and then reluctantly turned back inward, to a decision that was as foreordained as it was uncomfortable to make.
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