Wilderlands Adventures: City State of the Invincible Overlord

[Alejandro]

The following is a player account of our adventures in the Wilderlands near the City State of the Invincible Overlord. I play Bode, a shaman from beyond the Azure Sea. Bode has a canine companion named Khan, who was born and raised in the Wilderlands. You may see the posts of other players (njorgard, Meridian, Kestrel) here and there, and the DM (Juiblex) may post as well. I edited my original post to make my account more adaptable for other groups by putting actual game notes in italics

Oh great spirits of man! I send you now the soul of my brother-in-arms, Ali Esther, who Khan tells me fought most bravely against the ogre barbarian, though Ali Esther had neither sharp fangs nor a tough hide. I raise a mug of your cola in your memory, Ali Esther, though you neglected to leave me your secret formula ere your untimely death. Though it be warm and disgustingly flat, the spirits praise your cola!

I recount now my memories of yesterday! I, Olabode Inalchuk, shaman of the far west, healer of the town known as Ashenshaft, was tasting my friend Ali Esther’s marvelous brew when a golden eagle fell from the sky and died as a man. The murmuring of the spirits echoed in the movements of the merchants, even as the governor commanded them to stay and the Otter Son commanded them to go. When Otter Son commanded me to go, I looked at his companions and had doubts, but Khan stood and then so did I.

We began the game in the village of Ashenshaft, at the height of the fall festival. Our characters started as respectable professionals (Aliester was a brewer, for example), but our standing in the community quickly plummeted after our first adventure. The people of Ashenshaft, while good of nature and kind of heart, are unfortunately governed by Celdric, a heavy-handed mouthpiece for the Invincible Overlord.

To my left marched the guardsman Gant Malose, who was brave and strong and memorable. To my right marched the guardsman whose name I do not remember, but I will call him He-Who-Falls, and he, too, was brave and strong. Ahead of me was the Otter Son, and to Khan’s left was Ali Esther. We had to run to avoid a swarm of flesh rippers, but we eventually reached the cairn of the eagle’s death.

The party consisted of a paladin (Gant), a fighter (He-Who-Falls, later Monsaram), a cleric (Ivar Ottarson, later Einarsson), a wizard (Aliester), and an OA shaman (Bode). The cairn was a ring of standing stones, and the eagle was a druid. The cairn was five miles (one hex) northeast of the village of Ashenshaft.

Ah, but there was a lot of death! Six of the eagle’s fellow cultists were clubbed down like piglets before a hungry overlord, but at least they killed one orc ere their death. The Otter Son started climbing down into the cairn, but he fell and threw up my torch. He-Who-Falls went in after Otter Son, but he went too far and too fast. I couldn’t see, so I nudged my torch into the cairn and saw orcs ready to eat Otter Son. Praise the great spirits for our victory over those orcs, and over the orcs who ambushed me later that night! Though I admit, spirits punish those stupid enough to camp outside an enemy’s lair.

Gant Malose led us deeper into the cairn, where we defeated foul lizardmen and seized their treasures. We espied the handiwork of the orcine tomb raiders, and vowed to kill them and seize what they have plundered. We were foolish enough to free a swarm of zombie halfling anklebiters, but Otter Son rebuked them most savagely and we smashed them most delightfully. We bypassed a deadly trap, and slew all those who opposed us until we were surprised by the green axeman and his ogre barbarian.

The cairn had two entrances: a shaft into the darkness, and a tunnel two levels down that led into the swamps. The first level featured stone caskets guarded by two orcs; one casket hid stairs leading down. The stairs emptied into a rough-hewn tomb with two carved passageways and one freshly dug tunnel into the swamps; the passageways were patrolled by two more orcs. The tomb featured two plundered rooms containing two troglodyte squatters each, a room containing ten pygmy zombies behind dire runes of warning, and a room with a chasm guarded by a deadly scythe trap. There were also statues of Set surrounded by coins, but we shied away from the evil.

Alas! Why must we learn humility at the hands of ogre barbarians! Though my spirit badger returned the green axeman to the smoky depths of hell from which he came, the ogre merely crawled around on the ground, lulling us into a false sense of confidence. He-Who-Falls tried to cut him, but the ogre laid him low. When I tried to approach, the ogre sent me reeling backwards. Khan tells me that Ali Esther actually took up arms against the ogre, only to be smashed into Otter Son’s arms. Ah, great cola maker! You die too young! But Gant Malose, the brave and strong and memorable guardman, ferociously slew the ogre in single combat. Ah, if I could have only seen that! Instead, I run towards the sun bearing my friend’s corpse, even as He-Who-Falls steals from a foul snake-like monstrosity.

Oh great spirits of man! If only you can teach us not to steal from foul snake-like monstrosities! Oh great spirits of man! Take now this soul, and keep him well!

Cola!

Past the chasm was a room containing the big-bad with his ogre bodyguard. Though we had five 1st level characters, we think we were facing an EL 5 duo. Momentarily incapacitating the ogre with a Grease spell, the wizard entered combat and was the first to die. Past this room, through a secret door, was a shrine containing a magical sword (stolen by Monsaram), guarded by a snake-like monstrosity (poison golem).

 

[ForceUser]

Very interesting style. Native American campaign?

 

[njorgard]

Actually...

...he's trying to sound more like Mako in Conan the Barbarian. Although his character IS a shaman.

 

[Alejandro]

“Care for another, Master Inalchuk?” Purred the buxom halfling housewife, as she proffered a case of finely-rolled cigars towards her lanky guest.

Oblivious to the disapproving glare of the warhound across the room, the man eagerly accepted her hospitality. “Please, call me Bode – all my friends do. Wow, this is really good stuff. I’m sorry, what were we talking about again?”

“You were just telling me about the horrible snake-like monstrosity you killed,” said the halfling coyly, before joining the man in bed.

“Right. Well, I didn’t really kill it. Or rather, we didn’t kill it until later. We actually ran away from it, while carrying Ali Esther’s corpse. His funeral was very moving, by the way.”

“He was a dear boy,” the halfling agreed. “You’re very alike, did you know that? So tall, so lean, so nicely muscled…”

“Yes, Ali Esther was like a brother to me. Not a brother like Crowley, but more like a very good friend who mixed herbs in strange and interesting ways. Yes, Ali Esther was like a very good friend to me. Excuse me, but I am suddenly very emotional, like Odious at Ali Esther’s funeral.” The man paused, and inhaled deeply. “Please forgive me; I am not normally so emotional. When Governor Celdric dismissed both Gant Malose and He-Who-Falls from his service, I did not cry. When Governor Celdric evicted me after we returned with the corpses of Brian and Alex, I did not cry. But here, now, smoking with you, I cry.”

“There, there,” soothed the halfling, “We all cry when the world turns against us. But I am here for you.”

“Thank you. You are very kind, Mother Turnipfoot. You have raised Ali Esther and Crowley well. Do you think Crowley will come back?”

The halfling murmured comfortingly, “Of course, dear. Crowley is a big boy now.”

We joke that all of Juiblex’s NPCs are a-holes: the governor fired Gant and Monsaram after Aliester was killed, then evicted me when we returned with the bodies of villagers (“Brian and Alex”) sent to guard the cairn after we fled from the poison golem. Odious, the owner of the Sword and Quill and our main contact for our adventure, paid for all the funerals but also took a cut of the treasure recovered. When Aliester, Kestrel’s human wizard, was replaced by Crowley Turnipfoot, a halfling rogue/wizard, Mother Turnipfoot was declared a “nice” NPC. Little did Kestrel know how “nice” Mother Turnipfoot would be...

“That’s good. I would hate for him to suffer the same fate as the Otter Son and He-Who-Falls. Who knew that things can go so wrong? It was our first circus, you know. We saw the red tent when we came back into town with the corpses of Brian and Alex, after we found the body of a dwarven assassin and spoke to the spirit lord from barbarian Altanis. It said, ‘Monsaram, take Bire… Byreklee… the sword that you stole from me and do good!’ And He-Who-Falls, who was also known as Monsaram, just nodded and refused to sell me the blade, though it was worthless in his hands. And we went into that tent, though they refused to admit Khan, and saw such women wear such clothes and do such acts as you cannot imagine!”

“Like this, Bode?”

“Wow, Mother Turnipfoot! Yes, very much like that. And the women all curled up around the Otter Son, though he kept aloof and proclaimed his celibacy, until they were ordered away by the elf ringmaster. I didn’t actually hear the insult, but I guess the elf insulted the Otter Son’s manhood. Though he does not use it, I guess the Otter Son was still offended, so he roared a mighty roar and jumped at the elf, only to laugh heartily that he meant no harm to his friend. I looked around, and was surprised to realize that the Otter Son meant the elf! As I was about to mention it to Crowley and Monsaram, Crowley ran up and kicked the elf in the shins and Monsaram drew his sword! Oh great spirits of man! If only we can control our manhoods and not incite a riot! Interestingly enough, only Crowley and Monsaram were taken into Governor Celdric’s jail to be hung the next morning.”

“Hold still, dear; I’m trying to thank you for rescuing Crowley…”

“But Mother Turnipfoot, I didn’t actually rescue Crowley. When I told the Otter Son what had happened after his forehead vein started pulsing, he immediately grabbed his sword and ran out the door. By the time Khan and I arrived at the jail, the Otter Son had hacked down their cell and was taking out his anger at the rest of the garrison. Monsaram had stabbed the jailor with a glaive, and was in the process of doing the same to the guard captain. I simply caught Crowley when he jumped out the window. Seriously, Mother Turnipfoot, do you think it was a good idea for Crowley to go back for his belongings? Mother Turnipfoot? Great spirits of man!”

What started out as a diversion turned into a near-TPK. The circus was more akin to a traveling bordello, no doubt sanctioned by Celdric for a portion of the proceeds. Ivar Ottarson was eventually overwhelmed by the garrison, as was Monsaram.

Crowley and Bode fled fled southwards from the village of Ashenshaft to the hamlet of Oakenbridge. The people of Oakenbridge, while less mindful of the dictates of the Invincible Overlord, are unfortunately also less trusting of strangers. Oakenbridge is conveniently situated in the hills between Ashenshaft and Longship Havens, and provides welcome shelter for the wagon trains braving the paths between civilized City States and barbarian lands.

Crowley stole back to Ashenshaft in dark of night, but was not able to locate his belongings before the guards were alerted and he, too, was overwhelmed.

 

[Meridian]

Interlude: A woman's wyrd begins...

The volla's hut was dry, the air inside a mixture of herbs and age. Quietly, Ragnhild waited as the volla hunched herself over the runestones that had clattered a second ago against each other like the fall of so many bones onto the sacred cloth of the reading. The foster daughter of Einar Haakonssen could not help but remember that this was the prophetess whose manipulations had sent Ivar away and robbed him of so much, but the only sign of her nervousness was the web of whitened knuckles her clenching hands wove as her fingers did a spider's dance in her lap.

When at last the volla did speak, it was with the hiss of dead air escaping a long-sealed tomb. True to her blood, Ragnhild did not jump, but merely blinked once at the unexpected sound.

"The Einarsson..." The volla drew out the sibilance with all the casualness of a viper. "It is as I have always said, but men never listen. One cannot avoid one's weird. You can only run away from it for so long before it catches you and eats you alive." She looked up suddenly, rheumy blue eyes nevertheless flashing a venomous azure fire that beat against Ragnhild's cheeks with the blaze of a blacksmith's forge. "I told them!" she spat. "I told his sire and his dam before that fool flicked his wand into her grove that the son born of that union would not be long for the otherworld, no matter what they did! But they filled my hands with gold, so what could I do? The norns would ignore it, the gods could do nothing with it, so I tried where no one could."

"W-what are you saying, old woman?" Ragnhild stammered. "Ivar is--?"

"Dead, you foolish girl," the volla said inexorably. "Yes, he is dead. After all the trouble his parents went through to take the wod-fury from him so that he would live long enough to continue the Einarsson bloodline. His mother even bargained with Odinn and Freya with her service to gift the boy with the mastery of runes in exchange for what was taken from him." The volla cackled. "Now his mother will rot in Niffleheim, serving neither the All-Father nor the Queen of the Valkyror, instead a handmaiden to Hel herself until Ragnarok itself comes to cleanse the Nine Worlds of darkness, with the continuance of the Einarssons ended with her."

Her face tautened into a skull-mask with rage, Ragnhild leapt across to where the volla sat without realizing it and slapped the old woman out of her vile self-amusement.

"How dare you, witch woman?" Ragnhild accused. "Mocking your own liege-lord while you elsewise claim protection from him?"

The volla moved even faster after her initial second of total surprise, seizing Ragnhild by the throat and with surprising strength running the length of the hut to slam her against a post.

"How dare you, child?" the volla hissed, her yellowed cracked teeth snapping dangerously close to Ragnhild's delicate face. "I am Einar Heisir's protection! It is by my arts that he has survived so long, with the curse that was laid upon him for seducing away a valkyrie from the gods! He is lucky to be alive, much less prosperous!"

Ragnhild struggled, and the volla slammed her head again against the post, quieting her for the moment it took for the volla to say, "Do not blame me for the death of your secret love! He made his choice and went to his death willingly!"

Roused by the volla's declaration of her innermost heart, Ragnhild screamed, "Let go of me, hag!" To their mutual amazement, a surge of heat thrummed through the maiden's body, and flames erupted under the volla's hands at Ragnhild's words. The volla howled and hurled herself away from Ragnhild, who managed to keep her feet, while her mind whirled, struggling to absorb what had happened...what she had causedto happen.

For long moments, silence reigned in the volla's hut, broken occasionally by the volla's curses even as she moved around the hut, applying various salves to her scalded hands.

"So..." the volla finally said when she appeared finished tendering her injuries. "Now the nature of your blood has come to the fore." She looked sidelong at Ragnhild, who stared back at her uncomprehendingly.

"Didn't you know, Ragnhild Fafnirsdottir?" the volla purred. "In your veins runs the blood of dragons and giants. It was Einar's intent...and your father's...that the brood of your union with Ivar would rule the Northern Lands with might of sorcery to challenge the doom of the gods themselves. And in your lineage is Fafnir Jotunwyrm, the giant's son who found the sacred Tarnhelm of the river-maidens' hoard and used its shapechanging power to take the seeming of a dragon when it pleased him. Soon he became as much dragon as he was giantborn, but it was in the form of a human that he sired his own children before he was slain by Sigurd Sigfridsson."

"There are...no sorcerors or witches...in my family..." Ragnhild managed, her throat still spasming painfully from where the volla had gripped it.

The volla chuckled. "Only a few know the secrets of awakening such power where it slumbers in the mortal shell," she told her. "Those of deepest thought know that whatever the means, the root of it lies in passion and a catalyst for the awakening of the magic...in this case, such a catalyst being someone of power. You have met those conditions, my dear."

"What am I supposed to do?" Ragnhild said aloud, though she in truth did not mean to; the volla startled her by answering her.

"Learn to use the power, or it will in turn use you, and bring you to a bad end," the hag said shortly. Then her tone changed, becoming wheedling, coercive: "I could always use an apprentice. It has been so long since a potential heir to my knowledge has come along..."

Ragnhild was still for so long that the volla felt a rising excitement at the possibility that the maiden would accept her offer. But her hopes were dashed with Ragnhild's next words, delivered deliberately and firmly.

"No. Your offer is generous--" here Ragnhild's voice took a ironic tone, "but...no. For all your powers, you are still a speaker for the gods and the spirit realm---and I have no interest in bargaining with them or being a vessel for their will.

"I feel that what you have told me is true. I feel the power in me. It speaks to me in a language I only half-understand...but given time, I feel I can master this which has been given to me through my blood.

"It is a thing apart from the gods. It is not of the Aesir, or the Vanir. It is something older. Perhaps even older than the norns themselves, I do not know.

"What I do know is that I can learn to master it."

"To what purpose?" the volla inquired.

She didn't pause. "No one was content to leave Ivar as he was; whether it was that the gods cursed him with wod-fury, or the norns cursed him to die of it, or you took it from him at the request of your liege-lord. Now that Ivar's weird has come to pass, there is nothing stopping me from having what should have been mine in the first place."

"What madness do you speak?" the volla whispered, a dread rising up in her.

Ragnhild's ice-blue eyes fixed on the volla. "Madness? It is not madness to cure madness. In this, I speak of the madness of a universe that would curse a man before he was even born.

"I do not know the breadth and depth of this power awakened in me, but I will test it. I will do all I can to master it. And then I will see if it has the strength to do what I need it to do.

Ragnhild's voice grew cold and fell. "I have heard the tales of those who have brought back their loved ones from the death realms, those who met a premature end when the norns were tricked into cutting short their thread in the tapestry, as Loki and Odin One-Eye were sometimes wont to do. I will give Ivar Einarsson the chance that the gods and the norns did not give him.

"If it is within my weird to do so, I will bring Ivar back to Midgard, so that we may accomplish the destiny our fathers desired for us."

Ragnhild fell silent, as if struck by the immensity of her own words, as binding as an oath, then said to the volla,

"Ivar and I never had the chance to confess our love openly. You sent him away before that could happen, but you sent him away in an effort to permit him to survive the norns' doom. For this, I am grateful. Now I will go away in the world to learn about this, my blood legacy, and with luck I will accomplish the end that you and Einar Heisir sought. I do not ask for your approval, but I do ask for your silence."

The volla simply nodded. Ragnhild without another word walked to the edge of the hut, pushed aside a curtain of hides and left, not seeing the smile that raked itself across the old woman's face in Ragnhild's wake...

The End...for now.

 

[Alejandro]

Meridian brought in Ragnhild, a cleric/sorceror, to replace Ivar Ottarson. Kestrel brought in Larah, a ranger/rogue, to replace Crowley. njorgard brought in Ur, a monk, to replace Monsaram. Gant still lived, as did Bode and Khan.

The session started with everyone in the bar, just as raiders tore into Oakenbridge. Men were cut down like wheat before the scythe while women were plucked from their homes, kicking and screaming. We learned new respect for mounted combatants that day, but eventually defeated the raiders with guerilla tactics over the course of three days and two nights.

“Ale and whores?” The lanky shaman sputtered. “But you are a... And whores are... I mean, not that there is anything wrong with the idea...”

“Don’t be such a prude, Bode,” the half-orc bandit replied, as she leered at a painted doxy. “My gold is as good as anyone’s, and I’m gentler than most who sample their wares. If you ask me, your friend Gant should be here with us, instead of ‘escorting’ those women back to their homes. Hmm, maybe I should have gone with him... Tell me, what do you think about the others?”

The shaman signaled for an ale, and mulled over his answers carefully. “Well, Gant Malose is brave and strong and memorable. Ur is mysterious...”

“Terribly mysterious,” the bandit agreed.

“...And Ragnhild has an unhealthy fixation on the death of the Otter Son.”

Chuckling, the bandit slowly drew her katar and placed it next to her mug. “What about me?”

The shaman blinked. “You? Larah, you are a thug.”

The half-orc grinned, and produced a whetstone. “I prefer the term ‘entrepreneur’, but you’re correct in that I am unsubtle about applying force. Bode, do you know why we’re here in Wormingford?”

“Not really,” the shaman replied truthfully. “Khan asked me the same thing last night, before we went to sleep, but I said, Khan, Larah sounds like she knows what she is doing and he said Bode, I am full but fleas are biting and I said...”

“First of all,” the bandit interrupted, “You need to stop talking to your dog. Second of all, we’re here because Wormingford sells anything to anyone, no questions asked. If those raiders were indeed from barbarian Altanis, this would have been the best place to buy information about the neighboring towns. Oakenbridge had not seen them before, but Celdric had apparently cut a deal to protect Ashenshaft. When Gant gets back, he can tell us if Lightelf has ever seen them before.”

Wormingford is a few hours west of Oakenbridge, and is infamous for being a wretched hive of scum and villainy, despite the best efforts of Sir Cathorn, a Knight of the Realm, to impose order.

Lightelf is a few days north and east of Oakenbridge, and boasts a community of fiendish gnomes who are just as likely to trade with visitors as harass maliciously.

“Khan is not just a dog - he is an invincible warhound,” the shaman huffed. “Besides, why do we care if the neighboring towns have seen those raiders before? We have crushed our enemies, seen them driven before us, and heard the lamentations of their shaman. We have looted what they have pillaged, and returned what they have taken.”

“But not all that they have taken,” the bandit reminded. “Your precious Mother Turnipfoot is still missing, is she not? Use your head, Bode! A score of raiders attacked Oakenbridge, but we’ve only killed eleven of them. Eight women were taken from Oakenbridge, but we rescued almost two dozen. No one was raped, but there were at least four sacrifices. These raiders rode horses and bore mastercraft weapons - doesn’t this seem peculiar to you?”

“Larah, my friend Ali Esther and his brother Crowley both died days after a golden eagle fell from the sky and turned into a man. Otter Son the ‘celibate’ was actually Einar Son the ‘betrothed’ of Ragnhild, who left Altanis after ‘seeing’ his death. Of course, unless she flew like the wind, her departure must have predated his death. Everything seems peculiar, but I do not question the spirits.” The shaman shrugged, “Ur probably has a secret, too, but it is impolite to pry. Listen, why don't we go find him and head back to Ashenshaft? Ragnhild must be done with her prayers by now."

The bandit snorted and rolled her eyes, but then stood and made her way out.

 

[Alejandro]

“So, ah, Ur... Bode and I were talking. Do you have any secrets?”

The cloaked warrior frowned at the bandit, then waggled his head at the shaman beside her. The shaman shrugged, but looked back expectantly. “Yes,” the warrior stated simply, and continued riding.

Ur is actually the Tarantis Warrior-Monk Meridius, who slew his beloved master when his brothers told him that his master had been sharing secrets with a rival monastery. Meridius didn't question his brothers, and fled in shame when he questioned himself. njorgard hasn't had time to write up his story, thus this aside.

Undeterred, the bandit pulled closer to the warrior. “Don’t be like that, sugah. You know, I was born in the dirty streets of Lankhmar.” The warrior looked at her blankly. “City of the black toga, city of a thousand smokes? City of thieves?” The bandit rolled her eyes and muttered an orc curse, but continued. “Personally, I like to call it hell...

"My mother was a whore. Not really her fault, just the life she was born into. I have no clue who my father was. I figure he was an orc, considering that I’m half-orc. My mother was human. What little I remember of her, she was kind when she wasn’t drunk. She sung me to sleep before she went to work on the other side of our flat. I never fell asleep though. I was too young to understand what she was doing, but I understood enough to stay quiet, in my bed, away from the curtains. Then one night, the john she brought home cut her seven ways to Sunday, leaving a bloody mess where my mother once was. I stayed quiet, and slept, not knowing what else to do.

"My childhood was a blur after that. I survived like a rat, stole what food I could, and made a home for myself in the shack jungle of the slums. The Thieves Guild had better plans for me though, and showed it to me when One Hand Jimmy caught me trying to pick his pocket. He took me back to the guildhouse and gave me a warm place to sleep and some food. Training began the next day.

"I started as a pickpocket like the rest of the urchins, running wild and stealing from stupid marketgoers. As I grew older, I became stronger and the Guild moved me from pickpocketing to footpadding. I was muscle, and worked in one of their brothels as a bouncer. That was, until one of the pimps figured out that I would make a good “exotic” for his stable. That’s when things went bad. It took five other ‘pads to take me down, and I ended up in a cage. The bestial beauty, they called me. I have no idea how much the men that used me paid them -- I didn’t see a copper of it. They drugged my food and kept me docile. I have no idea how long that went on. Weeks, months, years -- I have no idea.

"I do remember the night I was freed though. A Northman with reddish-blond hair and beard came through the brothel, looking at the wares the pimp had to offer. He saw me in the cage, naked and drugged. I guess he felt sorry for me. Faster than I could think, he drew his broadsword and cut down the footpads around the pimp. As the fat bastard tried to run, the Northman hit him with the flat of his blade and dropped him like a sack of . Then the Northman freed me, and dressed me. He led me from that vile place and took me to an inn. I didn’t know what had happened to the pimp, but I didn't much care.

"I stayed in that inn for I don’t know how long. The Northman came and went with food, and treated me kindly. Kindness -- I had forgotten it. He helped me when my need for the drugs took hold of me. I healed, physically at least, and he began training me. He told me that I should become strong and skilled with weapons, to protect myself. The Northman never once asked for anything of me. He never told me his name. His last gift to me was a sack of gold and a key, along with an address. I took the sack of gold and the key, and went to the address. Inside was my true gift: lying in the room was the pimp, much thinner than I remembered, dressed in rags.

"Bruises fade, and blood washes away. I remember seeing myself, reflected from a puddle: scarred, but smarter." The bandit grinned at the memory. The warrior nodded in appreciation. The shaman looked at his sanguinary companions in horror.

 

[Alejandro]

The warhound sniffed the air, and growled. The shaman reined in his horse, and turned to his companions. “Death is in the air. Khan and I should wait here. Larah, Ur: be careful.” The scarred half-orc rolled her eyes, and rode lazily towards Ashenshaft. The warrior adjusted the hood of his cloak, and followed quietly.

Time passed. A plume of oily black smoke began creeping up towards the midday sun. The shaman watched nervously, then stood when he saw a pair of riders galloping furiously towards him. “Bode!” Larah crowed, “You’re quite the thief and assassin! Get off the path, and we’ll tell you all about your exploits.” Khan moaned.

Hours later and miles away, Bode kicked angrily at a rock. “Spirits of heaven! So Celdric is just letting the bodies hang there until they rot? And Ragnhild is just sitting there, out of her mind?” Larah nodded. “And Celdric’s blaming me for the death of his captain, even though the thief and assassin struck while we were away fighting the raiders?” Ur nodded. “And soldiers torched Odious’ shop because Celdric is implicating him, too? Damn the man!” Bode shook his fist at the sky, then flinched as an arrow flew out of the setting sun and thunked solidly into the ground behind him. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then everyone drew their weapons and dove for cover. Seconds passed.

“Bode,” Ur whispered, “There’s a message on that arrow.” The shaman muttered a short incantation to detect magic, then nodded at Larah. The half-orc grimaced, tumbled towards the arrow, and retrieved the message. Scanning the message quickly, she passed the message to Bode with a wink.

If you wish to see the halfbitch alive, the message read, bring the lightning sword to me at the druid cairn in three midnights. The message was signed with a green serpent. Bode spat, and passed the message to Ur. “We must return to Ashenshaft,” Bode declared, “And steal the lightning sword from Celdric in order to save Mother Turnipfoot.”

Ur narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure that Celdric still has it? Perhaps the thief and assassin made off with the sword, when they slew the captain of the guard.”

“Good point. Let me consult the spirits! Oh great spirits of heaven, my cause is just and my motive pure, what fate awaits us if we assault the compound of Governor Celdric tonight?” Bode fondled his fortune sticks and studied them carefully. “Weal! Let us ride, and know that the spirits of heaven bless our efforts!” Khan moaned.

Hours later and miles away, Larah finished coiling her rope. “Bode, remind me to never listen to you again. I don’t think your spirits of heaven care jack about us. We should have left as soon as you failed to locate that sword with your spell; skulking around on rooftops is dangerous for your health, especially when there are ballistae near.”

“I agree,” Ur agreed.

I agree, Khan agreed.

Blinking at the opposition, Bode sat back, lit up, and tried to think.

 

[Alejandro]

The gilded sign above the heavy oaken door read “O’Reilly and Shaw – Barristers – No Solicitation”. After taking a few deep breaths, Ur swaggered in and proclaimed with an affected drawl, “I am here to invest in Ashenshaft.” Then he posed – hair free flowing, bejeweled with looted trinkets, outfitted by the combined best efforts of Larah and Bode.

Luckily, the white-haired gentleman behind the desk was willing to overlook fashion emergencies and graciously proffered a seat. “Certainly, Master…?”

“Ur.”

“Er. Master Ur. How can O’Reilly,” the gentleman bowed, “And Shaw be of service today?”

“I find your village charming, and am interested in purchasing land. However, from speaking to various citizens, I am concerned about the governor and his ability to protect my investments. What can you tell me about the latest disturbance?” Ur sat back, and casually lit one of Bode’s special cigars.

“Well, er, Master…Ur?” Ur nodded affirmatively. “Well, it is true that Ashenshaft has been fairly exciting, what with the deaths and the hangings, but rest assured that the assassination of Captain Thomasson will not go unpunished.” Puffing thoughtfully, Ur motioned for O’Reilly to continue when the door suddenly opened and Happy the Baker shuffled through.

“Pie?” Happy lilted, gesturing vaguely.

“Damn it Happy, no solicitation!” Happy looked back blankly. “Not now! I’m with a prospective client! As I was saying, Master Ur…” Happy waved, and grinned at his pie. “Er. As you may know, we safeguard the deeds to all the properties in Ashenshaft, so you need not worry about the governor.”

Ur looked at his cigar oddly, and croaked, “What about the recent fire at the Sword and Quill? Or the circus on the green?”

“Circus man bad,” Happy proclaimed. “Didn’t want pie. Sunday pie good!”

O’Reilly sighed with exasperation. “Happy, not now! I apologize, Master Ur, but Happy is easily confused. He was friendly with a guard who got hung at the insistence of the circus ringmaster – Monsaram I think was the name – and still goes looking for him at the garrison. But the circus was here almost two weeks ago, and they’ve since gone to the City State. It’s unlikely that the ringmaster would have returned to Ashenshaft.”

Happy shook his head furiously, and exclaimed, “Sunday pie! Circus man here! Rode away; didn’t want pie!”

“Wait.” Ur stubbed out his cigar, and tried to focus on Happy’s green and purple meat pie. “Today is Tuesday. And the captain was assassinated on Sunday. Happy, where did the circus man ride, on Sunday?”

“Pie?” Happy offered, and smiled when Ur gave him two silvers. “Market Street. Bye bye!” Happy waved, and shuffled out.

Hours later and miles away, Bode comforted Ur as the latter proceeded to fertilize a hapless bush with half-digested meat pie. “I never buy Tuesday pies from Happy,” Bode said matter-of-factly. Ur merely groaned.

“From the sound of things,” Larah mused, “That ringmaster may have been in Ashenshaft recently. If he arranged to have your friends hung, Bode, I wouldn’t put it past him to steal from Celdric. I wouldn’t put it past him to kill the captain, either. Let’s hunt him down.”

Bode looked surprised. “Are you sure? You’ve never even met the man. We could be wasting our time, riding up to Ryefield.”

“You said that circus was more like a bordello, didn’t you?” Bode nodded. “And his women are all slaves, right?” Bode nodded again. Larah grinned savagely, and started walking towards her horse. “I’m sure. Let’s hunt him down.”

 

[Alejandro]

Larah crept silently towards the caravan guard, as a wagon behind her shuddered with the grunts and moans of its occupants. The strike of her sap and her victim’s subsequent collapse were masked by the drumbeats pulsing from the crimson big top, twenty strides away. Larah noted with satisfaction that the guard’s companion had been similarly subdued by Ur, and signaled for Bode to approach.

“Yes,” Bode hissed, “The lightning sword is indeed hidden in this wagon, but I sense powerful wards on this door. We should be careful.” Grinning, Larah motioned for Ur to stand ready and threw the body of her unconscious victim at the door. Bode groaned inwardly as the door shattered with a thunderclap and lightning arced mercilessly through the guard. Men started shouting, women started screaming, and Larah howled in delight.

Hours later and miles away, Larah interrupted Bode with a rude gesture. “We got your sword, didn’t we? And, thanks to your spirits of mist, no one saw us do it. Who’s more important to you: your ‘halfbitch’, or that son-of-a-bitch?” Larah glared, from atop her perch on a standing stone, and spat. “That’s what I thought. So shut up already!”

Muttering to himself, Bode turned to find Khan growling at the darkness, hackles raised. What is it, Bode asked.

Worgs, Khan replied, and a pair did slink out of the shadows, with cowled riders on their backs.

One of the riders pulled back his cowl, revealing a face studded with glittering eyes, and called out, “Do you have the sword, human?”

“Yes! Do you have the woman?”

“Yes. Give us the sword, and you shall have your morsel.”

“I want to see that she is unharmed. Free her, and I shall give you this sword.”

“Place the sword on the altar stone, and we shall unbind her. Back away from the stone, and we shall release her.”

Wary of treachery, Bode placed the lightning sword on the central altar stone and slowly backed away. The speaker edged his worg into the ring of standing stones, then nodded to his companion, who cut loose a bundle that yelped piteously and began stumbling towards Bode.

“Now?” Queried Ur, from atop his standing stone.

“Not yet,” Whispered Larah, as she slowly nocked an arrow.

The speaker reached the sword even as Bode confirmed that his precious Mother Turnipfoot was, indeed, unharmed. Dismayed by her tears, Bode called upon spirits of earth and vine to bind and hold the worgs and their riders, but writhing bolts of greenish energy suddenly flew out of the darkness to strike him.

“Now?” Ur asked, as he aimed his heavy crossbow at the fleeing worgs.

“Hell yeah!” Larah howled, and began loosing into the darkness.