# Of Fey and Shadow - A Midnight story hour (Restored 14 May 2006)



## Emiricol (Dec 17, 2004)

This is for my Midnight campaign, which uses Riddle of Steel instead of D&D for the mechanics, and Ars Magica (modified) for the magic system. It gives a very epic feel, with combat that is both bloody and encourages PCs to fight for causes (not cash). I think the tone suits Midnight perfectly 

*Prolog Part I*
     It had been a cold winter, the frozen North seemingly bent on swallowing up the Plains of Eris Aman.  _Unfortunately,_ thought Olaf bitterly, _the cold came not with snow, or rather, not enough._ Snow erased their tracks, and without it they had to move slowly to avoid leaving a trail any twice-damned Oruk could follow with ease.

Olaf sat for now at the low, well-hidden fire the bandits had made to fight the chill. A glance over to the sentry showed the man had the same priority he himself did, but of course could not leave his post. Watch was the longest hour of the night, without doubt. With a chuckle, Olaf tore a bit of steaming, dripping flesh off the hare he had caught earlier. He noted one of the bandits eyeing the scrawny carcass longingly.

_Better to make friends, if I must travel with bandits. At least the only ones with anything worth taking are the bastards of Shadow._ His finger traced lightly upon the spear next to him - if it came to that, this spear had taken at least two Oruk last night, when he'd met up with these rough Men more or less by accident, as they were ambushing a couple dozen Oruk on patrol. It could just as easily take the bandit watching him.

_Yes, better to make friends..._

     Olaf smiled at the man and nodded.  "Aye, come then.  Have a leg, and some wamth in your belly man."

The other came over and nodded. He tossed him an Oruk tusk, the best he could offer in payment. "Dornhild. I saw you fighting last night, when the Oruk broke from the killing ground and rushed the hill we were on. Two, right?"

Olaf nodded. Counting kills was fun, but hardly what he wanted to talk about with food before him. The other continued, his gruff voice almost a whisper, as was the habit of all of these men. Loud conversation drew the enemy, after all. So would the smell of rabbit, but a Man had to eat... "Fine hare. Well cooked. I'm glad you decided to join us. I have a feeling more than one escaped last night, and your spear is going to be a welcome addition before too much longer, I suspect."

The man froze, then. Eyes narrowed, hard as iron. "We are being watched. There, in that copse of pitiful pines. One. Taller than a goblin, shorter than an Oruk."

     Olaf frowned.  "You are a Northman.  We've all heard the tales," he said with caution.  It was a touchy subject.

The other man spit. "Bah. Don't be getting me started on the tales of women! No one's seen one of them. Not in my lifetime, if ever they did exist."

Olaf smiled. "We're close to the forest of the snow ghosts. Who knows what manner of Fey might still live in those woods? Men don't go there, nor does Shadow. Why? I say it's a curse or it's *them*."

Dornhild was smiling, about to slap him on the shoulder with a laugh, when the twig snapped. They had laid out twigs from the nearby trees in a circle around the encampment in the little depression they were in, a makeshift alarm.

     Then another snap, over there.

     And another from the far side.

Olaf had his spear in hand before he even realized it, before his mind could decipher the simple meaning of twigs breaking, and he kicked over the firebasket, releasing its dirt onto the fire to eliminate the light and smell. Dornhild, spear somewhere else, drew his axe and crouched. The sentry was nowhere to be found. Where was the sentry?

     The smell of blood wafted across their position, a probable explanation for the missing bandit sentry.

     Fear crept into Olaf, cold and clamy with a grip he could not squirm his mind free of.  _Izraedor's curse, but we're surrounded!_ He found himself suddenly back to back with the dozen other men he had joined with. Most had spears out, some had shield and axe. The axemen did their best to cover the spearmen next to them, as well.

They waited. The sounds of the night were gone, insects silent or fleeing, birds no longer crawing in the darkness. Even the fire, which crackled merrily just moments before despite the dirt of the firebasket, in his mind seemed somehow diminished in its volume. The only thing loud was the rushing thunder of blood in his ears, and the deep thud of his dry throat trying reflexively to swallow. _Dry mouth.  Dry throat._

Somewhere behind Olaf, one of the men shifted his weight to get a better balance. Almost as if on cue with this, a rain of a dozen javelins streaked toward them in a deadly arc, aimed entirely at the shield-wielding axemen.

Orc javelins, these. No Oruk, thankfully. A small blessing, however - even as his mind collected these thoughts, one javelin bounced off the shield of the man to his right. To his left, the man who had fed off his rabbit was struck in the shin, the javelin passing clean through the limb - bone included by the sickening sound of it - and he gasped and fell, tripped by the length of wood now protruding from his leg.

All around Olaf this was the story, but he had not time to see to them, nor gauge their state, for the Orcs were now charging forth from the darkness, their long wicked cleaver-like Vardach swords raised over their heads as they cried out their warcries and moved in to engage the seven Men who remained standing, spears readied.

_Typical Orc fashion, only half charged, the other half staying ready to pick off any Man who fled, or if the battle should turn against them, ready to flee to bring word to the nearest twice-damned Legate. May I live to slay a hundred of them!_

 The Orc that rushed Olaf had a deep scar across his face and left eye, clearly a veteran of combat. The raw fear of the moment prompted Olaf to take an offensive stance, lashing out at the Orc long before it could reach him. It struck the creature under the ribs, speartip sliding deeply in despite the tough hide of his foe. 

Olaf spared a quick thought to thank the stars that this one didn't have a shield or armor, or it may not have been injured at all. As it worked out, however, Olaf was certain that the blow hit this creature's liver, a mortal wound. The Orc screamed as his momentum kept his feet going while his body slid slowly off the spear. Olaf had not much time to consider this, however, for around him the battle still raged.

An Orc had finished off the spearman next to him, and spotting Olaf gut one of their number, charged him to close the distance. Olaf broke ranks with his fellow spearmen to avoid the powerful blow, coming as it did before he was well prepared to receive the charge.

The two circled, for the moment unable to care about or focus on the cries of anguish and the stench of blood all around them. The Orc let out a snarl and charged, just as Olaf did the same, and only the longer length of his spear kept the orc from striking him simultaneously. Olaf aimed for the chest once more, the Orc knocked the speartip aside and moved to strike the human with his cruel vardach. With a quick shuffle back and to the left, Olaf avoided the blow and then suddenly reversed direction, moving in low to take the orc in the gut while momentum favored him. The tip of the spear slid past the Orc's guard and embedded into his upper hip, a gout of blood pouring from the wound while this orc, too, cried out. He staggered, and the internal bleeding would finish this orc off if nothing else did, but Olaf wasn't giving it a chance. He simply thrust once more at the thing, and it didn't have the strength to defend. A spear through the eye and it was all over.

Glancing around the field of battle, Olaf saw that of the six orcs who had charged, three remained standing, while five of his spear-wielding companions did. _Ha!  We may win this yet, you bloody grey bastards!_ As the two sides circled around and tried to regroup - just for a moment - another hail of accursed javelins rained down upon the remaining Humans. _Damn, I forgot about them! Here they come!  Oh, bloody.._

Olaf watched the javelins coming, fear forgotten in the heat of the moment. He raised his spear to try to deflect it, but in one sickening moment he realized it would hit - he was too high... The javelin tip rent his leg, piercing the knee directly and embedding itself up to the wood, and an inch beyond. Bone shattered, piercing his skin further. Olaf looked down, dazed, noting in an almost detached fashion the bones protruding from his leg. It took him a moment to realize he was on his side, on the ground.

And another moment to realize there was an Orc rushing at him. With all the effort he could muster, he raised his spear, hoping to take the bastard with him - there was no way he could fight for long. He put everything he had into driving the speartip into the rushing Orc's gut.

He watched in glee as his speartip swung into position a moment before the orc reached him... and his spirits sank as he realized he had not the strength to follow through with the attack. The toothy Orc grinned, a grin any predator would immediately recognize. He batted the speartip aside with distain, and howling, swung at Olaf's head with that meatcleaver they used as swords, nearly as long as a man is tall - his Vardach.

Olaf felt the blade hit his skull. Felt himself falling over backwards from the impact as the light drained into blackness. He never felt himself hit the snow. Somewhere, an Orc screamed in victory...


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## Bryin (Dec 17, 2004)

*speechless*


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## Emiricol (Dec 17, 2004)

Thanks!  Unless you meant that you have no works to describe how horrible it is.  But for any reason except that one, yes, thanks.


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## Bryin (Dec 17, 2004)

*hiding behind tree and watching the battle* "Heh, silly orcs." *fireball is launched into the middle of the orc party*


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## Emiricol (Dec 17, 2004)

Magic hasn't come up yet, but if we stay with Ars Magica for the mechanics it'll be a while before he can do a fireball spell - just due to range, mostly. Unless we change some things. Or if we change to another system (which we're discussing, since it isn't too late) the magic system will get more epic/mythical. So, the Prolog conclusion is very much up in the air right now.

 Edit: We found a couple very minor changes that will let us keep the Ars Magica system, while still allowing potent low level magic that isn't overly earth shattering.  So, we're continuing into Prolog II now.


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## Renfield (Dec 20, 2004)

Wow, 

Only read a part of it so far but very nice Emericol. I'd say guess who but it's a little obvious. Didn't know you had an Midnight game going. I'm very interested in this "riddle of steel" and Ars Magica system, I'll have to look into them. You are officially being bookmarked!

Renfield
Good 'ol horribly busy withfinals CM of Rhaavin


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## Emiricol (Dec 20, 2004)

Hi Renfield   Good to see you.  There's a "quickstart" rules available as a free download at www.theriddleofsteel.net - it is very similar to the real book, but has fewer attributes and abstracted skills and combat maneuvers, as well as a simpler Magic system.  But of course, I'm using Ars Magica for the magic.  Anyway, thanks


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## Emiricol (Dec 21, 2004)

Prolog Part II - The Snow Ghosts
 The scene below was horriffic. The smell of blood hit Thrayn's nose, but he did not allow it to distract him from the task at hand. The reserve Orcs, seeing the fight nearly over, broke from their cover to converge on the scene of the ambush - the better to make sure they received their portion of the loot.

 Beside him, Rongald whispered to the elf. He still had a tone of awe to his voice whenever he spoke to the snow ghost, Thrayn. The Elf's recent problems lessened his status in the eyes of the superstitious Rongald not at all. "We are still clear, Sir. The orcs haven't seen us," he said to Thrayn in the abrupt, gutteral tones of the Norther tongue.

 Below, two Orcs came to fists over what looked like a small furry animal, but was in fact the scalp of one of the Men. Only the first scalp, for the dead Men would all soon be so abused. The remaining Orcs, who numbered now a mere five, gathered around the other two in a circle and hooted, cheering on their favorite and laughing, while dying Men and Orc alike bled out nearby. The distraction of the fight would last only a few moments, certainly, and then the mutilation of the dead would begin in earnest.

 Rongald's words barely registered in Thrayn's mind. Within sight these servants of the Shadow reveled in the success of their vile work. To him they looked no different than the many orcs he had already lain asunder during this past century of pain and dragging war. And so, to him, they were already dead. Dead faces laughing while other dead faces quarrelled. They just didn't know it yet.

 Crouched in the shade of the thick bole of a snow coated tree, Thrayn turned to Rongald, his eyes dimly reflecting in the dark, and finally replied. "And they never will see us. Move in when they start to scream."

 Thrayn stood and began the short litany that would direct the arcane powers he called forth. His hands worked in a small circle and came together, his fingers twisting into an uncomfortable knot. "Mutos corporus augaminus destrie theles margat finestus." 

 The words hummed with power and a small breeze blew back against his face, fanning his hair in a most unnatural fashion as he spoke. Below, the orcs began to notice that something was wrong. They erupted into cries of terror and confusion as, even at this distance, it was clear what was wrong. Their eyes, usually black, had turned to the color of new snow, white and glowing in the moonlight, while droplets of blood rolled out of savaged tearducts in place of tears. Rongald darted from hiding, charging down into the clearing, his spear held ready.

 Thrayn took a few breaths. He could feel the energy sap from him as the curse took form in black, orken flesh. He drew his fighting knives and charged down after Rongald.

 Ahead of him, Rongald's charge came to an abrupt stop as his spear buried itself in the back of a flailing Orc. The victim's confused cries turned to a squeal of agony, but were cut off with a sickening wet sound as Rongald pulled freed his spear. Thrayn took a dancing step left around Rongald and immediately had to duck as a stumbling Orc swung blindly with his sword. The clumsy Orc might as well have been standing still for all the good it did him. Thrayn sprung up as the beast twisted from the force of his own swing, and buried his long knife to the intricate hilt, directly between two of the orc's ribs with one quick thrust. As he pulled the blade free, black blood frothed at the wound and splattered against his face. The orc tried to cry out but managed only a wet gurgle, dropping his sword and clutching at the rent in his side as his lungs began to fill with blood, before falling over into the snow and struggling no more.

 Thrayn spun around and stepped directly into the path of another stumbling thug. He looked into the orc's white, clouded eyes and plunged the clean blade of a second knife into his belly, the shudder of a bursting organ travelling up the blade as blood from the wound gushed out over Thrayn's hand. He pulled back on the knife swiftly as he backstepped to avoid the orc's stumbling fall to it's knees. It clutched at the wound in vain, blood was pouring too quickly from the wound for any hope of survival.

 Thrayn looked around the clearing, still in a ready crouch and eager for more. The only movement he saw, however, was Rongald, breath heaving, dragging his spear from the throat of a downed orc. In the weakening light of the fire he could see steam rising from the open wounds of the dead and dying around him, and from the still-hot blood on his own blades. It was several moments before he realized that his breath was coming just as hard and ragged as Rongalds from the exertion of the fight - even as one-sided as this one was.

 Gathering himself, Thrayn carefully wiped the intricately engraved Erunsil knives on the cloak of one of the dead bandits, ignoring his bloodied face and hand for the moment, as well as the man's arm - which lay some feet away. He sheathed the knives and looked about clearing at the carnage. They had been dead long before he had arrived, it just needed some convincing.

 Thrayn began walking amongst the dead, turning them over with his foot one at a time searching for any surviving Orcs to slay or finish off. As he passed the fire, he grabbed a leg from the still roasting hare and began to eat what was once the meal of a man now dead, and circled the camp. They had been bandits after all, and would have stolen from any who they encountered, Shadow or not, so the liberation of a rabbit was of minor concern if any. Two enemies dead, bandit and Orc, the viler of the two at my hands.

 Still circling, the sound of a muffled moan reached his ears. He darted a look to Rongald, who was seated across the camp from him still regaining his breath and covering his mouth with the hem of his shirt. Thrayn sniffed, and noted idly that the air did indeed stink of orc offal. He decided against chastising the Dorn for his weakness.

 The moan came again. This time Thrayn saw the source, a tangle of bodies; an orc, spear broken off and protruding from it's chest, lay atop of two humans. He drew a knife and walked over to the slain orc to kick the corpse aside. The first body beneath was obviously not the source of the moan, as one of the cleaver-swords of the Orcs was stuck deep in the man's skull, bisecting it almost to the neck.

 Thrayn knelt down and flipped that body over, too. It snagged on something, and just then the man beneath him wailed and curled in agony, his hands reaching toward his legs. Thrayn looked down and saw the source of the man's pain. A javelin was thrust through his shin, bone and all, and had become entwined with the other man's leg. "Rongald, come over here."

 Rongald nodded, quickly coming to the Fey's side and waiting expectantly. Rongald always looked like he'd follow the Elf to the Obsidian Tower and back if he asked him to, but of course this wasn't so. Rongald himself was a bandit, but had found some purpose to his meaningless life fighting the Shadow - especially since he had a Fey, and a Sorcerer at that, to back him up. Purpose in life and a full belly were a powerful enticement in these times.

 At a glance from Thrayn, Rongald looked down at the Man, who was pale with shock and loss of blood. Now that he was free of the two corpses, the wounded took off his simple belt and made a makeshift tourniquet. The whole affair lasted just a few seconds.

"So, the bandits had a survivor, Sir. Shall I kill him for you?"

 At this the wounded man stopped what he was doing and looked up. He glanced at his axe, but it lay far enough away that he hesitated to try for it. Instead, he spoke in a deep voice using the Erenlander tongue but heavily accented in Norther. "I am Dornhild. Should not my fight with the Orcs make me your ally? At least not your enemy." Then Dornhild glanced from Rongald to Thrayn and back. And froze. His eyes slowly tracked from Rongald back again to Thrayn, eyes wide and pupils consuming the blue of his eyes. "Y... y... you..."

 Rongold translated quickly for the Elf. Dornhild shot a look back at Rongald, then locked eyes with the Fey, exclaiming in his native tongue. "What in Shadow's Grasp is this?" His breath was heavy with near panic. "I beg you, kill me if you must but do not eat my soul! Let me die fighting!" He whispered the last, as his voice cracked in raw fear.

 Thrayn held his had up to Rongald, indicating that he should hold. Eat his soul. These pathetic, ignorant Norther and their superstitions. Snow ghosts. Eaters of souls. Stealer of children. He sighed softly. "What are you doing in the woods of the Erunsil, Northman?" Thrayn's voice was quiet, his words spoken steadily.

 The man paused for a moment, perhaps considering whether to talk, but his situation was dire. The fear on his face showed his decision was a foregone conclusion, so Thrayn waited patiently but did not have to wait long. "We had raided the Shadow's forces near the curst ruins of Cale, but had to flee deep into these foul Plains. Eris Aman is tricky and we lost our position, and thought to avoid wandering into the hell of the bogs in the south of Eris Aman by skirting the Veradeen woods." He swallowed uncomfortably then, and cringed very slightly. It was an unnatural look for a Dorn warrior, from everything Thrayn had seen of their kind.

 Thrayn stood and looked about the abbattoire that remained of the campsite. He gave a significant look to Rongald and headed toward one of the two carts at the edge of the firelight, throwing open the flap at the back and looking about the contents. Within lay over a dozen of the Orcs' heavy vardach blades, as well as sack upon sack of flour and grains labelled in Orc, jar upon jar of various preserved foods, and a barrel of fresh water, as well as horse shoes, bits of leather and other gear for the group of bandits. He looked back at the two humans, pausing for a moment to consider his situation. He then went to the second cart, likewise mostly stolen food, giving credence to Dornhild's claim that they had been raiding caravans of Izraedor. Calen had long since fallen to ghosts and worse, defeated in the early days of the Last War by treachery, as so many places of Man were in those horrible final days of freedom.

 Satisfied of the man's veracity as well as the rich find, he returned to the two Men at an even pace. Light from the fire backlit him as he squatted down near Dornhild's legs, shining off his white hair like a halo. "Rongald, hold him tight."

 Rongald grunted, eyes lingering a bit too long on the wagons, and then knelt down to pin the man's shoulders to the ground. "Don't move or it'll be rough on you, Norther," said Rongald as if ignorant of his own Dorn heritage. He said Norther as a curse, his tone bitter. Dornhild grunted and nodded in a single, curt motion, then set his teeth in anticipation.

"I don't know your intentions, *brother*," he said to Rongald, "but I beg of you not to let him hurt me..."

 Thrayn dropped his knees down on either side of the javelin jutting through the man's shin. Setting his shoulders, he gripped the haft near the wound and pulled it free in a single quick motion. The javeln resisted but then gave way, coming free with a sudden jerk. Dornhild, to his credit, made not a whimper but the muscles standing out on his jaws gave away the pain he was in. Blood began to ooze once more from the wound, though his tourniquet kept this from becoming too bad.

 Drawing his knife, he cut the man's pant leg off and tore it into strips as quickly as his hands could manage. He bound the wound tightly, wrapping it in several layers of the makeshift bandage. Reaching up to the tourniquet, he loosened it and yanked the belt free. He nodded to Rongald who released his grip with a somewhat perplexed look.

 The wound seeped, but as Rongald let him go Dornhild nodded in apparent relief and sat up, putting pressure on the wound until it stopped seeping. "I'm hoping this doesn't mean you are just sparing me long enough to fatten me up. My papa used to tell tales of the witches of the woods stealing children to either eat or to grow up into slave soldiers to fight shadow, bringing the Orcs to whatever village they came from to burn it down in retribution." His tone showed he was unconvinced of the tale, but nonetheless here was a real, life Elf, a creature of legend in modern times. "I didn't believe the Fey existed still in the world of Men and Orc," he concluded simply.

 Thrayn tossed the belt onto Dornhild's heaving chest. "You were a fool to make such a visible camp in the borderlands. This place is rife with bandits, Orcs and worse. But, you are a fool who will live a while longer." He stood and walked over to the fire and grabbed what rabbit remained, returning to Dornhild and tossing the meat near the Dorn, within his reach. "Eat. Meat to feed your blood. You may suffer tonight, but the morning will be all the better for having lived."

 Dornhild glanced at the meat, eyeing it hungrily. "Living is better than not living," he said finally, voice shaking slightly in a mixture of pain and no small amount of shock at talking to an Elf. "I thank you for sparing my life, if in fact you have." He took a hesitant bite of the rabbit, as though the touch of the Fey might have tainted it somehow with magic or worse.

 A feeling of sympathy came over Thrayn as he looked at the wounded Northman eating now hungrily of the rabbit. He nodded to him and stood, and had to stop himself from making some gesture that might betray his feelings. Sympathy had no home in the Plains of Eris Aman. Thrayn started to walk back toward the fire and called over his shoulder. "Rongald. Help me gather up the bodies. Add anything of worth to the carts. Burn the rest."

 Rongald commanded Bornhild, "We burn the bandits first. They don't stink as badly, so we do them first and Orc second. Less time spent in burning Orc fumes that way." He punctuated this by spitting upon one of the dead orcs.  Bornhild merely nodded.

 The busy work of burning the corpses went off quickly, bodies piled high with cold efficiency atop a mound of wood and lit up without remorse. Dornhild spared a tear for his companions, now all dead, but said nothing; no words of remembrance marked the passing of those men. Then came the orcs, and the odor indeed was something to remember. It seemed to burn one's nose, and weak men had been known to retch at the smell.

 Gathering all the gear, Thrayn nodded after a final look around. "Rongald, you and the bandit take a wagon each and head west with all due speed. Worse things than orcs and bandits plague these curst plains. If anything should happen, keep going west - never south. As you value your soul, go not south." Thrayn followed with stealth, alert for signs of ambush.

 With that, and a parting glance over his shoulder at the life he knew now burning in the night, Bornhild was taken with Rongald and the Elf Thrayn west, into the lands of the Veradeen, the home of the Erunsil - the snow ghosts.


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## Renfield (Dec 21, 2004)

Well, you have me hooked, a considerable task considering my standard aversion to elfs. Compared to orcs however they are a lesser filth... kinda like my political way of though. Anywho, keep it up.


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## Emiricol (Dec 21, 2004)

I normally don't like Elves either, but in this game I've moved away from the standard gaming elf and I'm trying to make them feel like mythical fey - ancient, immortal, powerful, rare, and they don't think like us.

 Of course, since this is a writeup of a game in progress, it isn't going to be 100%, but hopefully the differences in Fey and the magic system are apparent.


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## Renfield (Dec 22, 2004)

Heh, funny those are some of the things I typically loathe in elves, ever since Lord of the Rings, all high and mighty and mystical. Would like to see a fantasy setting with elves depicted in their mythological roots. Dwarves are closer to their roots than the pointy eared beanpoles... anyway, I'll save further elf bashing for my group and campaign setting, and possibly my T13K games. Though if any player want's to paint a target on their character play a stereotypical True Neutral elf, two of the things I despise the mose


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## Emiricol (Dec 22, 2004)

You prefer mythological roots...  Stories vary the world over, but I've modeled the elf queen on the _Alvor_ of Scandinavia, with the rest of the elves being something of a blend of a  masculine versions of the _Alvor_ and the Norse-specific interpretation of them (minus the status as minor deities, although it's a narrow margin here).

 The Dorn view of them is more akin to the pre-Christian Germanic view of Elves which has them as kidnappers, the cause of many nightmares, and harbingers of death to those who see them (as an omen rather than causing that death); although of course physically they are the Scandinavian version, not the Germanic brownie-sized creatures.

 Tolkein's LOTR, though clearly one of several inspirations for FFG's Midnight setting as a whole, has no influence on my Fey (although it does have a bit of influence on the Dwarves of my game). Of course, as the central character is an elf, if you hate elves I suppose you don't have much reason to like the story hour.

 EDIT: To be honest, the Elric books are also one influence on my Elves.


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## Renfield (Dec 22, 2004)

Heh, figures I'd make my usual mistake of ranting to someone with far more knowledge than myself on mythology, I need to read more. Anyhow I do enjoy your story hour. I also enjoy whining (yes whining, I admit it) about elves, sorry if I offended and annoyed in any way, just obnoxious I guess. My apologies. To summarise my issues with elves in a more clear and less whiny light: I consider them far too over glorified. Despite that my dislike for them in truth is more like favoring some football team over another. You don't truly hate them but you certainly don't like them. I apologise for my compliment turning into a rant and the like, keep up the good work.


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## Emiricol (Dec 22, 2004)

Heh, I hear you.  And thanks for following up.  I've never played an Elf in D&D    It's just that they are an integral part of Midnight, and I wanted to see what it'd look like with mythical vs D&D style Fey.  I read a lot about elves as a kid reading Nordic folklore, so in hindsight it's no surprise I turned there for the inspiration here.


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## Emiricol (Dec 28, 2004)

Ver'huin was a small Elvish settlement, of the usual type for the Erunsil - built within the trees rather than atop them as was the custom of their neighbors to the south. 

 Typical of such settlements, it had the dueling tree, which was commonly used by the community elders to teach the children the art of _Edhel Alata_, literally translated from High Elven as _Elf Glory_. This was the style of fighting the Erunsil had mastered over centuries; it used an intricate pattern seemingly random defensive and offensive movements (primarily thrusting), with both one and two of the unique Erunsil knives.

 The knives, which they called simply their fighting knives, were Usually two feet long.  Each was masterfully crafted by an expert Elf weaponsmith. Half the length was a baton-line hilt, the rest a tapering, single-edged blade. They could be thrown, so well balanced were they, but they didn't truly shine until they were in the hands of an expert of the Snow Ghosts - which  included nearly any living adult Erunsil.

 Other notable locations in Ver'huin included arms and armor stores, a provisions and general wares vendor, and finally, a local sorcerer who made his way in the world primarily by healing the injured and sick, and collecting various rare herbs for making healing oils the Humans could use and take with them. All operated on barter, with Oruk tusks being worth much in the settled areas by Man and Fey alike, and as worthless as any other tooth in the wilds.

_Ah yes, the Humans_, Thrayn noted bitterly, for there were some two dozen Men encamped in a small clearing nearby. The Fey generally disliked them, but the Humans were tolerated in these dire times because they were aggressive rebels in the fight against Shadow. Most had come in the last year, and none constructed a permanent home lest the Fey descend upon them and obliterate the offenders for their presumption - and their damage to the forest. A small tent village marked the location of the Humans - along with their stink and the smoke of poorly constructed cookfires.

 Thrayn and his two Humans drew much notice in a small place like this, for travellers were not common enough to have become mundane. The Humans were wary as they always were, and the Fey simply noted the presence of two more Men and an unknown Elf - at first. Only another Fey could have noted the sudden change in atmosphere among the trees when Thrayn was recognized, and a  dark whisper arose throughout the elven settlement. The clanging of the Elven weaponsmith stopped as well, leaving the forest unnaturally silent for a long moment.

 Bornhild, who had over the last two days become somewhat friendly with Rongald, was ignorant of this however and nodded to the other human in the wagon beside his and said in Norther, "I would wager that our wares will make us welcome indeed in this place, should our mythical master choose to stay here."

 Rongald merely shrugged. "He goes where he will, and I follow. He keeps me alive and I keep him in Oruk teeth."

 Thrayn motioned the wagons to halt near the human portion of the settlement, and the two humans did so quickly, gladly stepping off the hard seats and stretching, but with a wary eye towards their unfamiliar surroundings. As his foot hit the ground Bornhild winced and drew in a sharp breath between gritted teeth. Blood wet anew the bandage at his ruined shin. Thrayn walked over to him and knelt down, placing both hands on the man's shattered calf and closed his eyes. A wind seemed to blow from the Elf's hands, strongly enough to disturb his shocking white hair, and a chill went through Bornhild's entire body. 

 Thrayn stood, then, and looked into Bornhild's astonished eyes. "You'd be of little use hobbling around on a ruined foot, he said in the Human tongue. "Get warm by the fire. We'll be here for some time."  As he walked away toward the Erunsil trees, Bornhild watched him wordlessly. After a few moments he scrabbled to remove his bandages, revealing a leg that was without any sign of injury.  Bornhild shuddered once more, clearly of mixed feelings on the matter.


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## Emiricol (Dec 29, 2004)

Thrayn and his Human companions were at the Erunsil village for several days and nights. He had spent his time haggling with each of the merchants, and visiting the craftsmen to barter for their goods and supplies. By the fourth day in Ver'huin, nothing from the raid had gone untraded and the small group of three was well outfitted to move on.  Thrayn had outfitted Rongald and Dornhild with proper weapons, allowing them to trade away the poorly constructed gear they had been using, and upgraded their armor.  He had a properly provisioned and equipped horse as well, to carry their gear.

 As morning arose on their final day in Ver'huin, Thrayn sat staring into the dying embers of the campfire amongst the tents of the humans, for he had found himself unwelcome for any real length of time in the trees of the Fey. It was in the silence of the early morning and the dim light of dawn that he escaped the voices echoing in his head. Screams of loved ones cut off with vicious finality and the cries for help from long dead friends grew quiet in that weirding hour. Even the thought of it started to bring them back.

 The chain shirt and leather breeches he had purchased for himself were of good fit, he noted as he shook himself from his darker thoughts, and the extra weight was warming in the chill air.  The oddly patterned links in the mail were a hallmark of its Elven construction, although Thrayn knew it was no more effective than the more simple patterning of Human mail.  Still, it comforted him to know it was Fey armor.  _Certainly Rongald seems duly impressed, although that means little coming from the superstitious Human, _ Thrayn mused.

 He stood and went to the one horse he had kept and rechecked the fittings on the pack saddle once again. Satisfied, he reached into the pocket of one of the saddlebags and fished out the two golden rings that had concluded his bartering. The golden armbands and simple silver torque he now wore were part of the same set, but the rings were made for larger hands. He rolled them in his palms within the pocket of the saddlebags as he waited for his companions to wake.

 When they did, Thrayn sat back and watched them aid each other in donning their own mail shirts over their leathers. They joined the other men around the fire and laughed and shared in the food being passed about, and Thrayn let them have their time among their fellow Men. They would leave soon enough. 

 Not that there was much temptation to stay any longer. Having concluded business among his Erunsil kin, they had taken once again to whispering as he passed, when they payed him any mind at all. He was less welcome here than the Dorn forced to camp at the outskirts - which was of course why he was reduced to passing the night in the company of sleeping Men, for they did not shun him as the other Erunsil did.

 Soon Rongald and Bornhild had finished their meal and made their way over to Thrayn. Rongald merely nodded as he gathered up his pack and swept his fur lined cloak over it, and Bornhild offered a simple "Good morrow," and did the same.  He struggled for a moment with the gorget at his helm but quickly resolved the matter.

 Thrayn walked up to the two men and pressed the rings into their palms. The two Men looked as one down into their palms in surprise, and it was easy to see their awe at such a rich gift. Though they fought against Shadow, for both men it seemed possible that it was a matter of opportunity rather than any strong convictions.

"We should be gone. Let's be off before our welcome wears thin," he said flatly.  Thrayn then turned and grabbed up the horse's lead and began to lead them away from the Erunsil village. 

 Rongald nodded at Thrayn's comment, smiling slightly. "It is good luck to start a journey at the request of the Fey."

 Bornhild slid the ring on and avoided Thrayn's eyes. "Aye, but do not let him bespell you, Norther," he muttered in Erenlander. "Don't turn your back on him, lest he cloud your mind."

 Rongald showed no indication that he heard his fellow Dorn, and turned to Thrayn. "Aye, away from here. A half-week of the best food I've had in months and a bed softer than my cloak has made me soft."

 Bornhild chuckled at the jest, while Thrayn merely eyed the two Men with a detached curiosity then turned to lead the pack horse toward the trail away from the village. "Come," said Thrayn, "if you wish my protection, then let us leave this place. Ver'huin is fast losing its charm."


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## Emiricol (Dec 30, 2004)

There was a commotion ahead, towards the periphery of the tent clearing, and the Men there made way with much haste for an Erunsil who wore the livery of the Witch Queen. This of itself was not surprising, for several of her House were likely to be found any time you found more than a dozen Elves of any type, but they rarely came down among the tents of Men.

 The Elf, who looked 16 and might have been a thousand years old for all anyone could tell, approached Thrayn with a look of distaste, as though he had come to speak perhaps to a mangy dog. One that might nip. _I see my reputation is no secret to him,_ thought Thrayn with no small bitterness.

"Leaving, I see," said the other haughtily in High Elven, though his relief at that fact was evident to Thrayn even if it was lost on the Men around them. "I might have information of interest to you, wanderer."

 Thrayn bowed his head in respect before straightening to his full height to looking into the other Elf's eyes. They were the same cold blue that stared back at him in reflections, not the blackeye of an actual Avatar of the witch queen. Still, in Thrayn's estimation, a man of honor who had chosen a just path in direct service to the Elven nations. An honor he would not taste himself until he had repaid certain debts of honor... "Thank you. I would listen gladly to whatever you might share with me."

  The messenger nodded slightly, and his eyes glanced over Thrayn once more, evaluating. He continued in High Elvish, "The Shadow has sent a dozen half-squads of Orcs, each led by an Oruk, to raid into the forests a day south of us. They are suiciders, whose mission is to gain the favor of the god-who-must-not-be-named by doing as much damage to us as possible before they die to go join him in the Shadow." He paused briefly to glance at the two Humans flanking the unwelcome Elf, eyebrows furrowing slightly in disapproval at Thrayn's choice of company regardless of the fact that other Fey had little to do with the ostracized Elf.

"Our forces fighting to the south discovered this too late to pursue, and The Whispers tell us that one of the teams is headed towards the Glen of Norana, a pristine pool south of us which is a Place of Power. Vis can be found there, and we can't afford to lose it to their desecrations. But most of our own warriors are north at the moment, fighting a band of Oruk who we imagine followed your tracks in."  The queen's servant practically spit his last words, then bowed slightly, looking to the Elf for a reaction.

 A barely-supressed grimace passed over Thrayn's lined features. It seemed that the forces of Shadow hunted him personally, intent on destroying all he cared for. "I will set out for the Glen immediately. Those orcs will be destroyed or I will attempting it." He nodded in respect again and spun towards his companions, his cape spinning around his legs from the sudden movement. "Bornhild, Rongald! We must hurry. We have work approaching from the South." He stormed over to them and grabbed the horse's lead. 

 Without waiting for a response from the two Dornlanders he began a brisk march through the ankle deep snow toward the waiting Glen. _If the orcs reached the Glen before me, there is always the Great Bear of Norana. What survives the beast's ire, I could make short work of..._

 Behind him, the two men looked at each other for a long moment, having caught none of the Elvish but much of the tension between the two Fey. "Come on then," said Rongald, who began hoofing after his sometime-employer. Bornhild stood for a moment longer before following as well, eyes downcast as he tried to work out just why he was following one of the Fey, and grumbling a bit too loudly.

 The Witch Queen's servant paused a moment, watching with relief as Thrayn put distance between the two of them. Silently, he turned and headed back towards the Fey village. Only a slight twitch of the cheek gave away just how agitated he was, and the Men he walked past were oblivious - a fact he noted with more than his usual disgust.

 ----------------------------------

 Thrayn and the two Men travelled quickly, for there was little need to mask their tracks just yet. The rough ground was easy enough for the Elf to navigate, but the Humans were unfamiliar with the territory and merely did their best to keep up with the Elf. The horse seemed content with the pace they set, his load light.

 As they travelled, the trees grew denser, and as Dornhild noted in Erenlander, taller and thicker as well. "I tell you, Rongald, this Fey is leading us into woods not meant for the eyes of Men. Have you ever seen a simple pine so tall as these? I wonder that they are trees at all, and not merely a trick on my eyes. Every Norther child knows the tricks Elves can play on the minds of Men at their whim."

 Rongald grunted, nodding, but replied in Norther. "Shut that big eating hole of yours. If he wanted to trick you, he would need only enter your mind to change your very memories. From what I gather, that's easier than creating illusions so broad, and for so many, as the imagined woods you so fear."


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## Emiricol (Dec 31, 2004)

The great Oruk grunted, then spoke to his Orc warriors in the fluid language of their kind, full of whistles and nasal grunts that were impossible to reproduce accurately without the tusks and nasal construction unique to their black kind.

"Second Tusk!  Where are we now?  If you have led us south, I will cut off your left arm and add it to the Blades' rations!" he said, using the Master inflection that showed his dominant position.

 An Orc, this one larger than his fellows and wearing two brutally distinct hashmark-like scars on his shoulders, broke from his run and allowed himself to draw even with the Oruk. "My flesh is yours, Third Tusk."  The Orc supressed his glee at the clear discomfort this title caused their so-called master, even though he'd used the Inferior inflection their relative ranks demanded.  In their tongue it was impossible not to know who felt themselves master in any conversation, but it was still possible to strike back in the Inferior.  Second Tusk was very good at that.

 The "Third Tusk" Oruk had four hashmark scars, but one had been dyed the same mottled tan/green of his skin, a badge of shame that not many Oruk would have survived carrying.  Leading "mere" Orcs was probably the only way this arrogant _Fakil_ could avoid a blood challenge from another Oruk.  Much to his and his men's regret.

"But I have not led us astray," he continued in his submissive inflection.  "My sense of direction remains unshamed."  Ha!  Another dig.  Although the flaring of the Oruk leader's nostrils told Second Tusk he'd better not push his luck further.  

"We have headed west ever since our Spear Master led us into the Fey trap.  As he brilliantly deduced, it gave us the opportunity we needed to infiltrate through their lines.  We have seen neither Fey nor Sidhe nor Men in two days."

 Third Tusk grunted once more, then said in the harsh, abrasive sounds of the Master inflection of their tongue, "The Legate has just informed me that we are to turn North now.  We will find a pond within hours, and must taint it for the Shadow.  Only then may we find our way to Izrador."

 The Orc nodded. "Yes, Third Tusk."  Within moments he had the five Blades under his command turned and running North.  _Let some Fey try to keep up with my troop!  They are well disciplined compared to those point-ears._

 -------------------------------------

 Carith stepped out from behind the tree he had used for cover and watched as the orcs passed out of his sight into the forest. "Well this all makes sense now, Whisper. The vision last night of Orcs desecrating a pool, after a fierce battle with Men and a Fey - and now a troop of Orcs race towards the same place I have been drawn to for days..." 

 The hawk on a near by tree looked down on him and gave a slight bob of its head, one that looked far to much like a human nod. 

"We have to stop them. I don't know how or why, but that pool is important.  It must be kept from their hands.  We can't let its power fall to the Shadow."  The Man shouldered his bow and grabbed his pack up from the ground. "Let's move my friend.  The orcs do not know these woods half as well and I dom and maybe, just maybe, we can beat them to the pond of my Vision!  But we must hurry." 

 Without a sound the hawk extended its wings and soared off the tree into the grace of flight, Carith in a light jog not far behind.

 -------------------------------------

 It was nearly nightfall by the time the woods took on a distinctively Fey overtone. Thrayn knew instinctively that he approached a place of immense, if subtle, power. The energy of it thrummed in his ears, almost audible but felt more than heard. It was a welcoming sensation to him. The humans with him kept tight together and their knuckles were white with the unconscious tension of their hands upon their spear hafts, eyes darting back and forth.

 Closing his eyes and reaching out his mind, Thrayn felt the small waves of energy wash over him, until his own rhythms were in time with those of the glen. So far, all was well - the Orcs were not yet here. But this was a large place, with many approaches.

 They were on the northern border of the Glen of Norana, named after the fey Elder who, millenia ago, had tamed the raw energy of this place of primordial power, bent it to her will and made it useable to all the Fey.

 Further in, the forest was dense enough that movement would be slowed and visibility extremely limited. Some hundred yards deeper would be the preternaturally still pond in the center of the Glen, with waters so pure that those who carried not the Fey gift of sorcery would be burned by the power of the magic that permeated it.

 To the west of the pond would be a small hill networked with caves, the home of the Great Bear of the Glen - a mythical creature that was bear in name and shape only, for those who saw it said with a straight face that it stood three times the height of a normal bear if it stood an inch, with unnatural ridges and protrusions about the muzzle and shoulders that could only be a result of its prolonged exposure to the Glen. It was well known for attacking with speed and surprise any who approached who were not themselves Fey or under the protection of one of the Elves.

 South of the pond would be the place of crafting - a series of workstations that enabled the Fey to build all manner of magically endowed weaponry, armor, and more mundane gear as well. The Elves said that any such item created and enchanted here would bear a greater power than the crafter alone could have accounted for.

 East of the wondrous Glen lay the Alter of Norana's Dirge, an ancient stone tablet from before the First Age of Men, upon which Norana had allowed her circle of sorcerers to sacrifice her for the purposes of enabling a terrible ritual. That potent magic is what had tamed this Elder Fey place for future use by their kind - mere decades before Izrador's first thrust to the south, by happy coincidence.

 The Glen of Norana held her name to this day, and had served the Erunsil well. And Orcs were likely coming to despoil it.


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## Emiricol (Dec 31, 2004)

I've posted a map and battle summary thread at trosforums.com (the forums where the game is taking place).  You can find it at: 

http://www.trosforums.com/viewtopic.php?t=381 

  Because the Story Hour isn't updated as fast as the game posts, the map won't reflect the story hour latest post, but you can see the history of each battle turn by turn, which might be of interest in general, and especially once the "battle scene" is posted up in the story hour.


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## Eremite (Jan 2, 2005)

Great writing, Emiricol. One thing that has always amazed me about the Midnight setting is that all of the story hours based on this world are uniformly well-written. I'm really looking forward to more from you.


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## Emiricol (Jan 2, 2005)

Eremite said:
			
		

> Great writing, Emiricol. One thing that has always amazed me about the Midnight setting is that all of the story hours based on this world are uniformly well-written. I'm really looking forward to more from you.



 Thanks, Eremite.  I am glad you enjoy reading it!  I will continue to keep it updated regularly as the game progresses


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## Emiricol (Jan 2, 2005)

As the three travellers reached the verge of the Glen, Thrayn motioned for them to halt. They had approached from the east and Thrayn had led them around, past the southern edge, to cover the most likely approach of the Orcs.  "This is the direction they should be coming from. Find two sturdy trees and if you can, climb high into their branches. Make ready your bows and several arrows. We will await the brutes from there. Whatever happens, do not enter the Glen - it is perilous to mortal Men and is guarded by a beast out of legend."

 Rongald nodded but shared a wary glance with Bornhild. Then wordlessly he began to look about for a fitting tree.

 Thrayn took the horse by the reins and led him closer to the Glen a short way, but beyond sight of their ambush spot. He could hear the stream of the Glen just beyond the treeline and it called to him as though his blood itself yearned to go there, but he put his desire aside and tied the horse to one of the trees, and returned quickly to the Men. They had already ascended two large trees and were passably hidden within the ancient branches. Thrayn chose a third tree, nearby, creating something of a crossfire. He found a spot on a large branch and nestled into the joint where it met the bole, then drew forth half a dozen arrows, setting them at his feet where he crouched. One, he knocked into his bow. With his free hand he attempted to arrange the twigs and branches around him to cover his appearance from below. Now all that was left was to wait and hope for the best.

 ----------------------------

 The Oruk leader had the Orcs moving as fast as possible through the woods, but the Third Tusk suddenly felt something new. It tingled his scalp and raised the hairs on his arms and neck, and he realized what it was - fear. He quickly ordered the Orcs to a halt, and the heaving, panting invaders did just that, and gratefuly.

_The Legate's Whisper said to turn North, and I have felt that feeling but once before - facing one of the pointears' blasphemous sorcerers. Is that what we are to destroy? Why then would we be ordered to taint the pond we will find? Bah! I ask too many questions. There is magic ahead, I can sense it. If I were the Fey, I might have a sorcerer to defend such a place._

 The Oruk barked to Second Tusk in the Master inflection, "We rest. Two hours. We will move ahead when the sun begins to set. Make ready. Any Blade who wearies or retreats will serve Izrador one last time, as extra rations for the rest of us."

 Second Tusk immediately passed this along to the Blades, the warrior orcs beneath him, and they snorted and laughed at the thought of extra meat - none too concerned that they themselves might be the one to tire first.

 They rested for two hours, then Third Tusk gathered his forces and ordered javelins out and ready. Two Blades were placed ahead and to his left, two ahead and to his right. The fifth Blade he took himself, and ordered Second Tusk in the center, to quietly relay commands and support whichever team encountered something interesting first.

 The other Orcs did not fail to notice this brilliant plan put the Oruk in the rear with a bodyguard, but in the end they obeyed despite their clear misgivings.

 With a forward wave of his hand, Third Tusk set the force moving slowly forward. He had picked his path better than he could have hoped, though he didn't know it; it wasn't until the two eastern Blades were within a mere 15 yards of the two Men in the trees, with the Second Tusk a mere 5 yards beyond, that the ambushers became aware of their presence, the Orcs emerging from a dense cluster of brush to expose themselves briefly.


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## Eremite (Jan 3, 2005)

More, please!


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## Emiricol (Jan 3, 2005)

Thrayn's eyes narrowed as he heard the sounds of the oncoming orc raiding party. Shadows flickered between the brush and boles of the trees as they approached. Almost without warning, three of the beasts stepped into view sneaking in an odd echelon order. Two were close together and nearest to the hidden men. The third was slightly further back and deeper in the brush. Not trusting the humans to hit such a target, he narrowed his eyes and pulled back the string of his bow. As his thumb touched his ear in the Fey fashion of drawing, he loosed the shot. The whiz of the arrow's flight was cut off abruptly as it sunk deep into the Orc's stomach. With a truncated yelp, the brute fell to his side and lay curled in a quivering ball around the shaft and fletching. _Time for satisfaction later, if we survive._  He reached for another arrow hastily.

 From just to his south Thrayn heard the swish of Rongald's arrow and saw as it streaked forth to sink into the chest of another of the orcs. The creature howled and reached instinctively for the wound as he stumbled back, but did not lose his footing. Almost simultaneously, Bornhild's arrow took the third Orc in the hip, and deeply. The Orc's leg failed him and, as he fell, Thrayn could see the broad head of the Norther arrow, black with blood, thrusting from the creature's buttock.

 The orcs' discipline failed them. The sight of their Second Tusk going down with an elf-fletched arrow in his gut, and their supposed leader safely in the rear, was just too much for the naturally chaotic Orcs.  The two wounded who remained standing, realizing their vulnerability in the relative open space they were crossing, determined quickly that they could not close the distance to where the arrows likely came from - at least not before more arrows rained down upon them. They chose instead to dash for the cover of a large tree trunk, every Orc for himself. 

 The one with the arrow penetrating his hip hobbled, the joint partly dislocated and definitely chipped. Once safely hidden, they glanced over their wounds. "We would both have need of the cutter, if we lived long enough to get back to our lines," panted the one, clutching the arrow in his chest to ease the pain.  "We are not totally out of the fight yet, Blade-brother.  We may yet earn Izrador's blessings when we pass over, if we do it well."

 The other team of Blades didn't miss the rain of arrows and dashed forward to cover, the better to peer out and try to make sense of the situation. Meanwhile, running through the northern treeline, the Oruk and his bodyguard kept behind cover as they circled the ambush site, eyes wide open and registering the extent of their predicament.

 The ambushers quickly renocked arrows, having removed them from their quivers ahead of time for speed of loading, but even so it was too long - their prey had cover, now, and no longer surprised. With their targets gone from sight, Thrayn and his men quickly spotted the larger Oruk and his man coming into view and shifted aim.

 Rongald and Thrayn clearly had the same thought as their arrows flew toward the obvious leader of the raiders.  Oruk stood at least a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than their Orc cousins, and when in their company, were always the leaders. Bornhild made his target more modest, aiming for the more exposed Orc bodyguard. There was no need to call out to each other now. They were caught up in the rush of the battle. Speed would make the advantage now - speed and accuracy. If the Orcs fled, they would be forced to give chase for none could live now to bring back others. Survivors spoke of survivability. _I will never encourage further attacks on the lands of my people again. Never,_ thought Thrayn bitterly as he unleashed his arrow.

 The arrows struck in a staccatto of heavy thwacks - Thrayn's and Rongald's protruded, side by side, from the Oruk's belly, low and near his legs in a location that would make hardened warriors blanch. Blood spurted from the wounds and he fell without a sound, succumbing immediately to shock and pain. Bornhild's arrow still quivered in the tree it had struck, missing the orc by mere inches.

 Thrayn took stock of radically changed the situation. Both the leader and his Second Tusk were down and not moving, and two Blades were hit and unable to advance in cover. The third unwounded Blade was staring down at the still quivering form of the Oruk dispassionately.

 The wounded Blades exchanged meaningful glances. No, neither one would be running for distance any time soon, and both were bleeding enough to leave a trail. They were two days into the woods of the enemy. Retreat was not a survivable option. The Orc with an arrow in his chest panted and said between gritted teeth, "We have healthy Blade Brothers not fifty feet away. We'll never make it with our wounds - not without getting shot again." He left much unsaid, but the other nodded in unspoken agreement. As one, they screamed their terrible warcries and ran, as best they could, from the cover of their isolated tree and straight at the two humans perched in the trees east of them. In the lead was the one with an arrow in his chest, , and the other performing an odd limp-drag-scoot as fast as he could behind, despite the pain of a partially dislocated hip and arrow-shattered joint. They closed a good five yards in but a second, recklessly closing on the ambushers without thought to their safety.

 The two unwounded Blades from behind their own cover saw the courageous charge of their companions, and their decision was made. "I will not be the first to run while less able warriors charge! Izrador!" He screamed the last.

 As one the two able warriors lept from their cover and likewise charged, unheeding of the danger, across the open ground between them and the ambushers. They were faster than the others, of course, making nearly twice the distance their hobbled fellow Orcs made, and slowed only when they stood a mere four or five yards directly north of the Men. At this range, their javelins would be as effective as arrows, and the Orc strength could tip the balance. To take one of their enemy with them would make this an exchange the Shadow got the better of in the long run, for the Orcs were expendable.

 Again the ambushers loosed their arrows as the Orcs charged recklessly.  Rongald's arrow took one of the wounded in the eye and the brute's head snapped back as his feet flipped into the air. He was dead before he hit the ground. Bornhild shot the other wounded Orc in its sword arm, embedding itself through the elbow as the beast prepared m to throw a javelin. The weapon fell to the ground as the victim spun towards the wounded arm, sheilding it out of instinct. The other two Orcs seemed to be ignoring Thrayn - they had also drawn their javelins and were approaching the Dornlander's tree. 

_Curse upon Shadow! Again I will be passed over while companions die!_ Thrayn's face twisted into a snarl of rage as he drew back the bowstring. _I will not let these people die, though mere Men they be!_ He would not let the Orks despoil his homeland any further. With each attack that breached his borders more of his people died. Death wasn't enough for Izrador any more. Now the Shadow had to ruin the very land and kill the souls of his people. 

 Thrayn's shot went wide when he fired, his hand shaking with rage, but did manage to hit the trailing healthy Orc in the hip. Blood spurted in a crimson arc from the severed artery as it toppled to the ground with a cry of pain.

 The only Orc left uninjured among the four rushing Blades let his javelin fly, his massive strength propelling it at fearsome speed. Rongald jerked as the spear took him in the gut, but he thanked the stars that it was merely a shallow wound.  He was saved from likely death by his mail armor, which Thrayn had purchased for him in the Fey village before they left. He grunted and grasped the haft with his free hand and pulled, setting the heavy Orc projectile next to him.  Blood oozed from the rings of his rent mail.

 The orcs were close now. _Close enough that they could get more of those javelins fired off if they aren't taken out immediately_, thought Thrayn calmly as he fired yet another arrow. There was really only one target for him to take - the uninjured Orc who had attacked Rongald. Swish, the arrow streaked away, his aim almost perfect. There was a satisfyingly solid thud as the arrow took that Orc in the chest, piercing his heart directly. Death was so fast, he had not even time to grimace, merely tumbling forward to slide some feet face-first in the dirt before his momentum was spent.

 Rongald and Dornhild released in unison at the two remaining Orcs charging them. Rongald shot well despite his wound, and his aim was true. The arrow, fletched in the fashion favored by the Dorn with larger feathers and a slightly broader head, slid effortlessly between two ribs of the hip-shot Orc from before, piercing its lung. The massive creature fell to its knees, then flopped onto the leaves of the forest floor. It gasped for air but found not enough as its lung filled with blood. It was dead, it just didn't know it yet. Rongald nodded in satisfaction.

 Dornhild followed suit, firing at the only Orc left standing - this the one with arrow through both hip and elbow. _Die, you thrice-curst bastard!_ He had aimed true once more, and for the second time this battle the arrow streaked straight to the head of his target. The broad tip took the orc in the eye, piercing all the way through the skull to protrude halfway out the back of its skull, fletching a mere inch from the now savaged eyesocket.

 Rongald called to Dornhild, "You doubted the ability of the Elf, eh? Here without his Shadow-cursed sorcery he has done as well as either of us - we, lifelong hunters and bandits. Ha!"

 Dornhild merely nodded, hopping quickly from his tree perch with spear now in hand, and set to finish off any dead. Rongald slung his bow and climbed gingerly from his own perch, still bleeding slightly through the rent links of his mail armor. He had drawn his axe by the time Thrayn emerged. The Human was bent upon the necessary mutilation of the corpses, following after Dornhild so as to ensure he got no surprises from not-yet-dead Orcs. 

 Thrayn shook his head slowly, speaking in a quiet tone as hard as iron. "You need not dull your blade on their necks, Norther. This place will brook no Fell."

 Dornhild grimaced. "We are to trust you on this, Fey? 'Tis your kind who brought the Curse upon us, revenge for our failure to stand against Izrador."

 Thrayn's eyes narrowed. He had taken a step forward when Rongald interposed himself between the two, yelling at his fellow Dornish warrior, "Shut up, fool. You are as superstitious as the old washermaids! No wonder the Shadow rules our homeland. Bah. Norther!" Again, he had spit the name venemously, and Dornhild clenched his jaw in anger but turned away to finish his grisly business of finishing off the Orcs. For now, then, no fight was coming, which clearly relieed Rongald, who glanced at Thrayn with a nod and half-smile, almost apologetically.

 It was then that Thrayn finished counting the bodies. A sixth Orc was missing from among the dead. One had escaped the ambush - the one who had been with the Oruk! Thrayn ran then to the corpse of their leader. Thrayn's eye travelled quickly to the missing ear, and raised an eyebrow in curiosity and some confusion. He looked up from the felled Oruk toward the Glen. No doubt the Orc had continued on to finish his work for his dark master. 

 Fury welled within Thrayn and he turned to the humans, his face blank and cold but eyes like two blue flames, flashing with the power of his rage. To Rongald he spoke, "Take anything of value and pile the bodies. We dare not burn them in this sacred place." He turned, about to run to the Glen. "Whatever happens, do not follow me - your kind are forbidden to enter. You would surley die." At that he was gone, running into the forest toward the Glen, his fighting knives in hand.


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## Emiricol (Jan 3, 2005)

The Orc reached down and, with one deft and callous motion, sliced the ear from the twitching Oruk at his feet and calmly put it in his beltpouch, then looked apprehensively about. _The Third Tusk is dying, and he is the only one who has ever heard the Legate Whisper. Perhaps the magic is in his ear. When I get to the glen, it will tell me what to do._ His decision made, the Orc moved out east among the trees and found a path just ahead that might enable him to sneak unseen away from the ambushers who were slaughtering the rest of his group even now.  He moved off at a fast pace, hunched down to present the smallest profile he could.

 Carith gazed out at the battle beginning before him and began to move in.  _The archers can handle the charging orcs. I'll handle the one going for the Glen myself._ Throwing his pack and bow off his shoulder he dropped into a quick run, _Raseri Styrke_ the blade of his ancestors, coming free of its scabard as he ran.  The longsword had been crafted using techniques now lost to the Dorn in a time before Shadow ruled his homeland, and it had never met its match in battle according to all the family legends.

 Carith breathed somewhat heavily as he kept rough pace with the fleeing Orc, never losing sight of the creature's back but also unable to close with it. He would not have been able to keep the pace up for long; fortunately, his prey came to a halt abruptly after bursting through the treeline to stand on the southern edge of a moderately sized pond of the purest clarity. Despite the forest, there were no leaves or debris in the water, and the entire area had an otherwordly feel. A Fey place of power, throught Carith with as much excitement as concern; every fiber of his being longed to rest in this tranquil place, for it felt like home - a thing he had not felt in quite some time.

 The orc, hearing the Man still behind him, slowly turned to face the approaching Carith, drawing at the same time his massive Vardach, a heavy falchion-like blade meant for two hands and Orcish strength. He grinned after a brief glance about, but it was not a friendly expression. "Northslave, I'll have your meat tonight to feast upon. I will cook it over the fires of the burning woods, your blood drained first into the pool to drive out the spirit of the Shadow that resides there. That power is not for Men or Elf, Infidel."  His voice dripped with religious fervor. It stepped lightly on the balls of its feat, slowly approaching Carith inexorably. There would be no time for arrows in this fight.

 Carith kept his blade steady as he dropped into a low defensive stance and advanced towards the Orc ."I am no one's slave, weakling. Now show me what little courage you have, for the time for talking is over."

 The orc stepped forward with murder in his eyes and swung high and fast, hoping to end the fight quickly but unwilling to commit heavily to the attack yet. Carith stepped up to meet him and swung his own sword high to deflect the attack. The ringing of steel echoed through out the sacred pond as the blades met and with a grunt Carith pushed the Orc backwards.  He then launched a probing strike at the orc's midsection, but he saw it coming and knocked the Man's longsword aside with ease.

 Realizing the Orc's momentum, Carith took a step back and raised his blade once more. The orc swung high again, but much weaker this time.  With a sudden surge of strength Carith knocked the swing aside and pivoted hard to his left, using the energy from the deflection to help propel his sword at the orc's belly once again. 

 The orc was no slouch, and faster than he looked.  His Vardatch found itself right where it needed to be to parry the man's attack and, before Carith had a chance to recover fully, he swung the Vardach upwards in what would have been a devastating uppercut if not for the keen balance of _Raseri Styrke_ and the skill of the Man behind it. 

 Catching the blow low Carith tried to push the orc away once more, but the shadow creature's strength prevailed. Raising his Vardatch again, the orc lashed out, taking advantage of the Man's momentary awkward position.  Carith parried, but the blow merely glanced upward, catching Carith square in the ribs and nearly knocking the young woodsman from his feet.

 Carith thought for a moment that the fight was over, but a glance down showed that his life had been spared only by his armor, which now had a number of deformed links that would require mending.  _Better the armor than the Man._ Gritting his teeth he stared into the eyes of the orc and snarled the best he could in its tongue, having after all no tusks, "I've been hit harder by children and goblins, and you pretend to be the Shadow's favorites?"

 The orc roared with rage, swinging his vardatch up at Carith's head. While his blow was powerful, it was ill-timed and Carith stopped it with little more than a thought, launching his own counter attack with a quick slash out across the orc’s body. Off balance then from his miss-aimed blow the orc tried to raise his blade to parry, but the strike came too fast and before he could get into position the Man's keen longsword met the top of his head from front to back, shattering bone in an instant.  The Orc dropped instantly, bleeding profusely from his deep head wound.

 Breathing heavily from the short fight, Carith griped _Raseri Styrke_ tightly and thrusted it deep into the chest of the Orc, finishing it off. Using one hand to wipe the sweat from his brow he glanced about the clearning, for the first time taking in the sight of the place that had called to him in his dreams for days now.


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## Eremite (Jan 5, 2005)

Great stuff! Keep up the good work... because I'm coming back for the next episode.


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## Emiricol (Jan 10, 2005)

The glen was preternaturally silent, except for the quiet burbling of the stream that led away from the pool in the center of the clearing. Carith, catching his breath, leaned down and cleansed the orc ochre from his blade on the Orc's own tunic, rubbing it clean with practiced ease.

 Carith froze suddenly, as a blur of moment was caught in the corner of his eye. He slowly turned his head to the left and up, from his crouched position, and there before him standing twelve feet on its hind legs if an inch was the most gigantic bear he'd ever seen. Though it was twice as tall as a bear, it was at least three times more muscular, the knotty sinews bulging beneath the massively thick hide and fur.

 The great bear snarled, and the sound seemed to make the very ground beneath his feet rattle. Unnatural ridges and spikes along the muzzle and neck of the creature stood out, completing the terrifying picture of primeval death that stood before Carith.

 Before he had a chance to move the creature was upon him, roaring, baring teeth as long as a man's fingers. It towered over the Man.

 But then, rather than attack as Carith had expected, it stopped. Simply stopped. After a moment it tilted its head in a most comical fashion, totally at odds with the fearsome display of mere moments before. It sniffed him once. Twice. Then turned its back on the Man and trudged heavily to the west, disappearing amid the hills and the caverns therein.

  ----------------------------------------

 Thrayn arrived too late. He was only barely at the ridge of the trees by the time it had attacked the Man, but then suddenly, the beast stopped in its tracks. A moment later, it smelled him just as it might any Fey, and the tilt of its head showed it to be as confused as Thrayn himself. Miraculously, when the bear turned to leave, the human was still alive.

  Never had Thrayn heard of such a thing in his entire life, nor any of his studies, nor any legend uttered in his hearing.

 Quietly, Thrayn sheathed his knives and drew his bow once again. He nocked an arrow and stood from the undergrowth he had been crouching in. "Man! This place is forbidden to you! I know not what foul magics of the shadow you used to bewitch the guardian, but I will slay you where you stand if you..." He stopped as he saw the ork laying near the pool. "What Deceipt is this?!" He hissed to himself.

  Carith turned slowly and held up his hands, carefully dropping his sword to the ground. "There is no deception here, master Elf. My name is Carith and I was called to this place to defend it," he said reasonably, in as even a tone as he could muster. "For days my dreams have been haunted by nightmares of orcs entering this sacred pool, and the every time I opened my mind to the Whisper of the trees they bid me travel here. I picked up the trail of the orcs earlier today and as I saw this one break away from your ambush I gave chase and made sure he could not complete his dark mission and spoil this sacred place."  Stepping cautiously toward the Elf, hands still held out, he almost whispered, "I am sorry if I offended you master elf, I was simply doing what I can to defend the magisty of these woods."

  Thrayn lowered the bow perhaps an inch, still searching for any sign of deception from this Human. "Whispers of the trees? Impossible. You lie. Only the Adepts may hear the murmuring of those passed on. What are you that you may stand here unharmed? Legate? Some contrivance of Izrador?" Thrayn's eyes burned holes in Carith as he spoke, his lowered voice hanging menacingly in the cold air.

  Carith shook his head vigorously. "I am no servant of the Shadow! I am a free-willed Man who dwells among these trees and through their blessing has come to understand them in some measure. I do not know why I have been given this gift, but I am marked by these woods, and I swear to you I am among its defenders."

  Thrayn grimaced.  _None of this makes sense! He is obviously a Man and no halfling child. He can not possibly be telling the truth. Yet, I can not deny the slain ork or the Great Bear's acceptance of his presence, as galling as that may be._ He stepped forward, keeping the bow leveled at the Erenlander's chest. "We shall see what is true soon enough, Human." He said the last word with venom. When he came to within a yard of the man he channeled the sorcerous energy within him. 

"Intellegam Meantus Verasitum Calviae." The words thrummed with power. He could feel the Human's thoughts - slight trepidation, the animal urge to fight, frustration, yes. But no sense of deception. His words had been true. Somehow, impossibly, they had been true. _Or at least he believes that he speakes the truth._

  Thrayn's face twisted with indecision for a moment before he finally lowered his bow. "You speak the truth. For some reason this place welcomes your presence. Do not leave that... thing," he spat the word as he pointed to the ork, "here to rot. Burn it beyond the reach of the glen." 

 He gave the Human one more measuring look and then turned abruptly to walk back the way he had come. It was time to bring Rongald in to tend to his wounds. _Bornhild can watch the fire and fret alone in the woods._

  --------------------

 Carith dragged the orc through the woods towards the rising plume of smoke from a distance off in the trees and into the small clearing. Tossing the dead creature onto the fire and nodding to the northman who kept watch of the fire, he said with a friendly enough tone, "Greetings friend, I am Carith Darstin, and you would be one of the elves companions?" 

  Dornhild simply grunted, "Aye,"  as he tightened his grip on his spear.  Then after a long moment of considering the newcomer, he said in his quiet voice, "And why are you walking these woods, dragging a dead orc no less? You are no Elf." 

 "I am a woodsmen who is blessed by the powers of the trees. I was called here to defend the pond beyond these trees in the Glen from those orcs."  After a moment of silence it became clear the Dorn had no interest in idle talk.  Carith brushed off his hands and said, "Now if you will excuse me I must make sure their are not more of the foul creatures about."

  -------------------------

 As the odd man left the fireside, Thrayn walked from amongst the trees leading the pack horse. He handed the reins to Bornhild and walked over to Rongald, who was sitting down and holding his wounded belly. Thrayn offered the man his hand and helped him to his feet. "Come. I will help you with your wound." 

 The two of them wandered away slowly, back towards the glen, Thrayn leading the way. Rongald staggered here and there, but was not so gravely wounded that he could not keep pace for so short a distance.

  Thrayn spoke as he walked. "Stay near me and do not stray from my side. The Glen is treacherous to those without the blood of the Erunsil." He looked back over his shoulder and fixed Rongald with his eyes. "There is a Guardian here, terrible to behold. I say again, do not stray from my side. So long as I escort you, you will not be harmed." Rongald merely nodded, his face a grimace of discomfort. Walking with a belly wound was not exactly fun.

 Thrayn was irritated at having to bring the Dorn into the sacred Glen, but having taxed his magical strengths testing the Erenlander's honesty there was no other choice than to draw on the Glen's power to aid him. He truly doubted that either of the men who had set foot in the Glen appreciated what a gift they had been given, to see this bastion of the Elder Fey in these dark days and yet survive to tell of it.

 They passed beyond the treeline and stepped into the clearing of the Glen. Thrayn motioned for Rongald to stop, and he did so gladly. In moments the Great Bear was upon them, appearing with alarming speed from its cave and charging. The beast rose to it's hind legs mere feet from Rongald and gave a deep, terrible growl of warning before slowing dropping down again to all fours. The ground shook with it's weight. Rongald tensed but Thrayn grabbed his arm before he could bolt. "Stand fast if you value your life," he hissed with anger.

 The bear's enourmous head swung from side to side before Rongald, and the sound of it's snuffling was like that of the bellows of a great forge. The moment stretched almost painfully, but soon, satisfied of Thrayn and his ward, the bear turned away slowly and walked back toward his cave. 

 Thrayn could feel Rongald relax and let go of the man's arm.He led him over to the edge of the pond and sat. Closing his eyes for a moment, he centered his thoughts on the power saturating the Glen and opened himself fully to it. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and began to trace Erunsil runes for health and convalesence in the air with his hands. "Creo Corpus Areat Sul" As he spoke the words he lay a hand lightly over Rongald's wound, and a bone-cold chill passed through both of them. A silent wind blew about them, charged with energy even Rongald could almost feel. And then it was gone. When Thrayn raised his hand, the wound beneath was closed, with only a well-healed scar on his stomach to show where the Man had been pierced.

  Thrayn said dismissively, tiredly, "Now return to the camp. I will be along shortly. I have much to think on." He stood as he spoke and began to walk on, deeper into the Glen.

  Rongald stared at his belly in astonishment but soon, blinking, shook off the feeling. _I have been healed by Thrayn thrice before, but I doubt I shall ever become used to it._ He watched the Elf walking for a moment, then turned away and began the walk back to camp.


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## Soullessweare (Jan 11, 2005)

*Great*

I'll keep reading. I bought the Midnight setting some time ago. Waiting for my turn to DM now, thank you for the inspiration


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## Emiricol (Jan 11, 2005)

I'm glad there are people reading this and enjoying it.  It's been a lot of fun DMing this group, and despite a few more typos than usual in my last post I think it's generally going really well 

 Good luck when you get to DM Midnight!  I'm sure you are familiar with the midnight forums, but just in case not - www.againsttheshadow.org has tons and tons of useful information for DMs, and some pretty active Midnight-specific forums.


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## Emiricol (Jan 16, 2005)

Carith, turning away from Dornhild, walked through the woods until he found a small grove of trees. As he moved to place his hand upon one ancient, gnarled pine tree, his mind became aware of a greater existance, and drew then upon the power of the Whispering Woods.

 The instant his hands touched the great pine he was struck forcefully by a whirling flurry of images, confusing and troubling. Orcs dying by the hundreds; Men and Elves dying in lesser numbers, but still the orcs came. And came. And came. Every image contained a flash of red - a banner here, and a pennant there; a shield cover, a breastplate. On each flag and pennant, shield and cuirass, there was embossed the image of the talons of a raptor, a stylized foot, which clutches within its claws a green sphere. Blood-red gashes vividly marred the surface.

 Then, like a hammer he felt struck by the vivid image of a small, glass-smooth pool of inky blackness; torches were lit but the pool seemed to drain away even the light itself, such that it left the place illuminated only faintly; lines and corners of a lighter shade than the pitch black of every flat surface was the only effect of the torches.

 Then, disorientingly fast, the vision shifted to what looked to be a day in early spring with mostly melted snow. The vision of a village, its pallisade - meant to keep out Fell and predators - burning and raising plumes of black smoke to the sky. The dead lay everywhere, mostly Men. 

 Another shift and there was the view of a cluster of dead Orcs and Oruk, piled at the base of a highly unsual rock formation. A butte of red rock rose out of the tall grasses of the fields surrounding the burning village, and on it, men stood with weapons raised, screaming a bloody victory cry.

 It shifted again. Same vista, but this time the men were dead. Oruk were mutilating the bodies, casually slicing off scalps, ears and noses, pulling teeth, and gathering worse trophies as well.

 The scene shifted once more, and there was a Legate, one of the dread servants of Izrador himself, laying dead at the base of the butte; he wore as his personal crest the same red and green image that colored the standards and armor of the Orcs. His black hair, long as a woman's, lay trampled into the mud, which was red with his blood. The once-dark features of his face, that of a Southerner, lay pale and blue and still and his eyes looking blankly to the sky.

_What does it mean?_ thought Carith hazily, coming out of the hallucination. It was impossible to tell with certainty. As always, the sheer volume and quantity of the Whisper of the Woods was deafening, drowning out the potential for real understanding. _If only I could focus the voices, narrow in on one! But no, they are a mere cacaphony of sound and vision._

 And then he stumbled back as he finally broke contact, the assault on his senses too much to withstand any longer. He nearly fell over backwards, so dizzy and disoriented was he. He caught himself on another trees as the last tendrils of the spell's power faded from his body. _A bad omen to be sure but what does it mean. That legate may be the one who sent the orcs to this pond, and if I am reading the vision correctly, this will not be the last of his foul deeds. Perhaps if I find that butte of red rock and the village near by I could make a difference there, or at least gain a place to start._


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## Emiricol (Jan 20, 2005)

Carith whistled as he gathered up his personal belongings from the battle field and the hawk, _Whisper_, flew over the trees to land upon his shoulder. He moved back over to the fire and set himself up against a tree, not far from Dornhild. After a moment of looking through his pack he produced a bottle of mead and, taking a long draught of the liquor, extended the bottle to offer some to Dornhild. "Here have a drink, fights the chill and aches that come from fighting orcs."

   The Dornish man looked hesitantly at the strange woodsman, but in the end moved closer and accepted the bottle. "Tell me, what sort of man are you to be drawn here in defense of a place of the Fey, and who claims to have scouted the area by placing his hand upon a tree."

   Carith reclaimed the bottle in a moment, and took another long drink. He stared into the fire a moment before answering. "I am a man marked by the Fey. Long ago I walked a dark path, but these woods helped me to see the light and have granted me a measure of their strength so I might find success in my quest." He took another drink from the bottle before pressing it into Dornhilds hands. "Just know that I am a friend of all who oppose the Shadow in the North, and that I seek weapons that will help me oppose his will. Weapons the elf may be able to help me with."[/color]

   Dornhild nodded after a long, awkward pause. "Marked by Fey, eh? Then I am not surprised to hear you walked a path of darkness, for that is their nature if the tales of the village woman are to be believed. I don't trust you - but that's just my way. Few people can be relied upon in the pinch of battle. Perhaps you will prove to be one of those few." He looked into Carith's eyes and nodded after some consideration. "Aye, I expect you found the weapon you seek when you crossed paths with our group. Who wields it is another matter."

 Carith sat silently then, just watching the fire for a few moments as he let his words and his liquor soften the grim Northman's fear of him. "Tell me, friend, my journy next takes me to a distinctive village, but I fear I do not know where it lies. You, being longer of this area than myself, may know better than I. Have you seen or heard of a village of Men built in the shadow of a massive butte of red rock?"

   The Northman considered his next words very carefully. "I know of such a place. It lies north of the Eris Aman plains, some several days' journey out of the Veradeen. Getting out unnoticed is challenging. And then there's every scared, screaming villager who sees a weapon and runs right to the Legate, hoping his life will be spared."

   Dornhild's jaw stood out beneath the beard, clenched hard. "My people are under the heel of Shadow, and any light is swiftly blown out."

"True words, very true words, but do not give in to despair," said Carith in earnest. "Just remember that as long as one man holds his head high and casts off the yoke placed upon him, the Shadow will never win utterly. They may be in control for now, but through the power of the Elves and the strength of Men we will prevail someday. You just must keep hope, keep it in your mind and in your heart."

 Carith shook his head and sighed. After a few moments of silence had past between the two men he stood and gathered up his belongings. "We should make a camp somewhere not directly next to the fire. If nothing else it will smell better." Giving another whistle for his hawk he turned to walk off into the woods near the Glen.

   Thrayn, returning from his healing of Rongald, walked into the light of the fire as Carith began to leave. "There is naught but fool's hope to the South. It is already the Shadow's land. We stay here for a fortnight. There are things I must do and we must watch for other bands of despoilers until it is clear that no others come." Thrayn went over to the horse and rummaged in one of the saddle-packs for one of the ration bundles.

   Carith turned back as the elf came into the small camp."You know as well as I do that more orcs will come - maybe not within a fortnight, but they will come. If the legate who sent these orcs does not know they have failed by now he will soon, and he will send more. The trees have shown it to me, an army of orcs bearing his symbol, a raptors claw clutching a green orb, invading these woods and killing men and elves a like. 

 "But they have shown me something else as well, something I do not yet understand. A village of men that Dornhild tells me lies a few days travel east of the woods edge. A great battle takes place, and in the end of my vision the legate is there. 

 "As I said I do not know what these visions mean, but something must be done to help the poor souls living in the village I saw. Traveling out of the woods is dangerous, and confronting a legate would be near suicide, but we must do something."

   Thrayn turned slowly to Carith. His face was so full of astonished rage that it seemed almost a mask. "What symbol did you say?" he hissed through clenched jaws.

"A raptor's claw clutching a green orb." Carith replied, somewhat taken aback.

 Thrayn's hand went to the hilt of one of his fighting knives. His grip was so hard the leather thongs wrapping the handle squeaked. He took two menacing steps toward Carith and hissed again. "If you lie... I will see you planted among these trees you seem so infatuated with." He stormed back to the horse and snatched the leads from Rongald. Looking back to Carith he called out, "Lead the way, for we have a long way to go."


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## Emiricol (Jan 26, 2005)

Thrayn, Carith, Dornhild and Rongald completed finally the task of disposing of the invaders' bodies, being sure to retrieve their tusks - two Oruk and ten Orc - as well as some 10 salvageable javelins and all six of their Vardaches. Being late, they encamped for the night not only because setting out in the morning would be far easier, but also in case other Orcs had trailed this first team. However, the night passed uneventfully, and in the morning Thrayn sat, clear eyed, as the others one by one awoke.

Dornhild shook the frost from his beard and grunted. The meaning of this particular grunt soon became clear as he prepared a breakfast that included some berries he had picked the eve before.

Once the camp was struck and signs of their passing covered well, they began the long journey.

Carith gathered up his belongs quickly and moved up to the front of the small party. He began to pick a trail through the woods, heading east towards the edge of the wood. _Odd that a symbol of an orc clan long dead could invoke such ire in him.  That Elf is certainly a strange man._ 

After nearly half an hour of walking Carith called back to the others, "Exiting the woods will be difficult, to say the least, and from there things only get worse. We should at least try and think of some sort of plan, unless you really want to fight your way through a battalion of orcs to get to this village."

After a short while it became clear that Carith was not as familiar with the Veradeen woods as Thrayn had hoped. Near the rear, leading the horse, Thrayn whispered to Bornhild, "You know this place he spoke of?" He nodded toward Carith carefully as he said this.

Bornhild looked uneasily at the elf, and said with trepidation, "Aye. I know it. It lies North from here. Quite near the Plains of Aris Aman in truth."

Thrayn shook his head. A long journey, and dangerous. The legate may well have been gone from there for some time by the time they arrived, but they wouldn't arrive at all if they continued South into the Caraheen. "The path we take will lead only to certain death. From here we turn North. We will remain in these woods for as long as we can before turning east to find this village. I am not willing to throw away my life for the sake of speeding toward it's end. You would do well to follow me."

"These are the woods of your birth master Elf, I am but a guest. Of course I will follow your lead.", Carith said calmly.  He stopped, then, and waited for the Elf and the other Men to pass him buy as they changed directions.

"We will have to be careful not to veer west or east by too much over the next few days, lest we be either delayed on our journey or risk exposure to the Orcs, respectively. It will be weeks and risky, regardless, so let us not tempt fates." Thrayn said this without implication, it seemed - just a statement. 

Dornhild, leading the way, nodded but said nothing further. _These Elves are not as deceiptful as the legends say. Either that or this particular Elf is just not so vile. That must be it. You don't just ignore generations of wisdom, Dornhild. Stay alert, even once he earns your trust._  Dornhild nodded then, satisfied at the resolution he had come to in his simple, direct way, and quickened his pace.

-----------------------------

As they travelled north they made decent enough time, crossing some ten or so miles per day through the forest. They hunted regularly for rabbits as well as gathering fruits and berries as they went, the forest of the Fey providing food even as Winter dragged on. Occasionally, Thrayn would enter an Elven village alone to trade for rations, which saw them through those days when no amount of searching brought fresh food for the weary travelers. His trips were always quick, and he never spoke of the reasons to the Men he traveled with.

It was after two weeks of this that Dornhild one morning spoke again. This had become increasingly rare as they continued their journey, but Rongald assured Thrayn it was inconsequential. When Dornhild did finally speak, it was in his usual soft-spoken but deep voice, and brief as always. "We should turn east now. The Plains of Eris Aman will be well enough south of us when we reach the treeline for safe travel."

Rongald looked to Thrayn, and to Carith whom he had come to know and respect, if not fully understand, over the past two weeks. "Master Thrayn, the Norther speaks truth as best I can measure."

Dornhild nodded and continued, "We are but a week to tenday from the village from master Carith's vision."

Thrayn could not be certain but, felt that the Northman enjoyed the irony. A Human telling the Elf Sorcerer of a vision was not an everyday thing. Still, Dornhild gave no outward sign of this. Perhaps it was his imagination. _Men are such confusing, frantic creatures.  It is hard to even begin to understand one before they turn to dust._ He shook his head free of such thoughts.

And so that day they turned East, travelling hard, and by the second evening of this they had come to within a day of the forest's edge. Into the disputed border region, the Green Line. 

From here out, Orcs and worse raided into the woods constantly, just as Elf warbands raided outwards. It was a conflict that had gone on for two thousand years. Every Elf knew that such fighting had been raging since the first Orcs arrived in the northlands, of the Shunned Mother tribe - and they had been fighting the Orcs of that tribe ever since. Nothing drew the hatred of an Elf like an orc wearing tatoos of black bars across its eyes, cheeks and chest - the mark of a warrior of the Shunned Mothers.

Dornhild set about to hunt up whatever fresh food could be found while Rongald first cared for the packhorse, then lit a careful fire for cooking and heat through the cold night that was soon to fall upon them.

Thrayn had been restless since they had set off from the Glen. _Who would have imagined that one Elf could have caused so much death in the lives of a deathless people._ Thrayn bristled again at the thought. His skin itched with the urge to keep moving, but the Humans needed sleep. Oh, to be with others of his kind, but he carried the stigma of those deaths. It was hard not to be suspicious in these days when evil from legend roamed freely on the Earth. He had been there and he had lived. And not just once. How he longed to have died at their side. _This cruel mockery, to live on, possibly forever, but never ridding myself of their voices, their faces, their cries..._

Aggitated, he lept up from his seat, startling Rongald and Bornhild. "I...I need to be away from this fire, it strains my eyes in this dying light." He turned and walked into the dusk just out of sight of the camp. Sights of other fires, some years past, followed him.

Rongald watched Thrayn retreat from the gathering, expression inscrutable. Dornhild frowned, however, and muttered under his breath about the dangers of trusting Fey - particularly Elves.

-----------------------------

Carith had dropped his pack to the ground and was sitting down next to the fire, pulling his cloak tight and, with a whistle, he sent Whisper flying off into the woods. He gazed into the fire for several long moments before he spoke. "I am going to scout around. for the next hour or so I won't be responsive here as my mind will be elsewhere. Just leave me be and I will be fine when I return." After receiving a measured and cautious nod from Rongald, Carith set his head back against a tree, and in a short while, his eyes glazed until they were solid silver in sheen, just like the eyes of the hawk he travelled with, and now, inside of.

As Carith settled into his trance-like state, Dornhild shuddered. Speaking to Rongald he grumbled, "So unnatural is that man's stare that I feel as though looking upon a dead man. The light of his eyes has been hidden, the spark of his soul gone elsewhere."

Rongald nodded slightly. "Master Thrayn has on occasion meditated, and the crawl of the skin upon my back has never lessened, despite my many weeks of familiarity with his ways. I can tell you that master Carith is not in this body, for it is a shell he travels in rather than the man's essence, as it is with you and I."

Dornhild grunted, saying nothing as he tried to avoid glancing at the still form of Carith.

------------------------------

The winds were chill, as it was still Winter, ableit the tail end of it. Above the forest, updrafts from the lingering warmth of the woods made flight easy. An image came to him then; a mouse scurrying across the forest floor, and feelings of hunger.

_No, my friend. Now is not time for mice, no matter how delicious. We have a task before us, and we must focus our attentions._

The reply was far from friendly, but at least this time there were no images of the bird clawing out the eyes of the sleeping Carith. Those were unsettling, and though Carith knew the bird would never betray the bond they shared in such a way, knew that it was merely the humor of a raptor, it still made him uneasy. Which always made the bird laugh - or the raptor equivalent. It "felt" to Carith remarkably similar to the "feeling" he received when his companion made a kill of some rodent.

It was only a quarter hour before the two, in the bird's body, left the treeline of the forest and into the lands of the Northmen. Below, a small group of orcs were finishing mutilating some Human guerillas and started heading back east - towards their own lines. _More of the same,_ he thought somberly.

This far north the battle lines did not really exist as such. Rather, it was more a region of inter-penetration, wherein small groups of Men, Elf and Orc raided each other continuously. As it had been for two millenia, since the Orcs first arrived in the northern mountains.

The bird felt Sad, but Carith knew this was just part of the drama. _Someday it will end, but not today._

Onward he flew, catching updrafts where he could and flapping where he must. As the air cooled with evening, the updrafts grew less frequent until they went away entirely, and then it was a matter of dodging the downdrafts of falling, colder air.

There - the rock of his vision. A feeling of dread. It really did seem to rise from the low, rolling terrain like a red collumn, flat on top with some hasty defensive measures. Probably a place of final retreat for the villagers. Ah, the villagers. The village was small and walled. How Men would get from the village to the rock at the end of a nasty fight was not clear.

Beyond the gates of the village, a pole, upon which was impaled a Man in tattered, rent armor that bore the red claw/green orb coat of arms. Some distance away, a burning pyre of Orc corpses was left unattended. This night, the village was closed up tight.

So far, all well. A journey of a mere hour an a half of hard flight; it would take Carith days on the ground to get to this place. Time to fly back, lest some danger befall his unattended body.

Boredom overtook the man and bird alike, for they passed over familiar terrain. The corpses of the men from the earlier ambush, he discovered as he returned to the lands of the Fey, had been decapitated.

_Good, they will not Rise._

When he was close to the camp of his companion that thought was immediately cut short as he spotted movement a mere few hundred feet from the fire. Circling once, twice. What was it? There - a clearing in the canopy revealed the source of the movement with utter clarity. Two men with maces, crawling towards the unsuspecting encampment.

Carith urged the bird's body forward, nearly diving at his unattended shell, and once the course was set, severed the connection. With a jolt strong as that of hammer upon anvil he felt himself fall forcefully into his body, for a second unable to speak due to the shock of the rapid transferrance, but coming to his senses was a matter of moments, barely enough to slow him down.

_Danger..._


----------



## Emiricol (Feb 3, 2005)

Carith flung himself to his feet, drawing Raseri Styrke as he did so. Landing on his feet blade in hand he half speaks half whispers to the men at the camp, "To arms, there are men sneaking towards this camp at least two but there may be more."

Rongald and Dornhild, who had not yet removed their armor for the night due to the early hour, reached immediately for their weapons. Both slung shields and held aloft their spears, placing themselves between Masters Thrayn and Corith and the direction the latter had seemed to be concerned with. Rongald said, looking to Carith, "How long?" His easy, casual tone in no way matched his appearance, tense and damp from adrenaline.

"Another 30 seconds at most and they will be upon us. Stand fast and we will whether what ever this night brings." Carith stepped up and placed himself just behind the two men, sword held high and ready to strike, eyes open for other signs of danger.

Across the fire from the three humans in his entourage, Thrayn stood. They were into the border between human lands and the Veradeen, a stretch of land under constant attack from agents of the Shadow and the resistance alike, not to mention the constant threat of bandits preying on those suffering from the war. These men Carith mentioned could be of any of those affiliations. Resistance fighters would make valuable allies, and bandits could be bent to any purpose that showed a profit, as Rongald and Bornhild could attest to. Agents of the Shadow would soon feel the chill of Veradeen steel.

"Creatus Imagiae Absentia Visagem" came the words of power whispered between closed teeth. Thrayn's hands traced a twisting pattern of circular runes in the air as he did so. The warmth of power began to grow along his skin out from his spine and wrap him in the very magics he called on. To his eyes, he was shimmering slightly, like a reflection in a still pool. To all else, he was the wind, unseen but not unfelt. His hands went to his fighting knives and pulled them free with barely a sound as oiled steel slid from leather.

Just as Thrayn shimmered into invisibility, the bushes nearby rustled - four eyes peering out of the shadows of the brush. Realizing they had been spotted, two Men leapt up, maces held high, and without a word began to charge, quickly closing the distance.

A mad light danced in their eyes, glossy, with pupils dilated incredibly. Both had skin of a slight blueish tinge, but one had dark, ugly splotches around his front left side, hideous bruising. Both men wore sleeved leather armor and pot helms, and carried round shields, but the enthusiasm with which they charged left the shields providing only a passive protection.

In an instant, they had nearly engaged Rongald and Dornhild.

Dornhild gripped his spear tightly as he waited for the threat to appear, and when the Fell burst from the woods fear gripped him; he stepped quickly backwards to avoid the foul creature. In his fear he failed to notice Carith step to his flank and close towards the creature, blade held in a low stance.

Rongald stood fast, bracing for the oncoming charge. He grimaced, fighting the urge to run from the undead attackers and set his spear to take the foul thing in the chest.

Carith then engaged his target, and swung low on the Fell, making contact at the knee. The steel blade cleaved clean through the creature's flesh, sending the lower leg flying in one direction as the creature stumbling forward. Even without his leg the creature continued his attack, swinging wildly at Dornhild. Its mace crashed into the ground at Dornhild's feet, just barely missing the legs of the back-pedaling Northman.

Suddenly, thickly congealed blood splashed down before Rongald from the creature's ruined legs as the Ungral crashed onto its face, losing its grip and tossing the mace forward as it collapsed. The legs were severed almost right through at both knees and were laying at odd angles. The Fell's chest pressed into the ground unnaturally, as though under a heavy weight. Without warning, then, the beast's head flopped forward, severed at the neck, and rolled off to the side trailing black ichor oozing from the opened throat.

Thrayn had attacked under the cloak of invisibility, running to flank and hamstring the monstrosity. Once down he had knelt on the mockery's back and scissored its head clean off with a single coordinated strike from both knives. Rongald recognized all this, and his awe at his Elf leader grew another notch even as he dropped his spear in surprise.

Meanwhile, Carith pivoted hard to stop his momentum from his attack and raised his sword high above his head. Bringing it down with all his might, he sliced into the first creature's chest, shattering its ribs and collarbone. It would have been a fatal wound on any mortal, but the Fell kept moving, crawling towards Dornhild, salivating.

Dornhild took another step back before he regained his courage. Gripping his spear tightly, he stepped forward and plunged it into the creatures gut, causing what should have been another lethal wound in any mortal Man, but the abomination continued to thrash and growl on the ground, barely a trickle of coagulating blood escaping its wound.

Without hesitating Carith raised his sword and plunged it into the pinned Ungral's skull, the blade passing straight through to finally end the Fell's unnatural life.

Rongald was staring at the bodies in astonishment, not noticing that he had dropped his spear, and took a stumbling step backwards, but Thrayn hardly cared as he trod off into the brush. Where these Fell had come from, more could be near. Worse yet if they were controlled by one of the Legates, directing Fell raids into the Veradeen.

Dornhild, the horror of what had just occured working its way past his battle adreneline once again, stepped back towards the imagined safety of the fire, gripping his spear tightly and casting accusing eyes at every shadow around the small camp.

Carith placed his boot upon the creature's jaw and pulled _Raseri Stryke_ free. Hearing Thrayn walk off into the dark of the night, he walked after the Elf, calling back to the two Northmen, "Stay here, these woods are no place for Men at night." He called out once more to Thrayn.

Thrayn grimaced openly - with no one to see him it was no betrayal of feeling. Finally, he waited until Carith had passed him and then spoke from where he crouched. "What you said was true, Human. Try not to betray our position. I'll follow you." Perhaps following the human wouldn't keep them from the prying eyes of the Shadow's agents, but if they did come after Carith they would make easy targets for Thrayn's unseen blades. Somewhere inside, he began to almost hope they were found.

It was easy to see on Cariths face that he was unnerved by Thrayn's plan, but he simply nodded in the direction the voice had come from and began to walk into the woods, crouched low and moving with soft and measured steps, his unnatural eyes glancing about the woods, alert for any threats. He edged further along, keeping alert. Thrayn was nearby, certainly - though invisible, his steps were not well cushioned. Careless. Carith shook the thought from his mind.

He was about to hiss a warning to be quiet to the Elf when a muffled cry was heard ahead. He slowed, creeping forward, eyes wide and darting. Carith's eyes froze. _There! Movement!_ He circled around a brush carefully, slow step by slow step, and into view came a tree, and kneeling before the tree, a Man.

The man was crouched over on his knees, bloody axe at his side. The big Norther's shaggy clothes shook with the force of his quiet sobbing, a pitiful sound that seemed out of place from such a large man. His cloak showed a moist, red spot on the side and back, badly bloodied.

Then it was clear what he crouched over. It was a woman in her late teens, now dead. Her feet extended out from his left, her upper torso and face hidden as he cradled them in his lap, back to the newcommers - the man situated between her and them.

Thrayn slowly circled around the man, trying to get a good look at the girl. If she were merely badly wounded, he might be able to use his magic to bring her back from the brink of death and secure another strong arm to his side. As he circled, the woman's face and upper body came slowly into view. It was a sickening sight. The top of her head was caved in, pushing the upper portion of her face forward horribly. Blood and brains oozed out the back of her head onto the sobbing man's lap - though he seemed not to notice, or at least not to care.

Carith stared at the man before him, who seemed too lost in his grief to notice him, for several moments. Deep in his heart a brief fear begins to grow. _Someday this could be Alyea. Although will it be me grieving her passing, or much more likely her standing over me long after I have passed on. Is this the fate of all who oppose the Shadow, a life of mourning and grief over those you love, and then an all consuming attempt for vengence in their name... Is that the fate that awaits me along my road?!_  He stepped then from the shadows, his sword out in a low, obviously defensive position. 

"What was her name friend?"

The man paused, his hands trembling as they cradled her head in his lap. Without looking back he said, voice overcome with emotion, "She was called Oda, and we were to start a new life among the trees. We fled Shadow for... days, weeks, I don't know. We almost made it." Another sob wracked his body.

Then, the Man turned his head towards Carith, tear-streaked face a mask of inner agony. The look was so... human, so genuine, that it took a moment for Carith to register that _this man was dead_. His face and lips degrees of blue no living man would display, pupils blown wide, consuming the irises. Moreover, his nose has been sliced off, a trophy for an Orc no doubt.

With a pleading and unsteady voice he cried, "Please, you must help me tend to her body and bury her. I was knocked unconscious in a battle with Orcs, and when I awoke, she was gone. I tracked her, hoping to find her, and I did, just in time to see her struck down by those _fal'the_, the Fell. Companions of ours from a fight with Orcs, who Rose while I was unconscious. They left her body here, charging off into the woods - probably towards you. I hope you've put those abominations down! I hope Oda can rest knowing she is avenged!" at this last, his voice grew strong and steady, gruff with rage at circumstances beyond his control. "How can I face tomorrow without my Oda?" he sobbed once more, leaning over the body and cradling it tenderly.

For a moment watching this man weep over the broken body of his beloved, Thrayn felt a surge of pity. This was him just a few short years ago - cradling murdered loved ones. His pain was the more poignant, however, as the death of immortal life cuts off centuries of experience and feeling. _This man has lost only what little life his woman had remaining._ The pain was similar though and it brought back Thrayn's memory of his own losses with startling strength. As the man looked up and turned toward Carith, Thrayn was ripped from his reverie by the man's obvious condition. _Fell!_

Acting with unfortunate haste he lunged at the man with both knives, desperately slashing at the once-man's neck. Memories of pain and the anguish of his own losses still pulled at him, however, and in his recklessness he stumbled as he swung. The first slash came short as he caught himself with his free foot, and the knife slipped out of his hand as he wheeled for balance. The second blade dropped low and dug into the dead man's shoulder, leaving a large but poorly-placed gouge.

At the same time, Carith gripped his blade and stepped forward, rapidly closing the distance between himself and greiving man. _Raseri Stryke_ flashed downward quickly, slicing across the creature's chest at the ribs and splitting him open in a large gash.

The poor man cried out, "Why do you attack?! I have little of value, bandits!" and with that he stood, readying his axe. His eyes still damp with tears, he had the expression of righteous outrage of a man betrayed.

Thrayn grimaced and lunged for his fallen knife. It had become visible out of his grip, but he still needed it if he wanted to fight effectively against this larger man. He grabbed the hilt and scrabbled back up to his feet, crouching low to avoid the Fell's backswinging axe. With both knives securely in his grip, he sprung at the confused Fell slashing in wide upward strokes. The blade in his right hand struck against the side of the man's face, chopping deep into his cheek and sliding out along his scalp, leaving a deep ugly wound. The man's head snapped to the side with the impact, throwing off Thrayn's aim. The blade in his left hand cut across the Fell's wide back, merely grating against the ribs on his left side. It would never sit well with Thrayn how the Fell seemed to ignore such grievous bodily damage.

Carith took a step back from the Fell now that the surprise was done, his sword kept in a low defensive position. "I attack to end your unnatural existance friend - do not fear, for soon you will join her in the peace of the afterlife." Carith took a step back to give himself some more room, but the uneven footing of the clearing caused him to stumble slightly. He caught himself before he hit the ground, but the effort to keep his balance had put his blade completly out of position to attempt any sort of parry.

Carith's comment only further engraged the Fell, who swung his axe in a brutal chop at the woodsman' midsection. Carith watched with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as the Fell drove the blow home with grief-given strength. The axe slammed into Carith's hip, cutting deeply, dislocating it at the joint and chipping the bone badly. Carith's world became one of pain and blurred vision. He kept his feet, but only through force of will, and even then he was totally out of position to defend from the follow up blow that was sure to come from the axe. _So this is it, then..._

Thrayn was suddenly desperate to stop the creature, but would never be able to admit to himself that it was for Carith's sake. He stabbed wildly and took the Fell in the thigh, puncturing it deeply and tearing through the mass of muscle in the leg. 

The Fell shrugded off most of the blow, and still swung his axe forward in a vicious slash at Cariths head, but his blow was taken off course by the last ditch efforts of Tharyn - the blow missed by a narrow margin, despite Carith's lack of defense. Pulling the knife out, Thrayn chopped frantically at the man's knee but to no avail. Deep cuts and rent muscles wouldn't stop the undead.

The Fell lunged forward again, swinging his axe again in another slash at Carith's midsection. Carith had finally come back to his senses in the scant second Thrayn had given him, and he lept away in desperation, narrowly avoiding the blow. The sharp pain in his leg nearly dropped him to the ground, his own simple footstep hitting him like a hammer blow in his wrecked hip.

Jumping to a full stand, Thrayn thrust out to the back of the Fell's neck, and his aim was truer this time. The knife partly severed the dead creature's spine and, exiting through the front by way of his larynx. If he had been a living man, the Fell would have dropped on the spot. As it was, he twitched and moved with difficulty, but continued to advance inch by inch toward Carith. 

Watching as Thrayn desperately slashed into the creature repeatedly, Carith continued to limp away in horror, trying to put some distance between him and his implacable attacker.

The Fell continued to crawl forward, closing some of the distance between it and Carith, but the multitude of wounds Thrayn had inflicted had taken their toll on even dead muscles. The monster was unable to swing its axe with any strength and again missed the fleeing Carith, this time by a wide margin.

Thrayn leapt onto the fallen Fell's back and, hacking at its neck over and over in swift, harried blows, he took the creature's head from its shoulders. With a finall shudder, the Fell stopped moving altogether.

Catching his breath, Thrayn stood, staggering and panting. He looked over at Carith but didn't really see him. The blades hung from his hands, dripping blood and flesh into the now muddy snow.


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## Emiricol (Mar 25, 2005)

*CUT SCENE: Autumn, Year 99 of the Last Age*

The village of Rode Pijler, recently renamed by its Legate, lay a bit north of the Plains of Eris Aman. Orcs had been raiding the region for weeks, and leaving the dead to Rise. Packs of Ungral were becoming a serious hazard. No one knew why the Orcs were raiding so heavily, but refugees had come to the village over the last few days, nearly doubling the population. Thankfully, it was not yet Winter and the recent harvest had been bountiful - and the Legate had not passed on most of the fruits of their labors, instead laying in stores for some unknown reason.

Warrior Legate Joris frowned. Turning to the mayor he had selected last year, after skinning the last mayor alive for reading, Joris said in Norther, "Elsa!  Get your worthless hide over here."  The words were harsh, but spoken softly.  They were all the more menacing for it.

The woman curtseyed the Legate, eyes downcast, and stopped just outside his easy striking range, in case he was going to punch her again. _Let him have to take a step to strike me today,_ she thought with some tiny measure of defiance, before forcing herself to change thoughts to ones of fear, subservience and loyalty. After all, she never knew when he was reading her mind. She wasn't sure he could, but his ability to tell what people were up to, or thinking, or feeling, was simply frightening.

He smiled then, which never boded well. "We have two heads for every one head I should own. I do not want them milling about, irritating my Blades. You will assign these people to different houses in equal measure. Any unwed woman of age from among the newcomers who has not yet been disfigured, you will send to my house, and you will make a note of those families which have no such maiden. They will receive an extra work detail. I expect company tonight and work details assigned by morning. Am I clear?"

Elsa replied quietly with as submissive a demeanor as she could muster.  One answered the Legate when spoken to.  "This woman understands the Warrior Legate."  She almost said _understands *you*_ again, but after the last beating she took, she had vowed never to make that mistake again.  Joris liked his victims to speak about him and themselves in the third person.  It amused him.

Walking as quickly as she could to distance herself from the Legate, Elsa was troubled. Most of their own fighting-age men had been killed or sent to some place called Steel Hill, and yet these newcommers seemed almost all to be adule males of able body. _I will be lucky to find enough women to keep myself out of trouble,_ she thought with a shudder.  Being "in trouble" meant a beating, or worse.  Much worse.  Beatings were much to be preferred.

Two hours later
Elsa had all the new people assigned new quarters. They'd been sleeping wherever they could for days. Elsa took a risk and did not assign anyone to the Gealics hovel, for they had the Red Shakes running through their household. The Legate would not care, and his instructions were clear, but Elsa considered the risk of beating worthwhile to spare some hapless family of refugees from probable infection and death.

She was happy though, in another way. She had found four who fit the Legate's description, and had sent them to his quarters as he instructed. They would have a hard time of things for a day or two, but would probably live if the Legate didn't get too drunk. Better them than her - she had a daughter to care for and a husband who grew angry whenever she was summoned to the Legate overnight. Those women, she didn't know - and they had no families of their own. _Yes, better them than me,_ she thought sadly.

As she pondered this, however, her heart nearly lept into her mouth as she was grabbed suddenly from behind. Rough hands, rough treatment. She was dragged, with someone's strong hand over her mouth, into one of the houses. It was empty, the usual occupants busy working in the fields.

Within, there were some ten armed men.  Armed!  They had axes, and bows, and more!  _Oh by Shadow, no!  They will get us all killed!_ The thought was a scream in her head, but as a dagger had been placed to her throat she made not a sound. Life under the Legate had taught her to control her whimpers.

One of the men stepped forward and said with a rather disarming smile, and a kindly, calm tone of voice that set her mind much at ease, "You are the mayor, yes? You are a servant of the Legate. Tell me, is there a back way to the Legate's house? A way to get there unseen by the Orcs at the gate or in the warehouse barracks?"

Usually there were only a couple orcs on duty, at the gates. The rest lounged in their barracks most of the day. Elsa nodded. She didn't believe this man would kill her, but the one with the knife at her throat was another matter and the increased pressure he put on the blade prompted her to nod quickly.

The kindly-spoken man smiled, and motioned the other to let her go. For the next twenty minutes she told them everything she knew. The man with the knife looked for all the world like he would relish nothing more than gutting her for being a "servant of evil". Talking was much better than dying.

Late Afternoon
The stage was set. The twenty rebels had snuck into the village with refugees, unarmed, then once the commotion had died down and the orcs less attentive, their weapons were smuggled back in, or over the wall on the back side of the village.

The plan was simple. Most of the men would take out the gate Orcs while simultaneously burning down the warehouse the rest were barracked in. They had a special alchemical mixture in ten wax-sealed bottles which, when exposed to air, somehow ignited and exploded, splashing and the burning liquid inside everywhere. One at each of the two windows, one at the door, and two in reserve in case the orcs within hacked their way through a wall or via the roof. Archers would do the rest. 

But five men would go with their leader, Hargeld, to the Legate's abode. They would burst in and try to slay Joris before he could get his foul magic to work. The woman traitor had told them the direct path along the back wall to the Legate's bedchamber, where he spent most of his time, before they bound her. She was a victim, to be sure, but still a traitor who could not be trusted to just walk around until after the deed was done.

"Are we ready then, men? We have a village to free before Warrior Legate Christoffel's raiders get here in the Spring. The villagers will all die if this Joris bastard is still in power when they arrive - he foolishly doesn't fear Christoffel's ambitions, but our informant has served us well informing us of the raid."

Hardly breathing and as still as a grim statue, Aesmir the Seeker stood watching and waiting, his own long silloette merging with that of the building corner that half-hid his form.

_Fight the Shadow in the Dark, my child, for in the dark the lesser shadows, jealous, plot also against it._  Those were Aesmir's mother's words, and it was for her sake that he ultimately offered his services to this raid. _This legate that we are going to take down, Joris or whatever his name is, seems to have a thing for forcing himself on virgin girls,_ he thought grimly. This situation reminded Aesmir of both his parents - Joris of his father, and his victims of his poor mother. His mother had taught him from a early age that if he was to fight the shadow, he must first learn its ways.

Ironically the climax of one of these lessons involved him being forced to watch his mother consume a meal laced with a herbal poison his father had made him concoct. His father had apparently tired of his mother's company.

He shook his head clear. Now convinced there were no sentries watching this area directly, Aesmir quickly gestured out of the shadow to the other five men back behind the last building, motioning them to come forward. They startled a little, then realised it was him and made their way quickly and quietly across the dirt street towards his own position. A slight smile formed on his hidden lips; a loner at heart Aesmir often forgot how just easily others lost him in the dark! They hadn't seen him until he motioned them.

Hargeld nodded as they approached.  "I reckon I'd better take back my vote against you as pointman, 'Shadow-Walker'!" He gave Aesmir a strange look, a mixture of condescension and amusement completed with a gentle slap on the back. 

Aesmir simply shrugged and gave Hargeld a questioning look, suggesting there was something he had forgotten.

"Okay, Smart-Ass, I admit that bundling swords up in firewood to get them into the village actually worked. While we're at it do you have any other 'brilliant' ideas that you want credit for?"  Hargeld hissed this in a low voice with a little frustration. 

Unfazed, Aesmir mildly answered in his gentle, matter-of-fact manner. "Seven's a luckier number than five." With that he stuck the middle and index fingers of his right hand between his teeth and blew gently. The note that was whistled was unheard by any of the men; its result was seen quickly, however. What they had thought in the dark to be merely a pile of sheepskins raised itself attentively, yawned, and then trotted over Aesmir. Staring expectantly up at his master, 'Ghost', a noble looking white hound, waited patiently for Aesmir's command. "With me, Lad."

-----------------

Truth. Heron had lost sight of the word. He wondered as to what was the truth behind his reason for being here. Many others fought the Shadow because they believed it the right thing to do. That surely wasn't his reason, though - mostly he just wanted to be left alone. He didn't truly care about the people in this town. They were weak, unwilling to die to stand up to the legate. The women would rather serve him in his bed chamber than die. His Einzel would have rather died. Einzel, where was Einzel? That was probably his true reason for being there. He wasn't even sure why he was still drawn to her. He had hardly known the woman. He had hoped to get to know her, but there had been no chance. No. There was no time for thoughts of her, of that, right now.

Heron returned to the present. He was hidden in shadows, not quite so well as the man he had come to know as Aesmir, but well enough. His clothing was tattered but there seemed to be little for it. That simply came of getting clothing off of your kills instead of having them made. He did not mind - they fit him well enough and that was all that mattered.

His hands rested securely on the hilts of his blades. They were not drawn as of yet, as the glint of steel could easily give them away this early in the game. His eyes darted in every direction, as if he expected an enemy from every side. Many a man grew uneasy under that gaze. His eyes were a light grey, and some went so far as to say it was the mark of the Shadow. In truth, he expected nothing; his training had taught him that was the only way to not be surprised. He simply followed along silently.

Relaxing his vigil only slightly, Aesmir slowly breathed in, taking a taste of the still air around him and then silently letting it out again before softly voicing his thoughts to the others. "If the good lady's words are to be believed, we are to find our 'friend', Legate Joris in a chamber at the other end of the Manor house to our point of entry. As I see it what we do at this entrance depends on both whether there are guards within the building and how much light does shine there in."

He paused there to give Heron, Hargeld and the others chance to comment. Aesmir, a tall placid man with pale blue eyes, very short fair hair and stubble, and a modest collection of scars, was dressed in what appeared to be well-maintained if slightly worn huntsman's leathers. Heron, however knew better - Aesmir's doublet for instance had a thin layer of metal scales sewn between the two layers of leather, whilst its raised collar concealed Aesmir's mail coif round his neck. His sword, 'Foe-Skewer', and its companion dagger hung off each hip.

Heron grunted.  "We can't possibly know until we're inside.  We must strike swiftly." He grinned, as that was the way he prefered it.  Strike swiftly and fade away.  _I wonder how many of those joined with me will not live to see another day._ "We storm in and move quickly and as quietly as possible.  Any better ideas?"  He grinned.  He was ready to move forward.

"Storming in, quickly then quietly.  An interesting concept, friend Heron," commented Aesmir with a slightly amused but dubious tone to his voice. His eyes briefly twinkled in the shadows. Aesmir understood the younger man's sentiments and even felt them himself, but experience had taught him to think twice before rushing in blind. "If a building is lit by torches or fires you can tell by looking for a slight glow under doors and between panels. If there is a watch on Joris' room you may well be able to hear them at the other end of the building. Heron, I'll support you if there be reasonable numbers. Guards in near darkness, however, I'd rather eliminate stealthily lest we alert the legate to our presence before we can close to battle with him alone. If there appear to be no guards better one of us sneaks in and does it with one blow, whilst others hold back to cover him and the building."

"Spoken as a true volunteer.  Let us go then, so that you might use the shadow to bring death to the Shadow." Amusement was evident in Heron's voice. He understood hiding in the shadow. In the current Age, many were afraid of the dark, but Heron was not. He doubted any of the men now with him were either. These men had embraced their deaths long ago, as he had. It was not a matter of wanting to die so much as it was a choice of truly living. The people of this village did not truly live; they simply did not yet die. Too many men had bent a knee to the Shadow. Heron would not do so, not to anyone or anything. He had no illusions of nobility or righteousness. Had history been different, he would have likely rebelled against whatever other authority there had been.

"Naturally." Aesmir gave Heron a slight grin, then stepped back and disappeared completely into the shadows, Ghost with him. 

A few moments later they appear to step out of an indirectly-connected shadow some hundred yards down the street closer to the legate's dwelling. Heron noted with some trepidation that he could not have moved so far so fast without being seen. It felt almost supernatural.

Having noticed no sentries Aesmir beckoned Heron and the others to come to him. As they did so Aesmir turned his attention to the back door of the house where Legate Joris resided. _Is that candlelight I see coming from under the door crack, or simply a trick of the night?_ Either way, Aesmir walked cautiously over to the door, which he intended to listen at for sounds of any movement within. _If there are no sounds of orcish guards coming from over towards the legate's chamber, then truly this Joris is a fool indeed..._, he thought, perhaps a dangerous underestimation of the threat he faced.

Heron moved forward, instinctively keeping to shadows. The Humans here could prove to be as dangerous as any of the Shadowspawn. They would gladly warn the Legate in return for any kind of better treatment, or merely the hopes of surviving the Shadow's retributions. And so, Heron kept scanning back and forth, searching for any signs of movement. Once he had completed the short journey to catch up to Aesmir, he waited patiently. He tried to listen for movement within the building as well. 

As the five Men hudled quietly around the door with Aesir and Heron, they too listened carefully. This end of the building shielded them from the noise of the village, although this time of day had been selected for many reasons, not least of which was the generally low activity level of the village in this part of the settlement when most of the people were tending fields or cattle. Hargeld had made that call, declaring that to do otherwise put undue risk on the victims of this all, the villagers.

Within, there was first a scuffling noise, and then the audible jangle of metal on metal, which Aesmir recognized immediately as armor - meaning, the Legate himself probably. Orcs rarely had armor. In seconds, however, there was the low 'thud' of a heavy wooden door closing. Whether this was the door to the greathall or the door to his private chambers was not clear.

Aesmir also noted the sound of wood scraping on stone. A chair sliding perhaps. Their information suggested that this would be the post of an orc guard, for two were usually to be found in the Legate's dwelling. Their exact locations, however, were not known to any but the orcs and the kitchen staff, who bunked with the Orcs lest they talk too much. No, Joris was too careful for it to be that easy. This meant, then, that the Legate himself was behind a closed door, either in the greathall or in his chambers, but not in the kitchen/storage area. Sad, really. This was passed on to the others.

Hargeld whispered softly, careful to mask any sharp syllables. "Well then. How to proceed? The Legate is known for his fire magics. I've heard that he can cast most of them in less than the time it takes a man to count to ten, but that this is difficult for him - he prefers to take his time so as not to fatigue as much. Just over half a minute. So we have to get him faster than that - we must keep him from holding us off that long." Hargeld glanced around, clearly unsure what to do then. He was known for his strategies - not his tactics.

"We move into the kitchen cloak'n'dagger like, take out the guards outside Joris' chamber, preferably without too much noise, then we go for the legate himself," said Aesmir dryly with a coldly confident glance towards the others. Noting the slight wavering of Hargeld and indeed some of the others at the obvious admission from his statement, he added a dismissive afterthought with a gentle chuckle, "Fire-magic? Pish! Worry more should this pig-legate squeal for more orc Blades to save his bacon! Besides, should he be stupid enough to cast a fireball inside this place, the fool only creates his own funeral pyre! See?" Aesmir pointed at the wooden framework of the hall and its thatched roof. Though probably the building with the most stonework in all of Rode Pijler, the hall had enough wood and thatch to quickly make it a blaze should a fire start unchecked anywhere but in the hearth. "Only question is, do we move just before or along with our boys attacking the barracks and gate?"

"Not so fast. We need to have a plan should the noise become too much. Who stays to deal with the orcs and who moves to deal with Joris. I don't care if it is suicide to use fire magics - that doesn't mean the legate wouldn't do it. And who knows what protections his magic might afford him?"

"I never said he wouldn't - I just reckon that, given the circumstances, the legate won't want to use his magic unless he's got no other options left. I don't think he's that stupid, but I admit I might be wrong," Aesmir replied with a shrug. 

Swords and Sorcery. For all the wonder of magic, Aesmir firmly believed that it was a poor replacement for just being mundanely good at anything. Aesmir had the sense of mind to realize he was ever so slightly biased in this respect, but still... Use magic to do magic things, by all means - turning lead into gold and princes into frogs was fine, but fireballs? A good bowman could get two arrows off quite leisurely before a wizard had finished even chanting his incantations, if it were a strong enough spell to channel such power.

Leaning on his bow Aesmir considered Heron's other point, and then added, "Good point about the back up plan though. I would suggest we have at least two go for the legate rather than one, as he's the target, in case one fails to reach him. You and me perhaps?"

Heron grinned. There was a gleam in his eye. Heron would gladly pit his skill against a legate. He considered it good practice. He wished to scare the Shadow, develop a reputation for destroying evil. The very thought made him smile. "Fine by me." 

Hargeld nodded, satisfied.  "You two should be able to take the Legate if you can but reach him before he can barricade himself in. What if we move in, two of my men along the left wall go first, you two along the right wall hot on their heels. Then I and my other two men will come in right behind you and go where needed? We can try sneaking in, and if someone realizes we've been spotted he'll give a warcry to alert the rest - then it's speed over silence."

Hargeld looked nervous, clearly uneasy about attacking a Legate, even by surprise, but resolute in the task. Still, seemed clearly aware that he was no tactical genius.

"That would mean we go in right before the attack on the bunkers by the other Men," agreed Heron, Aesmir nodding in agreement.  _Take out the legate before he locks himself in, should be easy enough._ He touched his blades in their sheath, working them to make sure they would come out smoothly when they were needed. The plan would be just fine for Heron. He was sure Aesmir and he would end up having to make a run for the legate, though.

At a nod from Hargeld, one of the men slowly opened the door a mere inch. With the door cracked open, the hinges were slightly exposed, and the man went to work with an oddly shaped bottle. It had a long, narrow spout and, with each sqeeze, a drop of some type of oil was produced from the spout. The hinges thus oiled into silence, the door was swung open further, enough to see within.

Inside, all was quiet. The Legate's door was open, but no sound came from within. Directly next to the door of the Legate's room sat an Orc guard on a wooden stool. He was half asleep, leaning against barrels just east of the legate's door. 

Within the Legate's room was visible his fearsome animal companion, a wardog that was said to be possessed by demons and capable of smelling out the faintest of magic - but not, by all accounts, the simple charms the local healer and herbalist made for the people of the village. Not that this was an important feature at the moment. In any case, the dog seemed fast asleep and the orc had not noticed the door crack open.

Heron froze. He was unsure how to proceed. He was only thankful that he was not the leader here, that ultimately it would not be his call, his decision. He waited for someone else to move, to react, or to decide how to proceed. The orc was awake, and they would need to enter the structure to find Joris. That would mean the dog would probably soon be awake, too.

Aesmir took a long glance at what could be seen within and then turned back, leaning thoughtfully to the left of the door. He raised his icy blue eyes to meet those of the first of the two men Hargeld had nominated as the pair to go down the left wall, extending one finger, and glanced across to the other, bringing up a second finger. Having both men's attention he then pointed toward the sleeping orc. _Two of you, one of him..._ Keeping his eyes keenly on the two men, Aesmir then brought the finger to his throat and drew it straight across, as though a knife slicing.

Then, his eyes met Heron's. Aesmir simply pointed into the legate's chamber before glancing to Hargeld and the remaining men. He whispered very quietly, being careful to soften any sharp sounds such as "s" or "f", "Count to ten after the group before you, then move."

To the first two men he continued, "When you're ready..."

Hargeld lookeds up at the sky, gauging the time of day. After a long moment, he nodded curtly, satisfied with the position of the sun. Then he whispered to the two lead men, "Go! Go silently as you can."

The two slid through the doorway, silently padding along the left wall as cautiously as they could. Fortunately, they move with the silence of cutpurses, and in just a few seconds they were a mere five feet away from the sentry, crouched behind the barrels to the orc's right. The orc seemed unaware, eyes fluttering closed, then snapping open! Closed. Then snapping open! He was almost asleep, but trying desperately not to. So far, so good.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6..._ Aesmir silently counted down as he watched the first group's progress down the left. There was a brief half-second worry in his mind that they might make too much noise but the concern was swiftly put to rest. _...7, 8..._ He mentally prepared himself for his group's part, knowing that if he should make an ill step here they would all suffer, and even worse, the Men of this village as a whole would continue to suffer. 

He could not fail, he would not allow himself to fail. The Time of Man was now! His time was now, and Aesmir was ready. _...9, 10... and go!_

the wardog Ghost padding softly at his heels, Aesmir slid into the shadows to the right. He did not pass a glance to Heron; the other man knew his part as well as he did, and further rehersal was no longer needed in this drama. Knowing all this and using it as his faith and guidance Aesmir stalked down towards the legate's chamber, ready to enter and do the deed that must done as those ahead of him took the orc guard.

Heron grinned as Aesmir and Ghost moved forward, andfell in behind them. He attempted to move as quietly as possible, but he knew the silence would not last. Soon, someone would make too much noise, and they would be given away. It was the way of such things. _It could even be me that causes it._

Heron forced those thoughts out of his mind. He refocused on the now. His hands rested on the hilts of his twin blades; he was ready to draw them, but he wanted to wait for the right moment. He did not want the sound of them sliding out of their sheaths or their shine to give him away.

Quickly and quietly, Heron and Aesmir moved into a partly concealed position. The half-asleep Orc failed to notice the movement, and the other two humans already in place stayed frozen. If the other orc, likely in the dining hall through the doorway along the left wall, had heard or seen them, he hadn't yet raised an alarm.

Meawhile, the Astirax continued to sleep, snoring softly, and the accursed Legate had not yet left his desk. A glance back showed Hargeld ready to move out, a questioning look upon his face. Surely his other man was behind him, out of view but also ready.

Heron slowed his pace. Ideally all three groups would be in position and be able to attack at the same instant. In reality, the chances of that happening were slim to none, but that would not stop Heron from trying. With the slowing of his motions, the pounding of heart in his own ears seemed almost deafening. The moment was almost upon them and soon combat would break out, the strange serenity of combat, raw terror and exhiliration and more, bound up in a few moments of crystal clarity...

The shadow of the large crate he had pressed up against obscuring his form, Aesmir pulled his long cloak round himself, covering his hands and letting its hem drape to the floor. Only then content that the steel's shine was hidden did he carefully draw his weapons under the olive drab wool of the cloak. It also deadened the soft scrape sound of blade across leather as they were drawn. All the while his ice blue eyes focussed unwaveringly on the back of the Warrior Legate's head jutting up ever so often from the chair in which the priest of shadow sat.

The lead rebel, Hargeld, tensed, axe ready. He had slung his shield so as not to bump it on anything, thus giving away their presence. The hall was silent, save for the soft _scritch, scritch_ of the Legate's ink-moist quill upon dry parchment.

The first rebel to enter tensed, building up his courage, then lunged at the orc at the Legate's door! He came in with a hard overhand strike that took the orc in the top of his head, but the wound was not as solid as it could have been, and despite losing some blood the foul warrior did not even lose consciousness. Still, the look of surprise and fear on his face was almost comical.

The man didn't hesitate, bringing the axe around with a horizontal swing, keeping its momentum going, but the Orc scrambled desperately away, ending up with his back to the kegs on the opposite side of the door from where his resting spot had been - and placing him directly in the doorway! It also gave him time to draw his cruel Falchion-like Vardach, which he held in a stance of raw defensiveness. No fool, this Orc, he was biding time.

The rebel warrior moved to close again with the Orc, who had moved out of melee, axe again held high and agressive, swinging at the sentry with a downward diagonal slash, right to left. The Orc parried it with relative ease in an overhead deflection, then swung his own blade back around with a horizontal cut. The man leapt out of the way, into the main hall, the Orc's blade coming close enough to tear his sleeve.

Meanwhile, Hargeld and his warrior had moved in at the first sound of conflict, and spotting the melee on the floor, rushed in as quickly as they could. The Orc they had known was in the great hall took a second to realize what was going on, but then had stood and drawn his Vardach as the battle begun. And from within the Legate's chambers came the sound of a wooden chair skittering across the floor, no doubt flying back as the Legate himself stood suddenly, but what he would do next was unclear. The Astirax, in wicked possession of the body of a large wardog, barked once as well, showing that he, too, was now aware of the attack.

_Damn... fate 'tis cruel..._ This silent curse passed through Aesmir's mind as he saw the events unfold before his eyes. This was not the way he would have wanted it, all things being ideal, but then it could be a lot worse. _Fate dealt you cards and you played the hand you were dealt, fair or foul. At least one still had the choice of the time to show that hand._  Whatever that meant.  Aesmir had not the time to ponder this, though. 

_The time is now!_ his mind cried out, and his sword, 'Foe-Skewer' and its companion dagger swept up from under Aesmir's cloak. Aesmir howled a warcry as he charged for the open door to the Legate's chamber, seconds behind the lead rebel. Ghost leapt up and followed close at his master's heels. Aesmir cared very little for the orc who had blundered into the way of the door; the legate was what mattered. If the orc was stupid enough not to get of out Aesmir's way, then it was only its own fault when it tasted his steel.

Heron stayed close behind Aesmir and Ghost, but not too close. He decided that, at least for the time being, he would stay out of the orc's range. Surely they could dispatch the orc quickly enough without his help because, beyond it, the legate and that damnable dog still waited, and the legate was probably doing more than waiting. Heron drew his twin blades and made ready. Once the orc was down, he would need to be ready to rush the next room.

In the Dining Hall the Orc lept upon the table - a nice height advantage. He had his vardach out as well now, and likewise held it in such a way as to aid his defense. The rebel who had been crouched by the doorway now stood, blocking the doorway and threatening the orc with an aggressive stance. _Let one Man hold off one Orc this day, and tis a trade that favors Men!_ thought the rebel, and the Orc seemed none too eager to charge the man through the doorway - it would hinder his long vardach, surely.

Meanwhile Jarvis, the Warrior Legate, picked up his shield with an angry cry.  "Hold the entry, Orc! Hold or you shall feel my wraith as well!" 

He need not have worried. He knew his job. As Aesmir charged him, the Orc fell back slightly, to a point just beyond the Legate's chamber door - only one at a time would be able to engage him, at least for a couple of seconds until the fight flowed somewhere else, as melee always did. He held his blade in a clearly defensive position.

The Astirax, in the Wardog's body, rose and moved up to the right flank of the Orc in the doorway, growling, prepared to attack the first Man to come through the door.

Angered by the greenskin's audacity, Aesmir lunged directly for the orc's heart. The orc, his cruel vardach blade swung down from its high guard, shrieked his battlecry. He was intent upon dashing Aesmir's sword aside and hacking into him. 

A lesser man would have surely been cleaved in two by such a fercious counter, Aesmir simply caught the orc's war-maddened eyes momentarily with his own cold glare, and sneered at it in its own tongue. "The difference between you and me, Orc - I live and die free! You are just going to die."

With that Aesmir flicked his sword out of the vardach's path an instant before the clash of steel on steel, and stepped neatly aside to let the cleaver swing past him as he then twitched 'Foe-Skewer' back into a second thrust. As the orc's weapon smashed into the floor there was a howl of pain as Aesmir stuck the sentry between the ribs. The thrust drew blood, and was wrenched from the wound with a sickening tug from Aesmir. Panting and in obvious pain, the orc gaped in horror at its open wound, stunned. Aesmir swung his sword in again in a roundabout motiod. Stunned, the orc offered no defense as Aesmir neatly lopped its head from its body. 

Standing over his fallen foe, Aesmir shouted aloud to everyone, "See how you who follow the Shadow are truly alone? We who fight for freedom at least have each other! Now with me, Men!" 

With that he raised his sword more and charged into the room. The orc twitched slightly in a pool of blood to the side where it had landed, but Aesmir's charge was halted by the intervention of the Legate's wardog Astirax. The animal growled and moved in deliberate, intelligent fashion, placing himself enough in the way of the doorway that charging fully into the room would not be possible.

The rebel in the doorway to the dining hall stood in a clearly defensive stance. The other rebel moves up beside Aesmir, prepared to charge in should he get the chance. Hargeld and his other man remained in the back, ready to reinforce whatever needed reinforcing. Heron held his ground - he could not charge the legate, as the door was still blocked by the legate's dog. Aesmir had fared well so far, and Heron felt no reason to intervene - not that there was room for him to join the fray yet.

Jarvis shook his head and glared at Aesmir, his eyes barely containing the rage seemed to seep tangibly from the tainted Man. "You pathetic little rat!  How dare you assult your better. Now you will burn under the hatred of shadow!" Jarvis pointed a hand at Aesmir and began to chant words of magical power. _"Het branden haat van Schaduw!"_

The astirax stayed in the doorway, dropping low and getting ready to avoid any attack sent his way.

Aesmir charged, intending to cleave the Legate's wardog and roll right over him. The wardog seemed to grin, then, and moved with an unnatural intelligence. Suddenly its defensive posture was gone, and the thing was a blur, charging up low at Aesmir's upper left leg. Having no defense to offer, Aesmir was caught on the hip, and the crunch of bone was clearly audible despite the noise of battle. The warm, wet slick that spread through his trowsers quickly showed that the blood loss was no small matter.

Aesmir lashed out, the shock of the sudden bite taking some of the power out of his now-wild swing, but the blade came down near the base on the top of the wardog's head, slicing half of it off in a diagonal line from above the left eye and passing down to exit through his right lower jaw. The floor was slick now with blood - his and the animal's.

Aesmir turned to look at the Warrior Legate, a grin spreading on his face.  "Now it is your..."

His words were cut off by a sudden flash of pain. Agony. He was hot. Then burning. Then boiling. Blood poured then from his very pores, and he fell, spinning. The last thing he saw before his eyeballs exploded was Heron and the nearest of the rebel warriors writhing on the ground as well, screaming. 

Or was that his own scream? He wondered this briefly, just before his heart exploded. He wondered nothing, ever again, for the spell of the Legate had boiled his very blood in a flash, leaving him and two companions smouldering and oozing, skin crackled open from the extreme and sudden pressure of vaporized blood.

-------------------------------

Ghost, the wardog companion, charged in over the bodies of the rebel, his master and the other wandering fighter, over the corpse of the Legate's wardog, and leapt for the Legate's throat, determined to protect his master. The legate, however, was now on fire - not real fire, but a magical flame that left him completely unaffected, yet charred the flesh of the dog immediately on contact.

Still, the faithful hound got the legate on the shoulder, bowling him over. As the dog lay twitching, dying from its horrible burns, Hargeld and another rebel burst immediately into the room and fell upon the Legate, the speed of the waves of attacking rebels overwhelming the Legate's defenses. The warrior's axe took Jarvis in the neck, the wound almost certainly fatal, but the magical flames burned him as well. He fell back, screaming, before passing out from the pain, but Hargeld saw nothing of this.

Instead, Hargeld thrust his blade down, piercing the now-prone Jarvis in the neck. The magical flames did not reach up far enough along his longer weapon to injure Hargeld as they had the axe wielder, however. In moments, the Legate was no more.

Turning to the one remaining rebel, who came in cautiously after dispatching the orc in the dining hall with nothing more than a scratch on his leg to show he'd been fighting, Hargeld nodded.  "It is done, my friend. At such cost! But this day we count a victory. I can only pray to my grandfather's spirit that we have enough men left. Come, let us see upon the status of the ambush at the Orc barracks."

The two men moved quickly and carefully out of the house, and made their way to rejoin the rest of their men.


----------



## Emiricol (Mar 29, 2005)

*Main Scene, Winter 99, Last Age*

Carith's blade fell from his hand almost as soon as the Fell hit the ground, and his body followed not long after. The rush of the fight gone, the pain in his leg was more than he could handle, leaving him gritting his teeth and trying to stay concious. 

In his mind, memories began to swirl, mixed in with the pain. Memories of Alyea, the village he had stayed in. Happy memories, his only happy memories. And then the darker memories came; his time spent as a soldier of the shadow, countless raids into the forest in Izrador's service, and then the ambush. 

Carith had already begun to slip into unconciousness when the hawk, _Whisper_, landed on a tree near him. As there minds slowly merged Carith drew upon the beast's strength and propped himself up up one one arm, calling "Thrayn, Thrayn where are you?"

Carith's voice brought Thrayn back from his odd reverie. Voices calling his name echoed still in his mind as he let the magic cloaking him slip away. Thrayn breathed heavily, his exhaled air blowing on the dead man's back. Absently he wiped his blades on the corpse's coat and slid them into their sheathes. 

"I am here," Thrayn said, not yet looking at Carith as he stepped away from the body, letting his weight carry him to a heavy landing. _This place reeks of the Shadow's stink. The dead rise not only on this Earth._ 

Thrayn's eyes continued to drift back to the woman's body. Was she pale? White skin, hair? Was that the slender point of an ear poking through bloodied tresses? Her head turned to him, the face of his cousin, broken and blooded. "Thrayn, Thrayn where are you?" He clamped his eyes shut and then forced them open when he could take it no more. There she lay, again human and quite dead, the misty and troubling memory fleeing from his vision. He turned away and looked at Carith laying grimacing on the ground. "You were hurt."

Their conversation was interrupted by heavy thumping, trampling through the woods, and bursting forth from the brushes and undergrowth came Rongald with Dornhild not far behind, axes at the ready. "Master Thrayn, Master Carith!" Rongald exclaimed with concern.

Dornhild exclaimed, "Elf, the human is bleeding badly! I wager a Tusk that he can not walk far without long rest and the cutting of a healer, or the execution of Fey talents in the realm magical."  Despite his concerned tone, Dornhild's expression showed he might prefer the former than the latter. 

Rongald glanced to the decapitated man and his dead woman, and without a grunt or word, set to likewise decapitate her body, a grim scowl on his face. "More Fell.  Shadow curse them, but they are everywhere in the border regions between Fey and Orc."

Dornhild  meanwhile kneeled near Carith.  Easy, master Carith.  Rest." He glanced then to Thrayn, ready to set about binding the wound should the Fey prove as unreliable as his opinion of the elder race might dictate. His feelings were written like carvings upon his face.

Thrayn matched Dornhild's gaze and breathed in deeply as he did so. A cool wind whipped about him in a sudden whirl, tossing leaves up about his legs. He could feel the warm rush of arcane energies flood back into his sytem. As the bizarre wind died down in but a moment, he walked over to Carith and knelt down. What was left of the wind blew several leaves past Thrayn's face as he reached forward and traced a pattern of healing runes in the air, his hand descending to touch Carith's savaged and ruined hip. The dying wind picked up once again, suddenly, and a sharp chill ran through Elf and Man alike, accompanied by a muffled, crunching pop as Carith's femur slid back into its joint. The pain was exquisite, but lasted only moments as the torn flesh sealed under the cooling touch of Thrayn's magic.

Thrayn stood and once again locked eyes with Dornhild, this time for only a moment. "Let's return to the camp. Rongald, take what is of use from the bodies - let at least that part of them continue to aid the fight."

Rongald nodded and set to patting down the bodies. He hooked the man's axe to his belt and went about his task as Thrayn started to walk back to thier camp.

With Dornhild's aid Carith slowly stood up from the ground and, repalcing his blade in its sheath, walked slowly back to the camp. His wound was healed but the memory of the pain was all to fresh in his mind, and the chill left from the healing magics made the joint stiff for some time after. 

Once the small group arrived back at their camp Carith approached Thrayn as he sat next to the fire. "Thank you. If not for your presence that Fell would have killed me without much trouble, and if not for your healing ability the wound to my leg would not have healed in time to be of any use to the village we travel to, if ever. I know I am all ready greatly in your debt, but I would ask one more thing of you; if you are willing to teach, I would learn the art of sorcery. As you have seen, I have the power within me well beyond most Humans, but I lack any sort of training, and with out that I fear I may prove this gift more of a curse than a blessing, out beyond these trees. I know this is a great gift I ask of you, and many who start down this path never finish, but I am not one of those. I will do whatever I can to oppose the Shadow, no matter the costs to me."

Paying no heed to the conversation at hand, Rongald unceremoneously dumped what little gear the man and woman had in a pile before the fire, then retreated to the safety of the far side - away from Carith and Thrayn, discreetly giving them their privacy. In the pile gleamed a large dagger and an axe, as well as the woman's silver armband, and a leather beltpouch. The rest was unsalvageable out here, under thier circumstances.

Rongald sat slowly next to Dornhild and nodded at the fire.  "You never fought the Fell before, my friend?" There was no sound of recrimination to his voice, and the other Norther merely shook his head slowly, staring into the glow of the fire. Rongald continued, "They always unnerve me as well. Master Thrayn is not troubled by them for his own reasons, but I never walk away without fighting the urge to unleash my last meal - just raw nerves."

Dornhild nodded slowly, and after too many seconds, replied softly,  "I have burned many a fallen friend and more enemies, and done more preparations than I can count," referring to the ritual decapitation of the dead that prevented the dead from Rising.  "But never have I fought one. That... man. He was destroyed. His body, I mean. Carith and the Elf had cut that... thing... up enough to drop any three Men. And yet he kept coming, and nearly killed Carith by the looks of it. I should like it very much if I never had to witness one of the Fell again. Much more so if I never have to fight one in this lifetime."

It was Rongald's turn to nod thoughtfully.  "By my Grandfather's spirit I hope you get your wish.  That we all get your wish." It was some minutes of comfortable silence before Dornhild arose once more, grabbing up his spear and shield and then settling down under his cloak to try to rest.

Carith and Thrayn continued to talk quietly amongst themselves, lost in a conversation of their own. Thrayn sat and stared into the fire as Carith spoke, barely nodding in recognition of his thanks. Another sorcerer and in his debt no less. Admittedly the idea was intriguing, and the human had shown abilities that even he could learn from. But there were the hours, the impatience of a mortal, and also the fact that in any circumstance the man would take the secrets to his eventual grave, being mortal after all. But that too, was a benefit of sorts. More than any other thing, the fact that he would need help to do what was needed to travel in human lands pressed his answer. He looked up at Carith and after a long silence, spoke.

"I will teach you. I will spare what time I have and you in return will spare yours when asked. There is work to be done and you cannot help me as you are." He stood and started to walk over toward the piled goods that Rongald had brought back. He called over his shoulder as he crossed the camp, "Rest, for tomorrow we start.  This camp shall be our home for a short time to come."

When he reached the pile of things brought from the dead, he squatted down and sifted through the pile. The silver armband was a good fit for his own arm and he slid it on over the sleeve of his shirt and nestled it against the higher, golden band on his right arm. He tossed the axe and knife aside, the two Dornmen could put them to use. The last he took was the pouch. He opened it and leaned toward the fire to better see what lay inside.

Within the pouch lay three things. A braided bit of horse hair in the form of a ring, of the type sometimes used by the Dorn to show an intention to marry - they were exchanged with one another at some family ceremony.

Also within lay a small feather wrapped in twine. Although crudely done, it was probably a human charm. These were virtually mass produced by the Fey, but were relatively rare among the humans. This one bound the essence of a raptor. A talon might improve one's swordplay, but the feather would be used to gift the one who removed the string with the sight of a hawk - to see great distances with clarity, but only for a couple seconds. A minor charm at best.

Finally, there lay a single Oruk tusk, probably all the wealth the couple had possessed aside from the armbands.

Carith nodded as Thrayn went to work and then moved over to his blanket and lay down before the fire. _The training will be difficult to say the least, but in the end what I gain will be more than worth it; perhaps at last I will have enough power to truely oppose the shadow._

=======================

The following days were hard ones. Long hours were spent describing the rudimentaries of moving arcane energies with thought and word. Teased hints were given and frustrated words exchanged between the two sorcerors as Thrayn pushed Carith to discover answers on his own rather than giving them away without work. The two Dornlanders watched at times, but mostly kept to the camp away from the frightening goings on being held just out of earshot in the thicker woods.

Many days passed this way, even unto the end of Winter, until finally some hint that the hard-tought lessons had borne fruit came to light.

Carith stood in the middle of a grove of trees. His eyes where closed and his hands were extended out before him. Slowly his hands moved back and forth, tracing cryptic patterns in the air attempting to unlock arcane energy. As his hands traced the patterns, Carith spoke, keeping his voice clear and even as he began to cast his spell, "Re....go.....Her...." . 

"No, no, no! I said "clear" - that doesn't have to mean slowly! And remember the accents. How you say each word is almost more important than the word its self. Now try it again," called Thrayn from one end of the clearing.

Carith shook his head, muttered a few curses under his breath and then extended his hands once again. Tracing the symbols he begins to speak again. "Rego Herbam!" he shouted, breaking the silence of the clearing and releasing a small stream of magic energy. Opening his eyes, Carith glanced around the clearing looking for the effect of his spell, but he felt it first. The grass around his feet had reached up to grab him by the ankles, and he saw a pair of branches from the nearest arch down to wrap around his arms, holding him fast. As Carith struggled agains the poorly aimed spell, Thrayn simply nodded and said, "Better," before he walked back to their small camp, leaving Carith alone in the woods.


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## Gideon (Mar 31, 2005)

I really like this story hour.  Your painting of charachters is impressive.  I think it comes from the details that are slid into a sentence.  Your painting of the scenery is likewise excellent.  I don't feel like I am slogging through descriptions (last of the mohicans) while still having the world's feel created in 3-D.  I am not familiar with the Midnight setting but now I am at least interested in finding out some more.


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## Emiricol (Apr 1, 2005)

Thanks a lot, Gideon.  Especially considering the poor spellcheck job I did with the last posts   This is a writeup version of a play-by-post game conducted over at www.trosforums.com, so I do get a lot of help with the writing.  Normally I do a better job smoothing it out though.

Anyway, I've always loved the Midnight setting.  You can find out more at http://www.fantasyflightgames.com/midnight.html, and there's a lot of flavor-related information at www.againsttheshadow.org as well.

If I've done anything worthy in my writing, it's only because the setting inspires it.  Demands it, really.

Thanks again for slogging through this story hour


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## Arkhandus (Apr 1, 2005)

I too shall slog and be happy for the slogging.  {:^D


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## Emiricol (Apr 1, 2005)

Welcome aboard


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## Gideon (Apr 2, 2005)

For a heads up, I sent you an email Emiricol.


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## hbarsquared (May 26, 2005)

Hello?
Hello . . .   Hello . . .   Hello . . .  ​When's the next update?


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## Emiricol (May 27, 2005)

jeremy_dnd said:
			
		

> Hello?Hello . . .   Hello . . .   Hello . . .  ​When's the next update?




With a new baby, turning the game into a story hour has taken a back seat   I have all the notes, and I suspect I'll be able to devote time to it shortly.  This story hour is _definitely_ a priority for me, so no worries about that.

I have a ton of stuff to write up, just waiting for me to get to it... heh.

Thanks for reading it, by the way - and the sig link!


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## Emiricol (Jun 21, 2005)

*Spring, 100 Last Age*

The journey was long, and much of it arduous. They traveled north through the Carunsil, then east out of the safety of the Fey woods and into the lands of Men and Orc - the Northlands. The four companions had faced unspeakably foul walking dead, the weather, even wild animals to get so far.

Moreover, the threshold of the forest and adjacent plains were a festering no-man's land of raid, counter-raid. They avoided several Elven patrols, so as not to be pressed into some service or another - there were never enough able bodies to do all that needed doing, and Thrayn would be pressed to "do his duty" after all. Two Orc patrols were likewise ambushed, though the need to travel light meant they could only collect the teeth - still, the twenty orc tusks could be traded among the Fey, and they were small and light.

Eventually, of course, the journey came to an end. In early Spring in the year 100 of the Last Age, they crested a low grassy hill and before them stood finally Rode Pijler, which the Dorn knew as Red Pillar in his Norther tongue (Rode Pijler being the name as spoken in the tongue of the Legates), and some 200 yards south of the walled village lay the jutting spire of stone from which the village got its name - a lone collumn of red rock looking like nothing so much as a giant spike impaling the earth itself. It was striking in its abruptness, its crisp edges undulled by time and the elements.

Just outside the gate, which lay closed even at this early hour of the morning, was a burnt piling of lumber and stones, with bits of something red and dull scattered atop it. Keen Fey eyes quickly identified it as the bits and pieces of a suit of plate armor, a rare treasure that had been discarded carelessly and left to rust despite its value. Bones, and dozens of skulls, likewise littered that heap outside the village.

Carith stood silent for a moment as he looked out at the village and the large red stone beyond it, with a feeling of mixed hope and dread.  "This is the place of my vision, and from the looks of it events are already in motion. Either these men have somehow thrown off the yoke of their oppressors - and are now waiting for the strike of retribution to come - or that retributive hammer blow had landed and we are too late." he threw his arm forward, sending Whisper off in flight towards the village.  "Let us rest here for a few miniutes while I have a look around." Without waiting for a response Carith settled lazily down to the ground, letting his pack fall off his shoudlers, and reached out with his mind and made contact with the hawk as it flew. 

_~Come my friend, circle the village once and then a quick look towards the rock before we move on.~
_

====================
More shortly!


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## Emiricol (Jun 22, 2005)

Thrayn watched as his companion sat down into his trance.  "Make this quick.  Masking the magic within us will do no good if someone sees you working sorcery," he grunted in the Norther tongue. He grimaced and took a step between Carith and the village.  Staring down at the rubbish heap, he waved Rongald to his side.  

Rongald had yet to become used to Thrayn's current appearance.  The masking ritual he had worked on himself and Carith had done more than just hide their sorcerous nature - the aura of magic that infused them, Thrayn especially.  Now, he and Carith looked much like the other two men - non-descript Dornish travellers equiped for a hard journey.  However, always stoic, Rongald approached the snow Elf and peered down to where he pointed.  "Aye, a rubbish heap.  I don't understand."

Thrayn spoke without looking away, merely cocking his head to one side.  "There are bones in that heap, human bones.  Armor too, possibly more.  Oruks or raiders would have taken prizes and Legate's men would have taken the useful items to bolster their stores.  Something may be wrong here."   He let the words hang in the air accompanied only by Rongald's grunt of acknowledgement.

_Whisper_ shuddered as the connection was made with his master, and Carith received an image of the bird eating from his hand.  For Whisper, this was a sure sign of happiness. Banking on an updraft the raptor soared out over the village, keen eyes picking out many details for Carith to decipher.

Of note, not a single orc was visible, and Men carried weapons openly within the walls of the village.  There was a burnt-out building, probably a warehouse, by the main entrance, which was kept closed unless granting a villager passage. Open, closed.  Open, closed. ANd there were over two dozen armed men, certainly.

The walls had recently been reinforced with earthworks, leaving something like a dry moat around the village wall, and spikes rose up within the trench, looking like so many blades of grass from that high altitude.

Outside the village, the remnants of a bonfire with numerous skulls and bones.  The bird's sharp eyes had no difficulty determining that these were Orc skulls, at least the ones Whisper looked at.  There were charred weapons within the pile too, and small bits of armor, some of which looked quite serviceable. _~Very odd~_, he thought to himself.

The biggest note of interest, however, was the figure of a large man tied spread-eagle on a wooden "X", which was held upright by two stout wooden poles.  The man wore torn and rent armor, near-priceless platemail, but his hands were nailed and tied to the wooden frame, as were his legs.  The figure twitched violently, constantly, though it was clearly highly decayed.

Whisper gave the figure a long look before slowly banking again, now towards the red pillar of stone.  It was massive, standing at least twenty feet high.  The top was nearly smooth, an irregular circle some 30 feet in diameter.  About the edge, a wooden pallisade, some of the wood still green.  A means of entry or exit was not visible, however.  Men worked with hammers and chisels and axes atop the unnatural stone formation.

Carith urged Whisper to fly back, and then broke the mental link. After the moment of dizziness passed, which always followed the disconnect with his feathered friend, Carith stood slowly.  " I do not think we will have much to fear from this village, at least if we can convince them that we are not their enemies. There are no orcs in the town, and men walk with weapons held in the open. They have started to build defenses around the village, and to fortify the pillar of rock over there. They burned a lot of orc bodies recently, and some buildings in town, and I think they killed their Legate and left him to rise as one of the Fell. These men are dangerous, but I think we can win them to our side. Besides, they will need all the help they can get if any of them are going to survive the retributive assult that is sure to come." 

Carith hoisted his pack up onto his shoulders and started to walk towards the village, Whisper landing on his shoulder after half a dozen steps.


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## Kurzak T (Jun 24, 2005)

I'm really enjoying this story hour Emiricol!  Please keep up the good work.

And congrats on the new addition to your family!  Write more while the tyke is napping!


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## Emiricol (Jun 25, 2005)

Ha!  Thanks.  He's starting to only wake up 3-4 times each night...  o.0


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Jul 5, 2005)

Emiricol

I came across your storyhour only recently, and have been reading it whenever I've had time over the last few days. Now I'm caught up, I'd just like to say what a fine piece of work I think it is. I'm not particularly familiar with the Midnight setting (though I'm aware of the general premise), nor with the two systems you're using, but whether it's a combination of them, or just your own writing skills, you're managing to evoke a very vivid picture - bravo!

Hope you can keep it up in between your parental duties (don't worry, it gets better, they soon stop demanding so much of your time, and just want money instead   ).


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## Emiricol (Jul 8, 2005)

Thank you!  I'm really glad you are enjoying the story hour.  I think it is mostly the system and setting - I feel at times like I am just sort of along for the ride and the campaign is writing itself.  The setting has a depth, if you go below the surface, that is really impressive, and the system I'm using, Riddle of Steel, is perfect for Midnight (with a few tweaks and optional rules in use).

The baby slept through the night for the first time last night - I'm sure it was a one time thing though   Thankfully it will happen more regularly as time goes on.  Whew!


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## Arkhandus (Jul 8, 2005)

Yup, Em's a good writer, alright.  I might just have to pick up the Midnight setting because of the great story here, dangit.  Curse you Em!  Making me waste more money on books because you make them seem so much cooler.....  {:^D

Wish ya all the best with yer new baby and everything, Em.   
-John


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## Emiricol (May 13, 2006)

Well then.  Fortunately I have backups of the writeups I had done this year   I will repost as time allows.  The campaign just came to conclusion (for now), but you'll have to wait and see how it ends


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## Emiricol (May 14, 2006)

In a couple of minutes, more archers arrived, and after they had taken a position atop the wall, the gate was opened enough for six armed men to come out.  One, at the fore, seemed to carry himself with authority.

"Well then.  Refugees usually flee west, not east.  I am told you have some wild tale of hearing tree spirits and doing the bidding of fantastical creatures.

"I should warn you, claiming to come from the Snow Ghosts will not earn you friends here.  Too long have they stolen our children, slaughtered our cows, made madmen of fathers, brothers, sons.  And that, stranger, is _only_ if the tales of their existance are even true.

"So then.  We've dealt with one unnatural terror in the past moon, and won't hesitate to do it again if you are bewitched.  Having said that, do you still wish to come in, refugee?  It will cost you.  Nothing is free, and we have little enough for ourselves."

His tone was even and controlled, possibly even friendly - but the hard line of his eyes and set of his jaw showed otherwise.

Carith stared at the man and slowly began to speak with some effort at self control, " We are no refugees sir, and I assure you that for every harm the Snow Ghosts have done to you they have inflicted a hundred times worse upon those allied with the Shadow. But I did not come here to speak of elves, I came to offer my blade and bow to men in need of all the help they can get."

Carith kept his glare at the man direct and unapologetic, standing as tall as he could muster and letting his eyes and his voice echo the fire in his heart.  _If this is the man who leads them they are already dead. These are just like the soldiers from my youth, posturing and hot wind, but have any of his men seen real battle? Or was their little assault on the orcs their first taste of real battle? Regardless, they are lost in superstition and fear... These men can not fight the Shadow as they are, the orcs and their foul master will run them down with out much effort if these men are as fearful of them as they are of the Snow Ghosts. Maybe this is all a lost cause for us after all..._

Carith unshouldered his pack roughly and spoke again. "We have little to offer that would be of aid to your village. A pair of mead bottles to warm your men's spirits and a few pounds of bagged salt to help your stores of food." Carith removed the items from his pack and held them to the man before him, waiting to see if that paltry sum might barter them into the village.

The man stared right back into Carith's eyes, sizing up the man behind them perhaps.  After a long, tense moment he seemed to relax a little, unconsciously stepping back from Carith's unwavering gaze.

"Well then.  We can certainly use another few blades.  We lost four men when we attacked the Legate and his thirty or so orcs, four men we could ill afford to lose."

His gaze then traveled quickly over each of the new arrivals appraisingly.  "That'll be enough to get you in.  My name is Hargeld, the leader of these men.  We've been raiding up and down the Erunsi-Northlands border for months.  Come inside, let us speak in a warm hall."

Carith and "his crew" were  led into what were no doubt once the chambers of the Legate, then on into the great hall, and seated along a long wooden table that traveled much of the length of the large room.  A bitter-smelling tea, popular in the North because the herb responsible had no qualities that would bring the wrath of Shadow, was placed before the newcomers along with a bit of bread.  Nearby a fire burned, warming the room from the still-cold spring air outside.

Hargeld, the apparent leader of this band, sat at the head of the table.  Spread before him were charts, a map and a ledger, evidence that he did much of his work there.

"Tell me more of yourselves.  And of the skills you bring to the table.  And of this odd vision I heard tell of."  He smiled, all the tension of meeting new people now gone though he still seemed guarded.  Still strangers, after all, even if they seemed promising.

Carith took a generous bite of bread and then slowly drank some of the bitter tea, a welcome reminder of earlier, more comfortable days.  As he did so he glanced as best he could at the papers on the table, hoping to find something of interest, something new, written upon them."I am Carith, and these are Thrayn, Dornhild and Rongald." Carith gestured to each man in turn and then took another drink of the bitter tea. 

Carith decided that, between their current position and what he himself knew of them, they could be trusted for now - and that honesty might make them more useful for later.

"We are all experienced warriors, having slain several orc patrols just on our trip to your village, and we have the tusks to prove it if you don't believe it. Beyond that, things become more difficult to explain. I have somewhat of a natrual talent for the forbitten sorcery," Carith said, lowering his voice conspiratorially at the last, probably without even thinking about it much.  Habit.  "And I have recently apprenticed myself to a powerful Elven sorcerer. It is from his training that I gained access to the ancient magic of the Elves, and was granted a vision by the forest of Erethor itself. I saw your village and piles of burning orcs, just as it is now, but I also saw what was to come. Another Legate marches for this place, his standard gleaming in the moonlight and showing a raptor's talons clutching a green sphere marked with red lines. His army comes to this place, and many men die. In the end the Legate is dead, but so too may be any hope of life in this village. Much is uncertain even now." 

Carith took another bite of bread and finished off the last of his tea. "We are here to do two things, make sure that foul servant of the Shadow meets his end here, and to save as many of the people of this village as we can. I understand you may be hesitant to accept our help, the help of strangers, and I will respect your choice if you tell us to leave - but in this hour of darkness we are the only ones who will be coming to your aid, so take the help that is offered to you even if you do not like the source."

Hargeld remained quiet and unreadable as Carith explained their reasons for coming to Rode Pijler.  A slight tightening around his eyes and lips gave away his tension at mention of Elves, but he remained calm, considering every word of Carith with great care. There was a long, almost awkward moment of silence afterwards, with a growing tension in the air, but just as Carith sensed Dornhild tensing up to preempt any ambush, the rebel leader spoke and his voice was calm, very even, almost monotone. Dornhild stayed motionless, but ready.

Hargeld nodded. "These tales are fantastical, and yet, what you say about your vision is to my knowledge truth.  There was a battle here, a slaughter really - although the Legate was difficult to take down, he said with a flash of sorrow that belied how much an understatement that was.

"And, in fact, a small army does march toward Rode Pijler, I learnt recently.  They are the forces of Warrior Legate Christoffel, a rival of the former Legate ruler of this area.  His intent is to raze the village, blaming the rebellion. If he has learnt of his rival's demise it hasn't altered his course. I imagine he will string up a few humans and claim them as rebels, thus avenging the Shadow's shame, when he finds out - the fall of this garrison won't change his plans much.

"If he succeeds, this village will be no more, and Christoffel will be given even more power and authority, maybe even being promoted to the front lines of the fight against the Snow Ghosts of the deadly woods."

One of the men beside Hargeld turned red, stepping forward to proclaim Hargeld a fool to believe in the tales of Fey, but Hargeld held his ground, hand lightly resting meaningfully upon his dagger hilt.  Calmly, he instructed the Dorn to step back, then smiled when the latter had, finally, done as he was instructed. Apparently the Dorn was rude, not brave.

"Make no mistake, men.  The Elves are in fact real.  Whether they truly stole babies and cows to sacrifice to their demon queen, I know not.  I do, however, know that they are real.  They do fight.  They hold back the Shadow where Men have failed.  Anything we can do to destabilize Izrador's ability to get organized against the Fey of the north, the better on all of us.  So pull your head out and get yourself together, man."

Somewhat embarrassed by this display before strangers, Hargeld coughed and then apologized.  "Not all of us have seen an Elf, nor do my men know much about the great Human rebel leader, a man of greatness in mind and destiny, who lashes out against shadow from the grace and protection of the Elves. If I sound in awe of him, it is because I am. I have seen Fey, and I do know of such a Man.

"And so, I am prepared to believe you.  Your description of Christoffel's standard is accurate, though I pray your vision was a warning and not writ in stone.  We would be honored to have you by our side in the coming battle, friends."

Carith nodded, very interested in the Lord riding out from the protection of the Fey territories, although he kept silent on the issue otherwise. "We will do what ever we can do aid you friend, but I will need some infromation if I am to be of much use. First, do you know how long it will be until the orcs arrive, and do we have anything close to a solid count of their numbers?"

Hargeld said very slowly, watching Carith's reactions intently, "They should arrive in about a week, leaving us very little time to finish our preparations. Our spies, who alerted us to the force in the first place, report some thirty Orcs strong, with three or so Oruk and of course that _Dirnesohn_, Legate Christoffel.

"For our part, we have perhaps 40 men in arms - mostly infantry, fewer than a dozen archers.  We'll be more poorly equipped than they are, but I expect the many provisions we seized when we took Rode Pijler will keep the men strong and energetic.  We also have a better healer than I expect them to have, since Christoffel won't likely have wasted time learning to heal magically.  I believe, perhaps vainly, that I am a better leader and strategist than this Christoffel as well, having studied his past battles via reports from our spies.

"The village itself is down to about 45 other people, mostly women, children and the elderly.  This doesn't include the men under arms I mentioned.  Fortunately, the food is abundant.  We could feed a unit twice our size with all gluttony for many months.

"A final item of interest - the red pillar for which this village is named in the foul Black Tongue.  Surely you noted it on your arrival. Our fortification of it _should_ be complete by the time they arrive.  It is high enough that they can't climb easily, and we've established a pallisade that will allow us to fire directly down the sides of the pillar.  Getting there, aye, there's the easy part.  We discovered an ancient tunnel, from the looks of it dating back many generations.  The tunnel comes right up the center of the pillar.  The way in is beneath the Legate's old chambers, now our headquarters, and is broad enough for two men abreast.

"There is a problem of course.  Nothing is easy, right?  The problem is that it is dug through solid rock, so we can't collapse it behind us with what we have available to us - nor would we want to, since it is a way out potentially, but it would be nice to have the option.  So, we have rigged the building over the entrance to burn.  That will hold them back for some time, should they break our defenses here in the village."


There was a long pause.

Slowly, letting Hargeld's speech percolate into his thinking more fully, Carith nodded and then looked to the map for a few moments before finally pointing down to it.

"A good plan," Carith said reassuringly, "but if you don't mind I have a few suggestions." After recieving a permissive nod from Hargeld he motioned to several spots on the map, common paths from East towards the village. "The orcs will most likely advance from here and here. Obviously they will try to penetrate the pallisade as soon as they can, and if they do this we and everyone in this village are as good as dead. What we need to do is to restrict their movement, slow them down and get them into this zone right here where the wall curves inward by the south tower - there our archers can rain death down upon them. If we can somehow kill half their number before they reach our walls we have a much better chance."

Hargeld nodded, thinking through various plans to accomplish the difficult task.  "Orcs under the whips of a Legate and his Oruk commanders will charge without fear even into certain death, and if they break through our defenses through sheer numbers, the chaos in this village will be like the greatest Pellurian storm - but not for long, for the storm will quickly tear us apart."  

Carith's eyes seemed to drift off for a few moments, his mind wandering back and remembering a battle from the distant past. After a moment he regained his composure and replied to Hargeld, his tone soft and reassuring once more. "All we need is some rope or vines, some shovels and anything we can put at the bottom of a pit that might impale an Orc. Keep men working on the Pillar, but with your permission, I would like to take a few men, maybe even some of the villagers, and begin setting up some suprises for the attackers.  With a bit of luck we will make Rode Pillar a name that is spoken in fear among the minions of the Shadow for years to come."

Carith wiped the stinging persperation from his brow and leaned against the simple wooden-hafted shovel in his hand. Although it was still early Spring the sun beat down on him from its mid-day height relentlessly and he had worked up quite a sweat. _At least it warms the ground and makes the pits easier to dig._ 

After a moment to just breathe, he tossed the shovel onto a pile of fresh, loose earth and picked up his blade, moving off purposefully to examine the other defenses being constructed to his instructions. _They are coming along quicker than I thought they would.  But just three and a half days for them to make the town defensable?_  He knew what time they had would scarcely be enough. The  men were raiders, and knew little of defense and almost nothing of seiges. Not that he fooled himself into believing his own body of knowledge was vast, but it had so far earned him the respect of the men. Hopefully that would be enough...

Carith stood watching the simple people dig simple but effective pits.  Among those pits, by plan they lay out ropes and vines, stretched taught just inches from the ground.  _These will definitely slow the advance of the orcs and hopefully channel them along the path we want them to take, to a spot I hope we can more easily defend._ 

He watched them work and memories flooded back to him, memories of his past life as a solider, and of the last time he had led men in battle. Far away under the shade of the great trees he had fought, but there he had been the aggressor. They had tried to slow his group's assult, but they did not have the training to do so.  Instead they fought with spirit, defending their homes and loved ones, before one by one to the last man they had died.  In his mind the echoes and clangs, the din of battle, was fresh as memory.  He and his unit slaughtered those fools in there homes like animals.  Helpless people.  And he had done it. He had done it because to even think of refusing was to die by the vardatch of some orc who would enjoy it entirely too much; to show weakness invited death.  Back then, he was not ready to die. Had that changed now, he wondered to himself, but he found no answers.


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## Emiricol (Aug 28, 2006)

No answer, that is, except for a stiff hand placed on his shoulder.

"Do not look so grim my friend, we are not dead men yet, and if these defenses of yours work we may yet win this battle," spoke Hargeld, leader of the rebels in the village.

Carith nodded and then began to walk with the man, watching the rest of the men work on the defenses. He finally ended up looking thoughtfully at the large pillar of red rock near the town. "The defenses are going well, we have good odds in this fight as long as we can take care of a few more variables that could tip the balance in our favor. Beyond that though there is one thing we have not yet discussed... The fate of the civilians." 

Carith stopped, sighing deeply and then continued with careful, measured tone, "When this is done I would like to take them into the Great Woods, find a refugee village and try to help them settle into a better life. You know as well as I do that they can not stay here.  Not even if we beat back this attack, for the shadow will come again for them and eventully they would all die at the end of an Orc vardach. I would not yet ask you or your men to risk your lives helping me, but know that I would not turn down the aid if it was offered. What worries me is that these people may not survive to be led out, if the battles goes badly and we warriors must flee to the pillar.  Then they would be slaughtered, unless we bring them with us. A few could fit in the fort its self and the rest could stay in the tunnel during the fight, not pleasent cicumstances, but better than death at any rate...."  Carith trails off, waiting for the other man to respond before going on.

Hargeld grimaced, having been trying not to think about that very topic ever since the plans were first made. "You may certainly use the villagers, and whatever rope and other materials you need is yours for the taking, so long as the aim is improving the defense of the village. I think you are right about where they will come from, now that you have shown me on the map.  That does make sense..."

* * * *

For the next three days the motley rebels mostly kept to themselves, busy with the Red Pillar defensive works.  The villagers worked with great enthusiasm, for they knew that the end of all they knew, and even their very lives, might be there in days. As long as that Orc army was on the way there would be no safety in running, for families of farmers could never outrun  an Orc warband.

Then, finally, Carith had again found himself talking again with Hargeld about his newest ideas and requests.  Hargeld listened carefully despite the many distractions surrounding them.

"There is not room, my rebel friend, for the civilians to coop up in the Pillar defenses.  However if the Shadow breaks through the village defenses, as you suggested before, the civilians can indeed retreat into the tunnel leading to the Pillar fort, if they can make it before we collapse the entry.  They may be several days in the cramped tunnel - each man should see to his family's own water and food for carrying into the tunnel."

Hargeld paused, eyes roaming Carith's face searching for... Something.  Finally he continued, "I am not the Lord of these people.  Should we break Warrior Legate Christoffel's forces, they are free to follow you.  However - and I mention this in the strictest confidence, so that if I die and you do not, you can take it into account - there is another option.

"We've heard... whispers.  Rumors, really.  There is an honest to goodness Prince of the Dorn, and he's fighting Shadow and winning.  He's done SO well, say the rumors, that the bastard Snow Ghosts have granted him a fortress to guard their flank, and from there he rides out to slay the minions of Shadow, gathering an army of Men under his banner!"

Hargeld's eyes seemed almost to glow from the intensity of his emotions as he says this, and he clearly wished he were there now.  "It is a ten-day hard march from here, to the south west, just inside the Veradeen.  They call it _Skyrfell Pike!_"


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## Land Outcast (Feb 6, 2007)

Still around?


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## Arkhandus (Mar 8, 2007)

A bump to encourage good ole' Emiricol.  We still care about your Midnight game!   

I know life's probably got you pretty busy still, though.

*waits*

*twitch*


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