# Curse of Darkness VII - Britania



## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

This adventure picks up right at the end of the Valley of the Sun scenario, and was DM'd by the intrepid Mr. A., who plays Euphemia.
******* 
 The companions rose to their feet after the glory of the sun god's presence had faded from the room. Marcus was rubbing his eyes a bit, for having looked directly at the sun god he was still a bit dazzled.

"Well, he said we should head out on the south road.", Sylus declared after a long moment's silence. In the aftermath of meeting a deity, the rest of the world's affairs seemed inconsequential, so it took them all a few moments to process everything that had happened.

Slowly they gathered their things and headed out of the temple.

"We should probably spend the night here in the valley before we...". Whatever Sylus was saying trailed off as they emerged from the building. The sun was just clearing the eastern edge of the valley. No matter that they had arrived at noon and spent hours facing the challenges of the temple, it was now just past dawn.

"Of course.", Marcus laughed. "Apollo always arrives at sunrise. Check yourselves. I'll bet your bruises are gone, and your magics refreshed. It's a new day."

"Was that all a dream?", Euphemia asked.

"Well, it seemed real to me.", laughed Penn. "I mean, dreams fade, and I'll never forget him telling me how I'll die."

"I don't remember that.", Cassius said. "But I wonder if what he said about my family is true."

"Your family? He never said anything about your family. He was talking about..."

"It was real.", Imagina declared, holding out her book. The page she presented held a spell, burned into the vellum with the fire of the sun. "I think he gave each of us a vision, or a private prophecy. The future of the world might still be in question, but he can still make personal predictions."

"You don't seem upset, Penn.", Euphemia observed. "I mean, if someone told me how I'm going to die, I wouldn't be laughing."

"Well, it wasn't much, as prophecy's go. Imagina asked something about how long half-Fey like me live, and I joked that it didn't matter, I'd probably be killed by a jealous husband. Apollo corrected me, and said it would be a jealous boyfriend."

"Well, it hardly takes a prophet to see that coming.", Nedel agreed. "Still, we'd best be moving. We're due back in Rome, and we have a long walk ahead of us."
*** 
The southern route out of the valley resembled a goat path more than any kind of Roman road. It threaded its way through the narrow pass, then hugged a cliff face that only a mountain goat could call home. 

"Well, it's okay if you don't look down.", Marcus declared, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the trail before him.

"Oh lighten up.", Euphemia teased. "You could trundle a cart up and down this trail. The sun is shining and it's wide enough to dance on."

"Well, keep your dancing to a minimum.", Sylus advised, looking at the snow pack above them. "It doesn't take all that much to shake this stuff loose."

"Hey, you're right, the sun is shining. I guess Apollo was right when he said the curse was done."

"It's only shining for a few miles around the valley.", Nedel cautioned, indicating the relatively tight circle of clear sky. "We've scored a small victory, but it will take a lot more, and a lot more time before that reaches the rest of the world."

"Eyes on the trail!", Marcus cautioned once more. "We can enjoy the stars tonight, when we're off the mountain."

Still, Euphemia's enthusiasm was infectious, and they did find a spring in their step as the headed down the cliff face.  At least for a while...

  *** 
  "Our pursuers are back.", Euphemia warned the group. "I spotted them a little while ago, and then again just now. Half a dozen, heavily armed and very unhappy."

"How far back?"

"One or two cuts of the trail. They're on foot now, so I guess the bridge collapse was a good thing, in a way. Still, this isn't a good place for a fight."

"Maybe there's a way to block the trail, slow them down.", Cassius suggested. "Or maybe an ambush."

"No place to hide on this trail, but I'm sure I could do something with that boulder over there."

"An obstacle, or a deadfall?", Penn asked. Then he saw the devilish look in Euphemia's eye, and wished he hadn't.

"You guys keep moving.", she said as she appraised the stone outcropping in question. "I'll catch up."

"I'm here with you.", Sylus countered in a tone that brooked no argument.

Penn's travel song could be heard starting up as they began their work.
***
The group had been moving for another fifteen minutes or so when Sylus and Euphemia came running down the trail, waving them forward as they came.

"Hurry up, get moving. They're almost to it.", the little Rogue cried, glancing up to the trail above them. "We don't want to be on this side, in case it carries over."

"They might see it, you know.", Cassius warned. "Don't count your chickens just yet."

A scream and a rumble above them put his warning to rest. A body and a boulder crashed into the trail just behind them, then bounded further down the cliff face. But the rumbling didn't stop.

"Run!", Sylus cried. "I told you to be careful!"

And they ran. From above them came a sound so deep it was felt more than heard, and the entire frozen face of the mountain began to slide.

They fled as fast as their feet could carry them, down two more turns of the trail, then out across the flat expanse below. Ahead they could see a walled town. They didn't dare look behind.

The ground was moving, slapping at their feet and threatening to send them sprawling, and each breath came as a frosty gasp down an ice-seared throat, and they kept running. To stop was to die.

Ahead they could see the heavy town gates had been closed all but a crack, and two men in heavy dark robes stood outside, their hands weaving in a synchronized dance of magical gestures. None in the group wasted a thought trying to identify the spell, they just gave thanks that they were holding the gate open, instead of casting from the safety of the wall.

They stumbled past the waiting priests and staggered to a gasping halt as the gates were closed behind them.

"You were lucky.", the first of the men said, signaling for assistance. Men came out with warm blankets, and quickly bundled the companions into the waiting chapel.

"We get avalanches like that a couple of times a season, but it's rare to have anyone race in ahead of it."

"True.", agreed the second Cleric. "Few people travel that trail in the winter, and if they do we usually find their remains sometime after the spring thaw."

"Well, we appreciate the welcome.", said Cassius, careful to stomp the snow from his boots before stepping any further into the holy place.

"We are of the Order of the Winged Sandal", the first one said as he doffed his outer wrappings. "My name is Hector, and I'm the head priest here. This is my assistant, Arturios, and as any travelers, you're most welcome here." 

He tilted his head, eying the heavy sword Cassius carried across his back, and the general martial bearing of the group, then spoke again. "You've arrived just in time for the midwinter feast. The first of three days, to celebrate the return of the sun. You're welcome to join us, of course, but you'd probably be more comfortable without all those weapons. We can keep them safe for you here, at least until you make some other arrangements."

Marcus coughed and choked himself into a near hysterical fit of laughter as the whole situation became clear. Hector looked at him oddly, but helped him to a bench before his convulsions sent him sprawling. "What's wrong, my son?", he asked.

Marcus' face was contorted with mirth as he waved away the man's obvious concern. Finally, regaining some control, he removed some of his own outer garb and revealed the lightning bolt that marked his own order. 

"I'm sorry, I wasn't laughing at you. Just the comedy and tragedy of the gods.", he explained, still struggling for breath. "I'm Marcus, of the Jovian order, and these are my companions. We've just finished a pilgrimage, I suppose you could call it. We were tasked with a mission to the Valley of the Sun, and told that it had to be completed before the night of the new moon. I'd forgotten that, this cycle, that coincided with the Solstice, and the midwinter feast."

"And the return of the sun.", Penn finished for him in slight awe. "Of course, it makes sense now."

Hector looked confused, but smiled none the less. "I'm glad you were in time then, and I'm sure it is a good sign that the sun has in fact returned, if only a bit. But here, let's get those heavy packs put away, and I'm sure you'll have a tale worth hearing."

"Runner", Penn said, using the proper title for the Mercurian priest, "A good tale is the least I owe you. Let me buy you a drink to go with it, and all will be revealed."


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

*** 
Their gear stowed and the emergency averted, the companions accepted an escort over to the meeting hall, from whence came the sounds of music, dance and merriment.

Small groups braved the cold, clear morning air to revel in the sight of the long absent sun, and to clear their heads from the sounds and aromas of the festival within.

They had hardly set foot within before wine goblets were pressed into their hands and they were drawn into the welcoming embrace of the mountain community.

The music was loud and rhythmic, emphasized by a local instrument unfamiliar to most of the newcomers. Sylus, however, laughed at the familiar sound of the huge horn, which the locals seemed to call an "oompha" or "uba" or something like that. It was hard to get the name straight with all the noise, but it was unmistakable, and the rhythm was all but irresistible.
*** 
"'Tis a grand feast, friend.", Penn called to the man serving out the drinks. "But I wouldn't be both uninvited and cheap. To whom should I be paying my respects?", he asked, holding up a few coin to make his meaning clear.

"Put that away, friend, it will do you no good here. Not today. The Bacchanal is always open to all. There's no such thing as 'uninvited' at such a festival."

"Perhaps I can contribute in some other way.", the Bard suggested. "My people have a way with such things, that the wine should flow free and plentiful. Is there a vintage that you're running short of?"

The vintner eyed the Half Satyr for a moment, trying to decide if he should trust one of the notoriously flighty Fey. Then he nodded. "I have a cask of a fine Frankish pressing, forty years old if it's a day. A good dark wine from Burgundy, and it's all but gone. Do you know where I could get more, before the festival ends?"

Penn smiled. "Let me share my people's blessing then."
*** 
The music played, people danced and drank and ate. Some went off to find private places for more intimate pleasures, while others were not so intimate in their pursuits.

Cassius saw Penn take the stage more than a few times, and felt his power in the music that flowed from the stage. "Don't I know that song?", he asked Marcus over the din.

"Yes. That's the one he plays to give us endurance on a long march.", the Cleric replied, then realized what that meant in the current context. This party was going to last a long time, if the Bard had anything to say about it.
*** 
Penn rolled over in his bed, careful not to disturb his partner of the night. The festival had lasted until sunset, at which time torches were lit that the merriment could continue. The innkeeper who had been supplying the wines had also offered him a free room for the night, and he'd taken full advantage of the offer.

He sat for a long moment, his aching head in his hands, struggling to remember. It was important... Marta, that was it. The girl's name was Marta. It was dangerous to forget such things, he had learned.

Clenching his teeth to stifle a groan, he levered himself to his feet and managed to make it to the wash stand, despite the best efforts of the room, which insisted on spinning in a most disconcerting fashion. Cold water helped steady the room, though the winter morning was cold enough to make him shiver without it. 

He was mostly dressed when a gentle knocking drew him to the door. A young girl stood in the hall. "Sir? Breakfast is served below, and... Sister? What are you doing in this man's room? In his... oh...", she trailed off into shocked silence.

Sister? The innkeeper's daughter? Penn looked at the child's shocked face and decided that gentle honesty was the best policy. "The young lady joined in the Bacchanal. You know exactly what that means, don't you?"

The girl nodded, jaw still hanging open. 

"There is no need for shock. If you want a better explanation, ask her later, in private, after she's, um, arranged herself a bit. Now here's a bit of shine for your troubles, so off and away with you.", he finished, passing the child a silver penny.

Marta sat on the bed, her face a mixture of shock and fear. "I don't know what happened.", she began, almost babbling. "The wine and the music and, and..."

"And the spirit of Bacchus took you.", Penn finished for her. "I'm sorry if I got you in any trouble."

"Oh, I'm not the one who's in trouble.", she quipped, regaining that clear, impish smile that had caught his eye the previous evening.


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

***
Marcus was already downstairs, loading a platter with a variety of breakfast foods.

Penn, a veteran of far too many hangovers, kept it simple. Oat porridge with a little honey, and hot tea. 

"Ah, thank the gods.", he added when the innkeeper came around with a pitcher of a light, foaming mixture. He had donated his own supply of Bacchus' Blessing to the man the previous night, and the host was putting it to good use. 

"By the way, good friend, I think we need to talk.", he added before the innkeeper could leave.  

But before any such talk could begin, two other guests entered the room. Men wearing the long robes of the Plutonian order. Men who the companions' had met before. The Innkeeper saw the Guides of the Dark Path, made a gesture of warding, and hurried away. 

The pair saw Marcus, and headed to his table. Penn took his plate and cup in hand and followed them. 

"We're so glad to see you were successful.", the first of the dark order began. "A joyous day indeed." 

"So, what brings you two this far north? Or should I be asking, 'who' brought you." 

"What do you mean?", asked the second of the nameless priests. 

"You warned us that we had to be here by the dark of the moon, and the road was a fortnight long. That was five days ago. The only way for you to be here this soon was to follow the path by the Styx, the same road you sent us on. So who gave their life for your convenience?" 

The pair looked shocked at the implied accusation. "There is no sacrifice called for to use that road. I don't like what you're saying at all." 

"You wanted to sacrifice the Orc priest when we departed, but he fled. And half our group were lost in transit, until one of our number died. Don't tell me the lord of the Underworld doesn't set his price." 

"That was a mere coincidence.", the priest protested. "The Orc's time had come. He had in fact escaped from the depths once before, it was our duty to send him back. And the fact that your companion, Apellenea, died just moments before ... well, yes, it does sound bad when you put it all together.", the man finally admitted. "But seriously we're simply here to grant you a swift passage home. The roads out of these mountains won't be open until spring." 

"I'm not ready to pay that price again." 

"The price will be borne by our order. You were on a divine mission, after all." 

Penn glowered at the man, hearing his protestations of innocence, and not believing a word of them. 

"Now, Penn", began Marcus. "I was part of that ritual as well. Do you think I would have joined in such a thing if it had that price? 

"Not knowingly.", Penn replied, jaw still clenched. "And while the roads may be closed to wagon traffic, I'm still willing to take my chances that we can get through on foot." 

Finally the Plutonians brought up their final argument. "You are needed in Rome. Your original mission was supposed to be a brief one, and your return was expected days ago. You have to go now." 
*** 
Penn looked the Innkeeper straight in the eye. This wasn't a conversation he was looking forward to, but it was certainly due.

"So what are we to do now?", the man asked, simply.  

"You helped sponsor the Bacchanal, and you certainly knew what it entailed. What it may yet entail, as the festival will continue for another two days. You also knew that your daughter was attending." 

"Aye. She's old enough to make her own decisions.", the man agreed. "I'm not responsible for her any more." 

Penn saw the sadness in Marta's face, and interceded. "Yes you are.", he said. "She's your daughter and you love her, and I know you're too good a man to abandon her if she should be with child. You would be there, to help raise that child, and so you are entitled to some say in such things." 

"Will you be there?", came the inevitable question. 

"I am called away to Rome this very morning, but yes, I will be there. If our passion bears fruit, I will be here to do the right thing. You have my word that I will return in the spring. And if I am detained for any reason, I will send word." He paused to write down a name and address. "If you need to reach me, send word to this man. He will see that I get the message." 

"A man could do worse than you for a son in law.", the Innkeeper said thoughtfully. 

"Hardly. I sing and I dance, I drink and I gamble, and yes, I favor the fairer sex and I've never pretended otherwise. I haven't a callous to my name, and have hardly put in a hard day's labor in my life. I won't shirk my responsibilities, but you and your daughter can both do far better than I.", he admitted.  

"At least you're honest about who you are.", Marta admitted. "That's fairly rare, you know. Come back, whether you need to or not." 
*** 
The companions had gathered at the chapel where they had left their weapons. The Plutonians began to inscribe the transit circles, and laid out their candles.

"Does it seem odd to anyone, other than myself, that we stand in a temple of Mercury, but it's the Plutonian order that's arranging our travels?" 

"Good point.", said Hector, stepping from the wings. "Let us perform this rite. At least that way we know you'll all make it." 

The prayers began, and for the companions the world fell away


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

***
The passage along the Styx is a fearful journey, one that very few take and live to tell about. Fewer still have the strength of spirit to recall such a passage, for as the goblet spills what it cannot contain, so the mortal mind rejects what mortal men were never meant to know.

But even spilled wine may yet cling to a goblet, and so when the companions arrived at their destination, they stood in shock for long moments, the image of the Stygian shores still before their eyes, then fading like faces in a dream.  

Marcus drew a long, shuddering breath, then slowly exhaled and opened his eyes. 

The companions stood in the middle of a plane, a circle of scorched earth extending ten paces in any direction. The ground here was already hard packed, with large rectangular stones laid out in odd geometric forms all about. 

"Wow. You activated it!", came a child's voice from one side. A boy who was probably looking forward to his tenth summer stood at the edge of the stone pattern, staring at the newcomers. 

"My grandfather has been trying to activate this for years? How did you do it?", he asked. 

"We didn't.", Penn replied, still pushing dark visions from his mind. "It was done for us, though I've no idea why." 

Then he shook his head to clear it and visibly brightened his expression. "You look like a fine strapping lad. Know you the road to Rome?" 

"All roads lead to Rome, sir.", the boy responded happily. 

"Ah, but they also lead away from her as well. Could you show us to the nearest road, and point us in the right direction?" 

"I'll do better.”, came the eager answer.   “I'll walk you all the way into the city if you like.”

"Ah, looking for an excuse to leave the flocks and spend some time in town, eh?", Penn quipped. "Hardly seems fair to the sheep, when their only chance to see Rome is from the butcher's yard."

"I have no flocks to tend, sir. They're all pastured in the hollow, being fed on hay for another moon." 

"Then let's off and away.", the Bard laughed, tossing the lad a few silver pennies. "And when you see your grandfather again, you'll have a story to tell him." 
*** 
"Hail Caesar!", Nedel said, raising his hand in salute. The party had been escorted directly to the palace, rather than to the Captain of the Guard who had commissioned their latest venture.

Markus Caesar was in a conference with a pair of burly men, red shocked and wrapped in heavy woolen wear. That is, if you could call a glaring match a "conference". 

"Ah, Centurian Nedel", the Emperor responded, waving the northern nobleman forward. "I'm glad to see you, though I would have been happier had you been here when your Legion departed." 

"We were sent on a mission for the city, Emperor, and are barely two days past our due. Captain Domenicus of the city guard asked us to investigate Vandal raids in nearby towns." 

"Domenicus, eh? Well, he's no longer with the city guard. He's been given your old post with the 5th Legion. They set sail for Greece five days past, to engage the Vandals near Troy. I was expecting you to lead the Arcanist cohort, but you were nowhere to be seen." Caesar looked troubled. "In any case, I must relieve you of your command and your rank." 

"Begging the Emperor's pardon, but you are punishing Nedel for following the orders of the City Guard?" 

"He was a Centurion in the Imperial forces, not the City Guard.", Caesar responded wearily. "He should have sought leave before taking any other commission. Besides, I have other work for him, and you." 

Turning, he introduced the group to his guests. "This is Fergus of Trathor, and the other is Padraig. These folk have journeyed from Britania, north of Hadrian's Wall.", he began, placing emphasis on the last part. "Their king has heard of Nedel's company, and came to me to request your services." 

The import of those words was lost on no one. The regions north of the Wall were not under Caesar's rule, and never really had been, despite years of effort. These men were long standing enemies of the Empire. That they should be chaffering for Caesar's favor was most odd indeed. 

"Aye.", began the first man in Latin so heavily accented with Sylvan that it was hardly comprehensible. "The King's son, Seeburn, spoke well of you. He believes a small force might prevail where an army has not, and has convinced the King to let you try." 

"Let us try what?", asked Penn, first in Latin then in the Fey tongue. 

Caesar frowned, for while he spoke the language of the forest folk, it was considered a barbarian tongue, and wasn't favored in the Imperial halls. 

The guest, noting both the Bard's attempt at manners, and the Emperor's disapproval, replied in his rough Latin. "There's a challenge to the King's holdings, folk making trouble, raids in the border towns. There is no clear foe, no army to fight or face down. We know that they come from the Green Isle, for we've found their marks upon our slain, but the blue devils are naught to be seen." 

Caesar stifled a smirk, hearing a Scott describe someone else as "blue devils", a term he had heard used many times to describe the highland folk themselves.  

"Their King was good enough to recognize that you were in my service, and so he sent his request to me.", Caesar declared. "I give leave for you to depart, and if you should accept it, Vicomus Nedel, I will grant you my commission as Ambassador to the Highlands." Then he added, "And I expect a full report on these Vandals you spoke of." 

Nedel bowed, accepting his new posting, temporary as it may be. Penn stayed to make the report on their findings, while the others departed in the company of the Highlanders, to make arrangements. 
***
"No!", Cassius declared firmly. "The Gypsy woman saw my future, and told me not to travel by sea for four moons. It's hardly been two. It won't be safe for me, or anyone else who sails with me."

"Lad, Britania's an island.", Fergus explained for the fifth time. "There be no other way to get there, less'n you care to try riding your horse across the waves." 

"We'll be safe enough if we sail west from Rome, then ride across Iberian Gaul to the Frankish port at Calais. The seas are cold, but calm here. The only real worry is crossing the channel. It's a short enough sail, but a rough one at this time of year." 

"Riding the whole way will take months. Perhaps longer, if the snows are deep.", Padraig added. 

"We could wait for the storms to clear and the snows to melt.", Cassius argued stubbornly. "Two more moons should about do it, I'd think." 

"There may not be a kingdom to go home to if we wait that long.", Fergus countered. 

"Cassius, you were warned not to travel by ship, yes?", Penn asked. 

"That's right.", the warrior agreed. 

"Well, let us take passage on a freight barge then, instead of a proper ship. That way you can avoid the curse." 

The Highlander began to raise an objection to this specious distinction, but backed down before the Bard's sharp look. 

Marcus shook his head in disbelief, for he'd heard the "fortune" told by the Gypsy woman. It had been concocted on the spot, and warned against travel by sea during the winter, sound advice but hardly a curse. And it never spoke of ships. 

Cassius looked uncomfortable with the argument as well, but Penn smiled as if all were in agreement. "We'll take a day or two for business in the city, then set out on the first available transport. 
***
Cassius was nervous the entire sea voyage, but it was Penn who spent the first two days at the rail.

The ride through Frankish Iberia was equally uneventful, until they arrived at the city of Paris, an island in a river. 

"The markets are that way, if you want to see what the city has to offer", Fergus advised. "Padraig and I will be at the port, arranging passage. Meet us at the waterfront in an hour or so." 
*** 
Penn marveled at the market square. "There are stages everywhere.", he observed in delight. "Are they auction places, or... "

"They're for performers.", a local said with a smile. "This is the City of Bards, if such a city exists." Then, noting the Half Satyr's lyre, he smiled even wider. "If you want to truly test your skill, this is the place." 

Penn looked around for his friends, to ask if they had time for him to play, but stopped when he saw Euphemia. She was pale and nervous, and looking around with obvious discomfort. 

"Are you all right, dear lady?", he asked in concern. 

"Save it for someone your own size.", she all but snapped back, then caught herself. "Sorry, Penn. It's just that I don't like this place. Too many memories." 

"What sort of problems, if you don't mind my asking?" 

The others also attended closely, mostly out of concern, but with a good mix of curiosity tossed in, as exemplified by Cassius' response. 

"Yeah, I mean we don't even know your real name." 

The Halfling gave the big man a dark look as she responded. "Family problems, and that's all I'm saying. I'll just be happier when we're gone." 

"Oh, you shouldn't leave just yet, sister.", came a voice from the edge of the square. Advancing with a stroll that managed to look both casual and menacing at the same time was another Halfling. His hands were empty, but tense, as if waiting for an excuse to do... something. 

"In fact, you should come with us.", the small man continued, ignoring the taller folk around. "Father would be so disappointed if you left town before he got to talk to you." 

Half a dozen more Halflings began to filter out of the crowd, gently surrounding the companions, weapons evident, but hands empty. 

"The lady isn't going anywhere she doesn't want to go.", Penn said firmly. 

The leader of the Halfling looked up, as if noticing the wiry Bard for the first time. "We're family, and this is family business. Not yours." 

" _Let them chase me._", Euphemia whispered urgently. "_I'll be all right._" And then she was gone, off in a blur of motion.

Her sudden darting run caught the predators unawares, and she was halfway across the square before they could take a step. Dodging between knees, she took off like the wind through a momentary gap in the crowd, and then angled down an adjoining avenue. 

Euphemia’s “brother”, if that’s who he was, took off after her in a mad sprint, joined by another of the small company, but she had a good lead, and seemed to know exactly where she was going. 

Cassius made to follow, but did so at a simple stroll, to force the hand of the remaining crew. If they drew weapons, the fight was on. If they didn't... 

The circle of Halflings shifted, elongating their pattern to stay between Cassius and the mad chase that was taking shape along the cobbled ways. 

Penn smiled and stood his ground, waiting for the moment. It occurred as Euphemia passed an alley. He hummed a tune and waved his hand in a small gesture, and suddenly the speeding halfling veered both left and right, like images in a mirror. One turned left down the street, while the other turned right into that alley. Her pursuers slowed for a few paces in indecision, then turned left. 

"Ah well.", Penn said, shaking his head in disappointment. "It was worth the try." Then turning to the belligerent who was left in charge of the small crew, he smiled. "So, how's the weather been lately? 

"Sunny for some, very dark for others.", the small man replied with an evil smile. 

"Oh I don't know.", Marcus laughed. "I'd hate to be the first one going into an alley after her. 

"I notice that her brother is letting the other one take the point.", Cassius chuckled, joining in on the joke. 

Imagina looked nervously at her friends, unsure of what was happening, while Sylus' hand strayed near his quiver. Penn waved them back. "She said to let them chase her, and I trust her judgment. Besides, she has the advantage." 

"Advantage?", asked the leader of the toughs, cocking his head to one side. "Do you know who we are?" A red mask dangled from his fingers. 

"Of course she has the advantage. They want her alive, to talk to her father. She, on the other hand, suffers no such impediment." Penn let that sink in for a long moment. "As for the mask, don't tell me: You're in the theater?" 

"Funny, longshanks.", the tough replied. "People around here know enough to show us the respect we deserve." 

"Let me guess. Her father is, what is that title? In some towns there's a person called 'the Grandfather of Thieves'. " 

"That's what he's called here as well, and he doesn't like people parting without his leave. Not even family." 

"Well, we must depart. We have a boat to catch, and we aren't stupid enough to be the first to draw weapons. Not in a strange town. So if you don't mind?" 

The toughs exchanged a look, the leader gave a signal, and they faded back into the crowd. 

"Do you think she'll be all right?", Imagina asked, concern clouding her face. 

"I honestly don't know. She seemed to think so, but there are more of them than there are of her. In any case,   she didn't want us involved, and at this point we haven't much choice."

"What do you mean?" 

"Do you think we could find her faster than the local Thieve's Guild can, when they know the city and we don't?"


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

***
The river trip to Calais was a smooth one, a small blessing from the dark curse above.  Spring floods were coming late, and slowly, without sunlight to melt the mountain snows, and so the river was well below flood level.

After offloading from the river barge, the companions gathered at the riverfront for the final sea voyage, and began to look about for their colorful guides.

The pair were just returning from the ferryman's quay, and hailed the group as they approached. 

"So, you're all here? Good, we'll... wait, we're one short.", Padraig began. "Where's the wee one?" 

"She ran into some family problems. She said she'd join us when she can." 

The man's ruddy face flushed for a moment. "We don't need more people knowing our business.", he grumbled. "She knows to keep silent? If the Red Masque knew we were here..." 

"The Red Masque?", Marcus asked. "One of the folk sent to meet her showed us a red mask. We've seen some of their number in Rome, and they're trouble." 

"Aye, they're the ones behind the troubles in Dunphries. The last thing we want is to warn them of your coming. But you said it was family problems." 

"Yes", Penn cut in. "Apparently our small friend can name the local Grandfather of Thieves as kin, and before they can ask her anything, they'll have to catch her." 

"Ah, hence the 'troubles' part.", Angus replied, nodding his understanding. "Just as well then, that she lead them away from us. If you're sure she'll be all right..." 

The companions looked at each other uncomfortably for a long moment before Sylus finally answered. "She seemed to think so. And we trust her judgment." 
***
The channel crossing was rough, far worse than their relatively calm voyage across the Mediterranean had been, and Cassius spent the entire voyage at the bow, keeping a wary eye back across the deck. He had finally recalled the exact warning of the Gypsy witch: On a ship there is no place to hide from your enemies. 

But the passage was uneventful, if slightly wet, and they arrived near Folkstone by early afternoon. 

As they departed, the two Highlanders wrapped themselves in long brown cloaks, hiding their distinctive plaid half-robes and rough wool tunics. Their knit tam's were tucked away, and their hoods drawn. 

"I take it that this isn't merely because of the cold.", Penn observed. 

"Our folk are at war with the Breton of the south, as well as the Picts of the north. Best not to show our colors here." 

"You folk have gone to a lot of trouble to bring us here. What's so special about us that warrants the effort?", asked Nedel, as he scanned the quay for signs of trouble. 

"The King's son, Seeburn, speaks highly of you. He tells us that you helped elect the current Emperor of Rome, and that you saved him from the Red Masque. And it seems he spoke the truth, for his name alone was enough to grant us access to the Emperor. But we'll talk more on the road. There's daylight left, and miles to go." 

"Which road should we be following?", Sylus asked. 

"Mor castle is north of The Wall. The fastest way would be by boat up to Londinium, then due north." 

"Walking through the largest city the Bretons have seems a poor way to sneak through enemy territory." Sylus observed. "What say we ride the coast road for a few days, then cut inland before we strike any major settlement. We'll cross a few farming steads, but avoid the cities." 

"Ach, man, you dasn't want to strike cross country through the lowlands. Ye'll find yerself lost in the moors, to be certain. We'll stay on the roads as much as we can, but we'll skirt around the larger towns." 

And as it was said, so it was done, and they soon found themselves riding up the eastern coast of Britania. The shoreline was rugged and the weather threatening, but they managed to get quite a few miles in before any of the winter storms hit. 
*** 
"I've never seen such a thing.", Marcus said in wonder, looking at the roadway.

"Wha? I've seen grander bits of stone than this from my cot in Dunphries.", Padraig scoffed. 

"That's the point.", Marcus replied. "I've seen Roman high roads all my life. I've never seen one that wasn't finished. This one hasn't fallen to this state by disrepair, the road teams simply stopped. You can see the patches where different crews worked, but they didn't join them all." 

Imagina nodded in agreement. "It looks like they began to settle here, then decided not to. See the stone walls that line the lane? Field stone, cleared to make the land ready for the plow, but then no farms, no flocks, nothing tilled at all." 

"Aye, the only things these lazy bastards ever finish is a fight.", Angus laughed. 

"I'm seeing lots of tracks though.", Sylus observed. "I'd say a lot of riders come through here regularly, but none of the horses are shod." 

"Perhaps they're the tracks of horses being driven to market.", Penn suggested. "That would leave the sign of a tight pack like this, and they might obscure the marks iron would have left." 

"The drovers would be behind the herd. Their track would still show.", Sylus countered. 

"Well, this isn't Rome.", Angus offered. "Not everyone shoes their mounts." 

"Still, if the road patrol is this heavy..." 

"No, it's something else.", Marcus called, gesturing towards the road ahead. 

A single Centaur stood in the lane, a long spear grounded on the cobbles beside him. 

"What is your business here.", he called in a neutral voice, though the language was strange to most. 
[FONT=&quot]
Penn spurred his mount forward, smiling broadly. "He's speaking the Fey tongue.", he told his friends. "My father's tongue, or so I'm told."

"We're travelers, meaning no harm.", he began. 

"Why are you here!", the Centaur demanded more firmly.

"Why, because here is halfway between where we were and where we're going.", the Bard joked, hoping his light banter would ease the moment. "Perhaps you can direct us, for we are new to this land. How far to the next settlement?"

"The humans have a fishing village most of a day's travel along this road. Just how far north are you going?"

"I believe it's somewhere near the Wall. As I said, we're new to this land and don't know it all that well yet."

"How new are you? And why do you travel to the wall?", came the next query, still suspicious but less on edge.

"We arrived on the ferry this very morning, and are going to meet a friend who lives just into Pictland."

The Centaur eased his stance visibly. "Be careful, traveler, for the humans here hunt those of us who aren't."

"Ah. I know the slave master's whip all too well, and would wield it against no one." The Bard turned in saddle and raised the tunic along his left side to show the scars he'd received from Kergen and his Vandal troop.

"And these are my friends, who saved me from those slavers", he added, gesturing towards the rest of the companions. "So, who hunts you and why?"

The Centaur ignored this question for a moment, choosing instead to rap the butt of his spear on the ground loudly. From brush and stone arose more Centaurs, tall and well armed. They'd been waiting to see if the travelers were hostile.

"Perhaps you should come with us, and I'll explain.", the leader said.

"Ah, well the day is growing late, and a warm bed does sound better than sleeping on the cold plains.", Penn agreed, choosing to interpret the half-command as an invitation. "I thank you for your hospitality."

[/FONT]


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

***
Their guide was named Stonehoof, they learned, and with Penn as their translator the companions learned what was happening. Human hunters came to trap the Centaur children. They'd take them away to be broken and used as forced conscripts in their armies.

The raids had been going on for some time, forcing the Centaur community into a nomadic life, for if they ever settled anywhere then the hunters would find them again. 

The encampment they were lead to reflected this, for their homes were arching tents, pulled into a sheltering ring around a small spring. 

"These people have been in a battle.", Marcus observed, seeing a number of the free folk with recent injuries.  

"Yes, they hunt us still.", Stonehoof agreed. "Our healers tend to those they can, but there are always more injured than they can care for." 

"I may be able to help with that.", Marcus offered. "I'm a Cleric of Jupiter, and a student of the healing arts." 

His offer was quickly accepted, and he was escorted to meet the clan leaders. The First bore the holly and sickle of the Druidic orders, and greeted the humans with cold reserve. Stonehoof was called to one side to explain himself. 

Marcus was given a chance to prove his skill. One of the free folk lay on a padded mat, his breathing strained, his lips flecked with blood. 

Marcus examined his charge, gently, but even the lightest touch along the young roan's side brought gasps of pain. 

"This fellow's ribs are broken.", Marcus observed. "Simple healing magic may knit the bones, but if they aren't set straight he still might not recover. But he's in such pain that I can't set them without causing him to convulse, which will just make them worse." 

"Perhaps if we ease his pain first.", Penn suggested. 

"You have something for that?", Marcus asked, cocking an eyebrow. 

"Aye. Seeburn's barley brew can numb any pain, though I'm not sure how much to give this fellow." 

At Penn's direction, water was brought, and he preformed his magic.  

The First sniffed at the resultant brew and wrinkled his nose. "You first.", he cautioned. 

Penn smiled and drew a small shot of the mix, then tipped his head back. Holding the cup clear of his lips he poured the potent liquor into his open mouth, so all could see that he was in fact drinking it. 

"It's like wine.", he explained, "but ten times more potent. It will help him relax, so he can be treated." 

A larger cup was offered to the injured roan, and he drank it down in a swallow, followed by almost a minute of painful coughing. Then the effects began to be felt, and his head sagged to one side. He smiled drunkenly, and all but passed out. 

Marcus observed his progress, then nodded when he thought he was ready. 

"All right, I'm going to place my hands here and push.", he instructed. "I need you to take a deep breath when I do. Do you understand?" 

The young Centaur nodded drunkenly, still smiling. 

Marcus pushed, the Centaur drew in, and there was a series of loud "pop" sounds as the ribs slid into place. 

"Well done. Now we can start setting things to right." He prayed to his father for aid, his hands glowed with the golden green energy, and the healing forces took over, mending torn flesh and knitting fractured bone. 

Once that was done, the Human was deemed to have passed the test, and he spent much of the rest of the evening working with the First and his aide, tending to the wounded. 

"This one is very ill.", he was told. "If he could rest properly then perhaps his fever would break, but the hunters leave us no peace." 

Marcus sat back on his heels, considering. The power to remove disease wasn't his yet. But perhaps... 

"Penn, do you have a potion or elixir to help with something like this?" 

The Bard considered carefully. "I know of a battle tonic called Dragon's Brew. It fortifies and lends endurance. Its effects last only an hour, but that might be long enough for the fever to break. I don't have any ready, but I have the ingredients. I'll see if I can prepare some. Is there a place I can set up my gear?" 

He was lead to a private area to the side, where he could unpack the odd assortment of bottles, tubes, scales and measures he carried. The First's aide attended, asking questions as he worked.  

"Clearly, you're a student of the Alchemical arts.", Penn observed as he worked. "This next stage is best worked in a bowl of silver, not because of the metal's virtue, but because it carries heat so well. We must heat the mix until it just begins to curdle at the edges, then cool it as quickly as possible." As he spoke, he dipped the small chalice into a container of water drawn from the nearly frozen spring. "Glass will work as well, though you must be careful it doesn't break. Earthenware is too dense, and iron will taint the blend. Copper is acceptable, but must be polished bright between uses, to keep the mixture pure." 

Finally he was decanting the thick cream from the top of his small silver cauldron. 

"This is it. Give this to him and be sure he drinks it all. The taste may be foul, but don't give him water to clear his throat for a full minute, lest he dilute the brew." 

A soft sound drew the Bard's attention, and he saw the First standing, watching. "Thank you for teaching him that formula. What are the long term effects?" 

"I know of none. It isn't like the Blood Rage, which can bring the slow madness. It's a softer brew, giving fortitude without feeding on anger, and the effect is more spread out. Normally used for endurance in the long march, or to withstand the rigors of battle. It may or may not help with this problem, but it's the best I can think of under the circumstances." 

The aged Druid nodded. "It has many uses then. Good to know." 
***
"So, I'm thinking that we should help with the watch.", Sylus said. "These folk don't fully trust us yet, so if the raiders come tonight, they might think that we lead them here."

"I agree.", Nedel said. "Penn and Marcus will be working into the night, but the rest of us can take turns on patrol." 

And so it was decided. 
*** 
Sylus sat, still as a stone, watching everything and nothing. "When you look for something", his mentor had often said, "then you'll see nothing else." So he looked for nothing, and everything became apparent.

He flicked a small pebble towards his companion on the watch, a wary Centaur named Lowspear, to get his attention. His fingers moved in a serpentine motion to the right, then he flicked his gaze sharply to his own left. Lowspear signaled his understanding, and turned away. His hooves were silent in the thin layer of snow as he vanished from sight. 

The Ranger unfolded his legs in a single smooth motion that took him from his seat to a low, stalking crouch. Keeping low, he slid off towards the brush on his left. 

There was a crash and a cry from the trees ahead, and Sylus broke into a run, heedless of cover or a need for stealth. Lowspear had proven the faster of the pair, and had reached the intruder first. 

By the time the Half Elf had arrived, it was over. Lowspear towered over the fallen scout, one hoof planted firmly on his chest, the point of his weapon tucked under the man's chin. 

"Now, what would bring a nice man like you out on a blustery night like this?", Sylus asked with a smile. 

"Traitor!", the man snarled. "Siding with the dumb animals!" 

A lightning quick movement of Lowspear's weapon, and the conversation was done. 
*** 
"So, where did you find him?", Cassius asked.

"He was using the wash to the west.", Lowspear replied in broken Latin. "I wanted to kill him, but thought better of it." 

"Good decision.", Sylus replied approvingly. "Now we can question him." 

Penn looked around groggily. "If you know where he was, why not have your trackers follow his backtrail. That way you're hunting them." 

Lowspear looked at the Half Satyr in slack jawed wonder. "I never considered that.", he admitted. "We avoid them when we can." 

"Well, they have some of your children, don't they?" 

"That may work, but this will be faster.", Nedel said. Moving to the prisoner, he gently shook the man awake. 

"Now, friend.", he began "Let's talk."  

The man found his gaze captured by the penetrating stare of the Sorcerer, and he almost felt his mind surrender to the power of the man.   Almost.

"Yes, now we'll talk.", Nedel continued with a smile, as he repeated the enchantment.   He had all night.
[FONT=&quot]***
"Well, he still thinks anyone who sides with you is a traitor to their race, but he did share a few bits of information.", Nedel explained when he was through.

"He says their camp is about two hours east of here, south of the old road. He says there are eight men working with him."

"So, they're bounty hunters? How much gold is our blood bringing them?", Stoonhoof asked, fire flashing behind his glare.

"They work directly for the Breton commanders. Not blood money, just conscripts.", Nedel said, trying to calm the angry Centaur. It didn't work.

"So what's the plan?", Penn asked, trying to change the subject.

"Get some rest, everyone.", First declared. "We'll gather before dawn. We'll get our children back."
***
Penn overslept, which wasn't typical, but then he'd had a late night. Hot porridge was ready when he stumbled out of the tent, and he gulped it down.

"We have more information.", Lowspear informed him. "The snake didn't come alone. Windemere laid a snare for any who might follow, and it caught a weasel. "

"And he talked?"

"Your friend's magics took him, and he spoke freely. Four other scouts out, looking for us, expected to report back soon. They'll be considered late by the time we get there. We have to hurry, or they'll be on alert."
*** 
The parties planned as the traveled. The companions would approach from one flank and use magics to try and sew confusion and panic among the enemy. With luck, they'd drive them out of their camp and into the waiting Centaurs, who would lay in wait on the opposing side of the camp.

Once they were in the area, Penn invoked a special magic, attempting something new.

It worked. His already slender form became even more elongated, and huge wings sprouted from his back.

"I'll fly well to the south, to scout the area.", he suggested. "Knowing the layout of their camp will help."

The others agreed, and he set off.

At first he kept low, but the sheer exhilaration of the sky took him. The chill winter air felt thick beneath him, and the hard pump of the wing beats helped keep him warm. He raced, swift as a running stallion, and he soared as if in a dream. He was almost lost in the experience, but the needs of the day kept him focused.

Looking north, he spotted the enemy. He kept his distance, lest he be spotted, but he made a thorough survey, then returned to report.
*** 
"Your new friends lied.", he declared. "It isn't a camp, and there are more than eight. I counted two dozen horses, saddled and ready. They've taken an old farm as a base. As near as I can tell, they're keeping the prisoners in the barn, and bunking the soldiers in the main house." He used a stick to draw in the snow, illustrating the things he spoke of as he went. 

"There's a low wall about here, but it's more of a fence than any battlement. There's a farm kitchen here, judging by the size of the chimney, and some out buildings here and here that look like the commanders' lodgings."

"And they're all present?"

"Their horses are there.", the Bard reaffirmed, "and there were a few in the paddock area, already up."

"There's a stand of woods to the south, about a hundred yards, and a gully to the west that could hide a small group. It comes within a few hundred feet of the perimeter wall."

There was a long pause while Stonehoof digested these facts.

"We'll move in from the south then, and get as close as we can. You smaller folk use the gully as cover. Now, what will be the signal to attack?"

"Oh that's easy.", Penn grinned. "Those buildings have thatched roofs."

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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

*** 
It took some doing before Penn figured the best way to handle his burdens. The torches weren't large or heavy, but he had to trail them behind, lest they singe his wings.

This time his course was a tight circle over their position, to gain altitude while the others moved into position. Then, when he saw that all was ready, he dove down from the eastern sky, trading altitude for speed, and darted across the farmyard swift as an arrow.  

The first torch landed on the roof of the dining hall, and the second on the bunk house. Then he was off and away, before anyone could see or react. 

From the cover of the gully, Sylus saw the fires catch, and the men in the yard react. Reaching low, he twined his fingers into the thick grass and said a single word: " _Rootbind_"!

"Thank you, Apellenea", he whispered afterwards, a near silent prayer to a fallen friend. 

Within the farmyard, the grasses began to twist and writhe, seeking, reaching, grasping. 

The doors of both the bunk and meal houses burst open as the occupants fled the smoke and flames, only to find themselves caught in the twining grasses outside. Men in back pressed forward, toppling those whose feet were first so entangled, and many were trampled. But even the stampede of bodies slowed to a halt as the second rank found themselves snared in turn.  

The battle had begun with panic and confusion, and the Centaurs charged in with spears leveled. 

A lone scout, looking bedraggled from a long night afoot, stumbled into the barnyard, screaming a warning. "They're coming! Hundreds of them! Run for your lives!" 

And from the east rose a figure of terrifying size and power, a dark warrior as tall as a rooftop, whose blade looked ready to scythe through all before him. 

"Surrender or Die!", thundered the giant as he smashed his way through the paddock gate. 

The Bretons ran in panic, where they could move at all, and the Centaurs ran them down without mercy. 

"You there!", cried one officer. "Pikemen, form the wall! Hold that line! Archers, make ready!" 

But his orders, firm and clear as they were, went unheeded in the madness of the moment, and he quickly found his own feet rooted to the ground. 

One soldier, a champion by his bearing, screamed his defiance, and strove to tear his feet free of their restraints, eager to close with the foe. 

He needn't have bothered. Cassius long strides were carrying him towards the champion. His immense blade twisted as he swung, so he laid the flat of his blade across the man instead of cleaving him in twain. 

The heavy blow caught the man under the breastplate and lifted him off his feet, tearing away great lumps of sod in the process. He landed heavily a man's height away, where he lay gasping, struggling for breath. 

"There's a hundred more!", screamed the scout. "They hid behind invisibility!" 

And sure enough, the sounds of huge pounding feet could be heard charging in from the western edge of the camp. 

Those who had not already done so were now casting their weapons away, raising their hands in surrender or prostrating themselves before the incoming force. 

With a snarl of frustration, the commander threw down his own blade, where the tangling grasses quickly covered it in a living scabbard. 

And it was over. 

The battle at the barracks had been the bloodier one, and Marcus found himself pressed to service aiding the wounded of both camps.  

The "scout" grinned and his features melted to reveal Nedel's smiling face. 

The commander's face contorted with rage as he realized the true nature of the assault. But it was too late. As the grasses released the captives, they found themselves facing a line of angry Centaurs, while Sylus and Imagina collected their discarded arms. 

The Centaur colts were released, and quickly raced for freedom. 
*** 
"They'll be back, you know.", Marcus confided to Lowspear. "They won't give up."

"Let them come. We won't be here.", Stonehoof called in answer. "Your guides have invited us to talks with their king beyond the wall. If those talks go well, we'll be able to make homes for ourselves in his lands. We left the camp with orders to make ready, and we'll be gone within the hour." 

"I'm surprised by one thing.", Nedel posed, half in question. "I can see why you took none of the humans as prisoner, but you didn't even mark them. Many would have laid a brand on them, or taken a finger. You even healed their wounded. Why?" 

Stonehoof regarded the Human with a mixture of sadness and surprise. "A very human question. What good would it serve to maim or kill those who have already yielded the field? Taking vengeance would only inspire more vengeance, and it would never end. " 

They finished their trek in silence as the companions considered this answer. 


[FONT=&quot]*** 
A cold wind blew in from the sea, carrying its salty scent for miles. The low shores had given way to bluffs and finally high sea cliffs as the Centaur clan moved north. They followed the roads at first, so their tracks would be lost among the other traffic, but even so they had to dodge patrols regularly. They didn't ask if the patrols were from the hunters or were just normal traffic, for they really couldn't afford to have anyone carrying tales of their travels.

The nights were bitter cold, even with the tents for shelter, and the sunrise never truly came, just the ashen gray of winter skies, and the sunless curse.

After three days riding the coast road they turned inland, following the river road towards a place called Hamstead, if the mile markers were to be believed. Here the woods grew thicker, giving them shelter from both the winter wind and from prying eyes. First and Windemere were saddened by the conditions here, for without the sun the woods were slowly dying. Yet they pressed on.

They turned north once more before crossing a shire called Nottingham, keeping their path clear of human settlement. Slowly the way climbed, and the ground grew rockier. Ahead they could see the mountainous heights of their new home, bleak and forbidding in the gray of winter.

The clan hesitated when they reached the wall. 

"If we cross this, we take a side in the Human wars.", Stonehoof warned. "If this King in Dunphries will not have us, we will have nothing at all."

"The Breton aren't our friends now", Lowspear countered, "so what matter if they think the worse of us for this? We can't betray a trust that was never given."

First thought long and hard on this before coming to a decision. "Let each choose for themselves. Those who aren't sure, let them stay south of the Wall. There are woods here we can hunt, and streams we can fish. That way there will be a welcome for the rest, should we be turned away. And if we find welcome in the north, then we'll send for our friends here, that they may join us."

The decision stirred the clan into low turmoil, for while they recognized the wisdom of the First, they didn't want to split their community. Both groups would be the weaker for it.

Then Windemere clenched his jaw, hugged his mentor, and declared, "We who stay south will gather by the milestone, yonder. Share out the supplies fairly, for the winter is still with us, and spring may come late. And I'll accept no half decisions among us. A family either stays here, or the family ventures north." He clearly didn't want to stay behind, but he knew that if there wasn't a healer and leader here, then none would stay.

In the end, about half the folk decided to stay and await word in the spring. So a few dozen Centaurs crossed the Wall with their guides, hoping for a future in mountainous Pictland.
*** 
This place could be beautiful.", Stonehoof remarked as the went. "From afar the mountains look forbidding, but there are meadows and forests, places where a family could grow."

"Aye.", agreed Fergus. "The thistle grows thick here, and in the spring all these hills will be purple and green with their blossoms. E'en now, the land sleeps 'neath her blanket of white, resting for her awakening to come."

They passed flocks of sheep, feeding on the grasses their tenders laid out for them, harvested last Autumn for this purpose, and riders could be seen in the distance, yet neither Fergus nor Padraig shied away from them. "Those are our people.", the guide explained. "It means that we're close."

They lead the companions and the Centaur clan through the next low pass and into a coastal valley, culminating in a moderate sized bay facing the sunset.

The farmlands of the area may have lay fallow or been in full cultivation for all anyone could tell, for the blanket of winter hid all from view. A town seemed to wrap around the shoreline, as a mans hands would wrap a warm drink on a cold night, and near the head of the bay rose a ridge of stone, with castle set firmly on top.

The town buzzed with curiosity as the folk spied the odd travelers, beginning the moment they passed the south gate. The Centaur clan kept their weapons sheathed and their bows unstrung, to allay suspicions, but there was no doubt that rumor would easily outpace the truth as the news spread.

The castle rose stark and bleak as they approached, streaks of weathered mortar running down the dark stone like blood from an open wound, and a pair of heads were prominently displayed on pikes outside the gate.

"Ah, a welcome sight indeed, after such a journey.", Penn quipped. "No doubt hot baths and great feasts await within."

"Best curb that glib tongue, master Bard, lest the King remove it.", Angus advised. "He has little use for dandies."

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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

***
Despite the less than warm welcome outside, servants appeared almost as soon as they arrived with warm cider in hand, ready to unburden the newcomers of their sodden outer wraps. They were escorted directly to the King's audience chamber.

First and Stonehoof elected to attend, while the rest of the Centaurs were offered food and drink. 

"Your Majesty!", called Angus as they entered, raising his hand in salute. "We have brought the company you requested, and a troupe of possible new allies as well." 

The king peered across the torch lit room, harsh judgment in his stare. He waved the companions forward, while a stewart brought warm blankets for the Centaurs. 

"My son says that you are a capable group, trusted by Caesar himself.", he began, though his tone carried little of praise. Seeburn was present, but stood far behind his father, eyes downcast. 

"I have a problem, an enemy, a snake whose troops coil along my northern border, but whose head is on the green isle. The solution, as with any snake, is to take its head off. I need you to kill the leader of the Red Masque." 
***
The old stone chamber echoed with the silence that followed the King's offer. Even Penn was at a loss for words.

The companions shuffled their feet uncomfortably for a long moment, then Penn stepped forward. 

"Begging your majesty's pardon, but I'd like to ask a few questions. What is the specific threat they pose?" 

The King growled as he hunched forward in his throne, eying the colorful Bard. "Their forces to the north have cut off our trade. They've raided our villages and farm steads, slaughtered our flocks and burned our crops. When I sent troops to deal with them, they were ready and waiting, and we rode into their trap. I lost half of that force." 

He rose and paced angrily as he continued. "I'm at war with the Bretons to the south, as well as the Picts. I'm stretched as thin as a drumhead, and I can't fight a third front. That old bastard wants my lands, and I want his head. Simple enough?" 

Penn considered carefully. "Before we give you any reply to your offer, let's consider all the alternatives." He eyed the King, a Half Elf of unusual size, broadly built and muscular. His ruddy face seemed an extension of his rust-red hair, and heavily lined with worry and a rage that boiled just below the surface. 

"Whatever plans we make, we shouldn't make them here.", Penn said. "If your enemies are the Red Masque, and if the enemy was ready and waiting for your troops, then it's a fair bet that they have spies within these walls. So before any decisions are made, let us consider the best response, and the best way to deliver it." 

The King looked up in surprise, the habitual fury fading for a moment. "You and yours should talk, I agree. We'll speak more after supper." He half turned towards his son. "Seeburn, show our guests to their rooms." 

"Yes father.", the warriors replied, oddly subdued.  

The party left as the King began to speak to the Centaurs. 
***
Seeburn's footsteps rang softly off the stones as they climbed the cold, winding stair. No one had much to say.

"Seeburn", said Penn, looking up at his friend. "I can't really see from here unless I hoist that kilt of yours, but you seem to be missing something. Did your father cut them off?" 

Surprisingly, Seeburn didn't rise to the bait. "My father isn't happy with me. I've been studying magic, and he doesn't approve." 

"Your sister bore the holly sign, the mark of the Druids. Is he angry with her?" 

"She has taken after our mother, and learned nature's way. I'm expected to be a man, to swing a sword." 

Little more could be said, so they said nothing more on the subject. 
*** 
"Simple question, are we mercenaries? Assassins?"

The question need hardly have been asked, but it was best that such matters be made clear.  

"So, all we need to worry about now is how to tell him that, and live through it." 
*** 
The torch lit hall was festooned with banners and battle flags where the evening meal was being laid out. Outside the walls the winter winds moaned, but in here was warm and bright, if not merry.

The stout oak tables were laid out in a huge "U" shape, that the various parties could face each other, while servants or performers could work in the clear area. At the head table, the King sat with his daughter on his right hand, his wife on his left, and Seeburn to his mother's left.  

"So, you have considered the job before you.", said the King, more a statement than a question. 

"Yes, your majesty we have.", replied Penn. Looking to his friends, he asked, "May I speak for the group?" 

Seeing their nods of assent, he turned once more to the King. "Your majesty, we're more than happy to lend you our aid, but if someone has told you that we're hired assassins or mercenaries, they were mistaken." 

The king looked scornfully at his son, who wilted before his glare. "Seeburn said you were capable folk, and that you'd faced down the Masque before." 

Penn considered the best way to approach this. "Your Majesty, you look like a man who enjoys a good hunt. Am I right?" Seeing the King's agreement, he pressed on. "When you hunt, do you say, 'I'm hunting for grouse today', or "quail would make a fine supper'? Of course not. When you want meat for the pot, you hunt for whatever game presents itself. If you go looking for only one thing, you come home hungry more often than not. So it is with us. We will hunt for a solution to your problem. If that ends with the death of the Grandfather of Thieves, so be it. If it ends with us sharing a round with him and buying him dinner, that's just as well. We'll bring home whatever meat we can find, and whatever it is, we won't leave you hungry. We'll be happy to meet with you, in private, to discuss arrangements and particulars, but some things are best spoken of behind closed doors." 

The King looked as if he wanted more, but thought better of it. 

The conversations then turned to discussions of the spring campaign against the Breton, and of talks with the Picts. 

Penn hefted the slightly battered pewter goblet that held his ale, examining it carefully, and began to quietly hum a tune. 
*** 
"Seriously, I've been practicing magic.", Seeburn insisted. "See?"

He moved his hand through a complex gesture, which produced a small puff of smoke and nothing more, save curses from him and stifled laughter from his friends. 

"Hush now, I'm listening.", Penn cautioned, as he activated his spell. 

"What are you listening to?" 

"The clatter of crockery, for the most part.", the Bard joked. "I placed a spy charm on my drinking goblet. I suspected that there were spies in the hall, and servants are always excellent gossips, so I thought I'd see what they were saying." 

He was treated to ear wrenching sounds as pewter goblets and tankards were dropped into the boiling kettle, followed by the clatter of crockery being scraped clean and immersed as well. He'd made certain to leave half of his drink behind, knowing that servants often held such things aside to be consumed later. 

Finally the din faded, and he was able to make out voices. 

"Are they gone? We're alone?", came a man's voice. 

"Aye, but let me be certain.", replied another, a deeper, richer voice. Words followed in an arcane tongue before the conversation continued." 

"I have news.", said the first voice. "The newcomers have refused the King's orders. They won't hunt the Grandfather." 

"Well done, Copernicus. Did you dissuade them?", asked the second man. 

"Nay, it was their own doing. They spoke of hunts and sharing drinks with the Grandfather, but nothing specific." 

"Good. Then they get to live, at least for the moment.” 
*******
The King stood to greet Stonehoof, giving First a less warm welcome.

"My people tell me that you've brought a small army into my city.", he began, cutting directly to the point. "To what purpose?" 

Stonehoof looked at First, lost for a moment, but it was clear that the King was a warrior, and presumed that the warrior was the Centaur leader as well. 

"We are no army.", he began, "And this is no invasion. We are freeborn people of the south, driven out by the predation of the Bretons. Seeing as they are no friends of yours either, we come seeking little more than a place to live, lands to farm and hunt, where our families can live in peace." 

The King pondered this for a moment. "What you ask, I cannot give, for I have no lands to grant and no peace to share. You and yours are certainly welcome here, and if you give fealty to me I will offer you the protection of my lands. And any enemy of the Breton will find friends here." 

"Protection, but no place to live. A gracious offer, but one that leaves us with a problem. Is there no place for my people?" 

"I dinna say there was no place to live, simply that I can't give lands away.", the King explained. "I'm in a war over land now, and have promised or given outright land grants to my allies. I've no more to give right now. If we are successful, there will be lands to own and claim. In the mean time there are forests and hills, some mine directly, others belonging to the Lairds who owe me fealty. And since you come as friends, I'll ask no tax nor rents 'til second quarter day, which is half a year from now. We will find a place for you, never you fear. I'm told there are over a score of you in the castle now. How many more are in need of lodging?" 

"We are but two dozen here at the moment.", Stonehood explained. "The rest will join us in the spring, when the snows have begun to melt and the way is clearer." 

"I'll have one of the barracks cleared and made ready, so you and yours will know warmth until you can make other arrangements. I'll have my factor go over the lay of the land with you, that you may find a place to build your own." 

"You spoke of tax and rent.", put in First. "What will be due, and how is it to be paid?" 

The king smiled, knowing now that these people were no fools. 

"The tax is three copper on the gold for any trade, and rents will depend on how much land you covet. Either may be paid in coin or in kind." 

"In kind? Goods or service?" 

"Craft or trade is all well enou'. But I'm at war.", the King said bluntly. "I'll force no man to fight or die for me, but those willing to take up arms in my cause will serve their own as well.", the King said. "Any rents due can be taken from the soldier's wage, and its honorable work. Ye'd be defending your own as well as mine." 

First and Stonehoof exchanged a look that was lost on the King, but significant none the less. 

"We'll accept your offer of hospitality, if we may, and discuss the rest.", explained First. "But you need clear no barracks for us. We'll fit in where we can, for as you are being a generous host, so we should be considerate guests. We can pay our bills in town, if nothing else, for we didn't come as penniless paupers." 

Stonehoof smirked, then retrieved a bulky sack from the entry hall. 

"Has a King at war any use for such as these?", he asked with a smile, emptying his burden onto a long table. 

Iron and bronze rang aloud as the collection of blades and hammers taken from the hunters spilled across the oaken expanse. 

"I think we have the basis for a discussion, we do all right.", responded the King with a broad grin.


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

***
Penn ended his spell. He had what he needed, or at least a place to start.

"Seeburn, do you know a man named Copernicus?", he asked his friend. 

The warrior looked up from his efforts, thought a moment and nodded. "He's one of the kitchen help. His family has served ours for generations." 

"Well, he's currently serving your family secrets up to the enemy. The question is, what do we do about it?" 

"My father will kill him.", Seeburn said flatly.  

"And we need to know who he's working for. I doubt that he's the only spy in the house, and if he's killed then his master will simply bribe someone else to take his place. For the moment, we know our enemy. Kill him and we won't." 

Nedel leaned his chair back against the wall, eyes lost in thought. "Do you have any of that honey mead with you?", he asked. 

"I can arrange for some." 

"Good. I have an idea." 
*** 
Copernicus was banking the kitchen fire so it would last the night without having to be fed when the tall man in black entered the kitchens.

"Dyou have a ppproper tankard?", the Sorcerer slurred as he staggered to a bench and sat down. "These ssskinsss won't give more than a piss-tinkle. A man can't get a good swallow from piss-tinkle!" He gave one of the wineskins a squeeze to illustrate his point, spraying a thin stream of amber into his mouth. 

"Where did you get that, friend?", the servant asked, moving to support the sagging Sorcerer. 

"It'sh good shtuff!", insisted Nedel, pressing the skin into the servant's hands. "Have a drink with me and you'll shee. Where's a tankard?" 

Copernicus sighed and, putting his shoulder to the job, managed to lever the drunken guest about so he was draped across the table instead of sagging to the floor. He scarcely heard the muttered words, and wouldn't have recognized them if he did. Neither did he see the clarity and focus in Nedel's eyes as the spell took effect. 
*** 
A pair of footmen carried the unconscious form up the narrow stairs, muttering curses as they went. "Foolish wriggle-finger can't handle a man's drink.", one of them swore. "Feels like he drank a gallon of it.", complained the other as he shifted his grip. "It'd serve him right if we dropped him in the stables."

Once at the landing they walked across the common room and deposited the slack form on a bench, then turned and left. 

"Damn!", swore the Sorcerer once they'd left. "I tried that blasted charm over and over again. He either has an iron will, or else he has no mind to affect." 

"Didn't the mead help?" 

"He never tasted it.", the nobleman swore as he pulled himself to a sitting position. 

"I could have told you he wouldn't.", said Seeburn. "The folk here don't like sweet drink. The land doesn't grow grapes, and the bees don't make much honey. Bees like flowers, and flowers like the sun, and, well, there hasn't been much sun. That leaves barley. Barley beer, barley ale, and barley liquor." 

"A proper mead isn't sweet. It tastes no more like honey than a good wine tastes like the grape." 

"Enough, Penn, we know. Blessings of Bacchus and all that. It didn't help." 

"Then that leaves little but blackmail." 
*** 
The winter sun sleeps late in the northern lands, a luxury not afforded to the companions. The castle was alive and moving well before the pale dawn, and the company was up and ready when the call to breakfast came.

Barley water and barley porridge made up the bulk of the morning's fare, accompanied by coarse brown bread and slices from a wheel of hard goat's cheese. 

" _That's Copernicus who just served you_", came the quiet whisper in the ears of Penn and Marcus. Both looked up in surprise, but a meaningful look from Seeburn at the head table quickly told them the source of the voice.

Marcus made a sour face at the taste of the morning beverage, pushing it away. "Penn, do you have any of that mead left?", he asked. 

"I think so. I'll go check." Rising, he turned towards the kitchens, beckoning Copernicus to follow. "Come, we'll find something to his taste." 

Once alone in a corridor, Penn stopped. 

"Copernicus is it? We need to talk." 

The servant looked confused rather than guilty, a point that didn't escape Penn's attention. 

"I happen to know that you've been reporting on us and our business. And not to the King." He paused for effect, to see how the man reacted. "Tell me who hired you, and I won't be reporting to the King either." 

The man wilted visibly. "Kill me then. It doesn't matter. I'm dead no matter what." 

"I never said anything about killing you.", Penn replied in mock surprise, for he knew that reporting him to the King meant exactly that. 

"You don't understand, they have my family. If I talk, they're dead. If I'm killed though..." 

"They're still dead.", Penn finished for him. "They'd have no reason to let them live. And if they returned with the tale, the King would cast them out. Dispossessed, in this season? Starvation and the frozen sleep. We need to do you better than that." 

The man looked at the Half-Satyr desperately, looking for a way out. 

"If we caught the man who you report to, and you weren't mentioned or involved..." 

"Do you know how many spies there are in these halls?", Copernicus said bitterly. "We spy on each other spying on each other. Fifty seats at that grand table, fifty war leaders, Lairds and Clan Chiefs, each one looking for an advantage over the others. Some of us sell information to both sides. Stopping me, or the man who hired me? That won't stop anything." 

"Well, you must have something to trade. Tell the King of a spy and he'll call the headsman. Tell him of an opportunity though..." 

Copernicus shook his head. "Do you want to know who's purse strings bind the headsman?" Then he thought, long and hard. "I do have something to trade. If you make the arrangements, I'll speak to the King. But no one can know!" 

"I'll see what I can do, but really, you're closer to the King's ear than I am." 

"Yes, but if this fails his anger will be leveled at you too, so I know you'll want this to succeed." 
***
[FONT=&quot]"What's this?", demanded the King, looking at the sealed parchment in confusion. The servant who had delivered it nodded towards a slender man in robes of shimmering silk who stood in the doorway.

The King unsealed it, saw that it held writing, and in irritation flung it at Seeburn. "Make yourself useful, dolt.", he commanded.

Seeburn flushed red, but read the words his father could not. 

"It's a message, an important one, but one better discussed in private.", he informed the King. "Too many ears here."

The King looked unhappy, but nodded his assent.
***
"Your majesty, may I have a word?", Penn asked politely.

The King's look made it clear how little regard he held for the Bard, but he agreed.

"Let's walk the grounds, shall we? I have some of the southern wines for you to sample, and they're best enjoyed in a quiet place." Penn looked around and gestured to a servant, apparently at random, and directed him to bring the pitchers and goblets.

"Where did these come from?", demanded the King. "You had no casks in your gear, and there are no vines in these valleys."

"It's a gift of my people that wherever we go, good food and drink are always available."

"And here I thought you a useless poppinjay.", snorted the King in derision.

"Ah no, I always endeavor to be a useful poppinjay.", joked the Bard. Seeing the look on the King's face he decided to let his efforts at humor lapse.

"There is a spy in your court, as we discussed earlier. That's why I wanted to leave the halls. Spies seldom find excuses to be wandering outside their assigned duties." The Bard lead the King on a random route through the wood, staying on the path but avoiding well traveled areas.

"There are exceptions though.", Penn continued. "When one is commanded to stray... Like this man, for example." Turning, he indicated Copernicus. "Let me take your burden, friend, while you tell the King what you must."

"Your Majesty. I've been in your service my whole life. I've been in the service of the Masque for the last three moons, since the night they took my family. But they've promised they'll be returned once you are gone. I think that will be this very night, if they have their way."

The King stopped dead in his tracks, his hand going to his sword. He looked around, eyes wary, expecting an ambush that never came.

"I am not their only agent.", the man said, pressing as a man possessed. "Other serve willingly, for gold or promises. And they have been warned to keep their families clear of the north end of town tonight."

"Why?", demanded the King.

"A small party plans to burn as much of the town as they can, just after sunset. That will draw the fire brigade and the guard to them, to fight the fires. Soon after a small fleet of ships, four or five in all, will land troops. They'll take the town, and if possible the castle as well."

The King looked aghast. "Four or five ships?", the King asked in disbelief. "Across the Irish sea in winter? They're mad!"

"Mercenaries, your majesty. If they die the Masque need not pay them, so they're free to hire more. But if they succeed..."

The King looked grim. "That will be nearly a thousand troops, in the city. I couldn't hold against that if I had a month to make ready."

"Then the best solution would be not to let them land.", Penn interjected. "Or at least, not all at once. A soldier on the field is a dangerous foe. A soldier on a ship, on the other hand, is just a man. I'm told your wife is a Druid, as is your daughter. Sunset comes early here at this time of year. Scarcely three hours past mid day, in fact. The tides will be coming in, but still low. I wonder what that root-binding spell would do if four or five ships tried to navigate through when the water was low and the seaweed was high?"

The King began to smile. "I'll rally the town. We'll be ready with bows and fire arrows. We'll man the scorpion at the head of the bay. We'll gut them like fish."

"And their spies will warn them off.", Penn pointed out. "No, we need a pretext for such a gathering. Say, an archery tournament, to welcome your new guests? I'm told that Centaur are excellent archers. I'll gift a hogshead of fine mead for the winner, and wine for the celebration."

And the King's smile grew wider.

[/FONT]


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

*** 
"So I'm not to compete?", asked Sylus, somewhat disappointed. 

"No, the people here have heard of your prowess, your Olympic victory.", the King beamed. "We want them to come, believing they have a chance. So instead I'll ask you to set the range and officiate. You're to be an honored guest. Then, when the time comes, you and yours will depart for the north edge of town. I've arranged for a scant few of the smaller town gates to be left unmanned at that hour. If the enemy must come, let him come at a place of my choosing. You are to watch one while my personal guard watches the other. And when the ships come into sight, we'll declare a new set of targets for the tourney!" 

"And if there are no ships? If the man spoke false?" 

"Then we'll have had a fine day of celebration, and we'll have but a single new target for the militia.", came the stern reply. 
***
"I hate this.", the King said angrily as he slammed his chamber door. "A week ago a man could speak openly in his own home, and now I'm acting as if I were the unwelcome intruder. So, tell me what message that fancy boy brought."

Seeburn unfolded the message once again. "It's from Euphemia. That's the Halfling I spoke of. She says she managed to slip away from her father briefly, long enough to arrange for this message. She's held in Carbury, up the Slane River, in Hibernia. The messenger is a 'Walking Monk', a traveling holy man of the east, and is otherwise uninvolved." 

"And why do I care where your Halfling friend is?" 

"Her father is the head of the Masque, and where she is, so is he.", came the simple answer. 

The King grumbled, but knew his son was probably right. 

"We go to war tonight.", he said, changing the subject. "Or more likely, war comes to us, whether we like it or not." 

"I'm at your side, father.", Seeburn declared without hesitation. 

"No, I need a true warrior, someone I can trust to stand and fight.", replied the King dismissively. "You can stand with your friends. I'm setting them to deal with the enemy's diversion along the north wall, out of harm's way." 

Seeburn's blood boiled at the insult, and he nearly drew steel, but held his temper in check. The kingdom needed its King right now, and he refused to do the Masque's work for them. But even as he left, he swore there would be a reckoning for this. 
*** 
The village commons was alive and colorful, even on such a bleak day. The merchants were glad of such an opportunity, and the mood was festive.

"I'll set the range.", Sylus called. The crowd gasped when they saw his target. A caskhead stood nearly three hundred paces away, dark wood against the browned field, with a large "X" painted on it to mark the center, and circles to measure the mark. 

He tested the breeze, drew back and loosed all in a single motion. The arrow arched high over the field, then struck barely a hand's breadth from the crossing point. 

"That will be the final target.", Sylus called. "The first round will be at a quarter that mark, and the second at half. Let the games begin!" 

Then he turned to Seeburn. "You're next.", he said, waving him to the line. 

The Barbarian began to shake his head. "I'm the King's son. I shouldn't compete." 

"Yes you should!", hissed Penn. "Precisely because you are the King's son. You will need to lead these people some day. They need to see you as a warrior they can follow, a man who can defend them." 

Seeburn heard the wisdom of those words and cast away his dark mood along with the doubts it carried. He stepped to the line. 

Again the music of the bowstring was heard, and a second arrow quivered in that same far target. Not as well centered as the first, but on target none the less. 

Then a cheer went up, and the competition began in earnest. Sylus, known as an Olympic champion, would not compete, but Humans and Elves, Centaur and Half Elves mixed freely, and all were made welcome. Men and women both stood the line and tested their skill, and children as young as eight took up the challenge on a shorter range. 

There were a few personal rivalries that surfaced, but the means were at hand to settle them without bloodshed, and more than a few coins changed hands as the King's factor made book on each round. 

All too quickly, the sun began to dip towards the horizon and the chill of the evening air began to grow. Yet the King called for torches, and pressed for the merriment to continue. 

Few noticed when some of the outsiders drifted away from the throng. 
***
"Are they coming or not?"

Sylus hissed for silence. No need to give their presence away. 

The companions spread out in an arc about the unattended pedestrian gate. It was barred, but that was of little consequence considering the nature of the uninvited company. 

Sylus spied a building with a hard tiled roof, a remnant of the departed Roman occupation, and quickly clambered up. It overlooked the small plaza and offered a clear view of the gate. 

Seeburn and Nedel chose a small hut. The Sorcerer crouched by a window, peering out through a crack in the shutter, while Seeburn mounted a table, grabbed a beam, and hoisted himself into the rafters. From there he pushed his way through the thatching and crouched upon the roof, atop one of the support members. 

Marcus and Cassius stood together behind the same building, while Penn and Imagina took positions skulking on opposite sides of a street, with stout walls to hide behind. 

Then they waited. Before they departed the commons, the King's runner had told them that four sets of sails had been seen coming down the coast. If the diversion was to happen before the ships entered the harbor, it would have to be soon. 

Patience and planning paid off. Sylus' sharp eyes saw the bar on the gate shift and rise, and a single figure slipped inside. 

Carefully the small man, for Halfling he was, padfooted his way into the plaza, looking for trouble, listening for the sounds of alarm. 

Detecting nothing, he gave a low whistle and half a dozen more shadowy figures entered and began to spread out. 

All froze, however, when they heard the sounds of a lyre drift into the area, and a hoof striking a beat on the cobblestones. 

Then a single arrow took the leader, hard, in the shoulder, half spinning him around. And the battle was joined. 

" _Titan's Stature!_", prayed Marcus, and suddenly Cassius was looking over the edge of the building that had hidden him. He strode into the square, grinning broadly.

" _Veerbeg_", came another voice, followed by a crash of cracking timber as Seeburn landed at the second entrance to the plaza, his towering height a match for Cassius'.

One of the human raiders stepped back, his hands a blur of motion. Daggers flew, followed by a laugh of triumph. 

"I'm up here, little one.", Seeburn gloated, feeling the passage of those blades. "You'll have to do better than that." 

"Wow, you really can do magic!", cheered Imagina before sending a bolt of magical energy into the nearest bladesman. 

Steel crashed and daggers flew, and blood stained the snowy ground.  

Penn managed to entrance one of the attackers before being struck with a hurled blade. The wound was but a scratch, but it carried a burn as well, for the blade had been envenomed.  

He shook his head, trying to drive away the waves of dizziness that swept over him, but was soon doubled over in heaving agony. 

Nedel's fingers traced the intricate patterns of his craft, as he loosed bolt after bolt of destructive force at the foe. One foe, the leader, managed to somehow dissipate one of those bolts, however, and stepped up to the helpless Bard, intending to finish him quickly. 

But the best laid plans oft catch an arrow in the thigh, as he soon discovered, and Sylus bow sang its own battle song. 

Envenomed daggers flew from the trio at the rear of the raiders, scoring on both Cassius and Seeburn. Nedel's magic's didn't falter, however, and the building offered good shelter, despite the damage Seeburn had made when he grew. 

Marcus interrupted his assaults long enough to mutter a charm of resurgence, and Penn managed to draw himself erect. 

" _Veerbeg_", pronounced one of the bandits, and a bladesman of their company rose to meet Cassius, toe to toe and eye to eye. "We'd heard you were here, and we're ready!", the man grinned.

"Really?", asked the dark warrior of the south. "You have a grave prepared then. That's good." And from there, his blade did all his talking. 

Imagina had exhausted her offensive magics quickly, and was now busy levering her crossbow, making ready to fire. She wasn't as quick on the string as Sylus, but at close range her aim proved as true, and the first of the raiders to enter the square was the first to fall before her bolt. 

Penn's sword was in his hand now, and for the first time anyone could recall, he seemed comfortable with it. The light blade danced for him, scoring blow after blow in a dazzling display of speed that left his foe dazed and confused, and bleeding. 

But the venom was taking its toll elsewhere. Even as raiders began to fall, Cassius felt the illness wash over him, and his stomach convulsed in dry heaves. Seeburn too had a greenish pallor, and were it not for the insane fury that possessed him he might have succumbed as well. 

Sylus bow never faltered though, and the towering raider found that his newfound height and power had a fatal flaw. Small buildings no longer provided him with cover, and between Imagina and Sylus he was soon feathered with far too many arrows for one man to withstand. 

The three nearest the back, whether it was seeing their allies fall or because they ran out of blades to throw, began to retreat. Two vanished under cover of hurled smoke, while the third elected to stay a moment longer. It was a fatal mistake, for with no other targets remaining, the archers both concentrated their fire on him, and he fell. 

And it was over. 

Cassius slowly began to recover from the poison, though he was still weak. The battle madness left Seeburn, and he collapsed in an immense heap. 

And somewhere to the south, they could hear the sounds of the pipes as the main battle began.


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

***
Marcus went to tend to Seeburn's wounds. Between the battle madness and his immense size, he had been careless of danger, and so was bleeding from a dozen places.

"Be sure to leave some of those.", Penn advised. "He may want a few battle scars, and his father will need to see them, to know that Seeburn really is a warrior." 

Seeburn looked up and nodded his agreement, then collapsed again to let the weariness pass. 

In the mean time the others assessed the condition of the fallen. One was still breathing. A minor amount of healing magic was applied, to ensure that he'd live to see the next dawn, then his hands and feet were securely bound. 

"Let's move him inside there.", Sylus suggested, indicating the small cottage that Seeburn had damaged in the battle. "That way he won't freeze to death." Then, seeing the questioning looks of the others, he elaborated. "Two escaped, and might still set the town ablaze. We need to either catch them, or be sure that they've gone. And then we have another battle running." 

The prisoner and his fallen comrades were searched, in particular for hidden blades and incendiaries, and a few bits of jewelry were claimed, then the party set off. 

"This gate doesn't get used much.", Sylus remarked, once they were outside. "No tracks in the snow except theirs coming in, and two more coming out." He set off after them, but within a few hundred yards he pulled up. "They're running straight home.", he said, pointing to the length of their stride, and the trailing marks their heels made in the snow. "And they can make tracks faster than I can follow them." 

"Then let's get back to the city. The battle will be under way by now." 
*** 
The companions ran along the wall, to see if there were more of the bandits, but all was quiet. It wasn't the shortest path, but it was a prudent one. Sylus, in fact, decided to stay and patrol the area, in case they had missed something. He didn't so much stand guard as go hunting.

"It's a frame of mind.", he had once explained. "Standing watch, you're waiting for the enemy to come to you. You give them the choice, and the initiative. Instead, presume that the enemy is out there, then go and hunt him. As a rabbit or fox will seek a burrow, so an enemy scout will seek a vantage point. Look in those vantage points. You hunt him, instead of letting him hunt you." 

Tonight, he was hunting them. 
*** 
The chill, heavy sea air seemed to stream off of them as they ran, as if they should see eddies and curls of it in their wake. Indeed there was a bit of mist building as they approached the waterfront. Across the way they could see three ships under siege, slogged to a halt by the thick seaweed of the shallows, enhanced by Druidic magics. Flame arrows lit the sky, and fiery tar balls arced away from the harbor defenses as the forces on the shore laid in with everything they had.

"I thought I heard there were four ships sighted.", Marcus recalled as he stared across the bay at the spectacle. 

"The scouts may have miscounted.", Seeburn offered in explanation. 

"No, look!", the Cleric cried, pointing off towards the headlands. There, far from the main battle, a fourth ship could be seen, a dark outline against the filtered moonlight. 

The companions redoubled their efforts, sprinting up the shore line towards the enemy. 

"You can't land a ship there.", Seeburn snorted in disgust. "The rocks will rip her belly out, for sure." 

"Not so sure.", Nedel countered. "See, ahead of her? She has a pilot boat, sounding the way, trying to find a deeper channel." 

The range to even the pilot boat would have been a challenge for Sylus himself, and the Humans in the party had to take it on faith that there was a boat at all, for both the ship and the pilot craft were running dark. 

Still, the party unlimbered their bows and let fly with quarrel and bolt. They were rewarded with naught but the splashing sounds of arrows striking the sea, but somewhere within that cascade of sound, there was the solid thunk of arrow striking wood. 

Cassius stood in frustration, for he carried neither bow nor sling. Penn tossed his own set to the man, and took a different course. A short song and a quick transformation and he was winged and aloft once more. 

Perhaps it was the darkness or the sea breeze, the chop of the waves or the chill of the night, but this time it seemed as if he was flying through molasses. The exhilaration of first flight was gone, and now the hard reality set in: The enemy was a long way out, and he came to know the truth of the old adage: “There is no cover in the sky.” 

Nedel conjured a spark of light, which he cupped in his hand lest it give the enemy a clear target, and wove it carefully into the fletchings of his bolt. Then, taking careful aim towards the creak of oars in the darkness, he let fly. 

"Thunk!", went the arrow, and suddenly the scene was lit. The pilot boat held seven, six on the oars and one with a fathoming pole to probe the bottom as they crept in. Surprisingly, all were Halflings, an odd choice for boatmen. 

The next volley of arrows struck true, and with a cry the man on the bow fell into the water.   He struggled for a moment against the chill waters only to be forced under by the boat as it rode right over him.

The poor boatmen were in a terrible spot, for if they tried to return fire then they would make no headway, and the range was as long for them as it was for the shore defenses. They elected to keep rowing, though they no longer knew if the course they set was one the ship could follow. 

Then, oddly, the wind shifted. It had been coming off the sea to the west, but now curled around and was headed directly south, into the teeth of the ship. Companions looked around and spied First with a few of the Centaur deemed too young for the main battle. He held a scroll in one hand, and his other angled as if to guide the wind that slid along his exposed palms. He smiled at them, but held his pose and his concentration. 

Penn found the sudden shift disconcerting, and he almost tumbled when the new breeze took the bite off the edge of his wings, but he quickly recovered and rode the wind outward, faster than before. 

There was a splatter as of rain as flights of arrows fell into the surf, the headwind now resisting Halfling short bows from the dark vessel as solidly as it folded their sails back. 

The exchange continued for what seemed like an eternity, as the Companions slowly managed to score against the oarsmen, and the archers on the trailing ship tried to reach the shore with their own return fire.  

One oarsman finally dropped his oar completely and took up his shield for cover. 

Then Penn was over head, looking down onto the bobbing longboat. A small vial dropped from his hand, to strike amidships. It blossomed orange and yellow upon impact, and soon the small craft was awash in flames as the ancient Greek formulation did what it was intended to do. 

Whether the craft made it to shore now or not was irrelevant. Her mission as done, her purpose thwarted. The flames were simply putting that mission out of its misery. 
[FONT=&quot]***
The men in the small craft were now fully occupied in fighting the flames, and several either jumped or fell overboard during the turmoil.

Suddenly there was a bright detonation as something in the craft succumbed to the flames, and the remaining oarsmen were forced to abandon the craft.  They had been carrying incendiaries of their own.

"Hold fire!", called Seeburn, as he shucked off his heavy hauberk. He could see the Halflings struggling in the bay, trying to shed armor while keeping afloat, and succeeding at neither.

Seeing that they were too far to throw a line to, he gritted his teeth and plunged into the icy water.

It was a solid shock to his system, and for a moment he had a hard time taking a breath. Then he began to stroke, and moved towards the nearest swimmer. The little fellow may have been an enemy a few moments ago, but now he was a sailor in distress, and no one raised by the sea side could abandon such a man. 

The closer one was struggling, but making headway, and the companions on shore began to shout encouragement. 

Though it was a short swim, it had been a long night, and the cold water was quickly turning Seeburn's limbs to lead, yet he pressed on.

Cassius stood on the shore in indecision. He hadn't been raised by the sea, and wasn't as good a swimmer as Seeburn. He knew in his head that he would do little good in the water, but his heart thought different.

Imagina saw his pain and offered a solution. "_Gentle Warmth_", she intoned, granting the dark warrior some protection against the chill of the waters. "Go get him.", she said.

Marcus offered him a line to carry, and the decision was made. Casting off whatever heavy gear he could, he leaped into the surf, swimming strongly towards the injured boatman.

[/FONT]


----------



## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

*** 
Penn heard the explosion behind him, heard the battle cries turn to offers of aid and encouragement, but he had bigger problems. With the strong wind blowing out from shore he wouldn't be able to turn and give aid, even if he should try. And there was still a ship out there with hundreds of men waiting to kill him and his companions.

He beat at the night air heavily, striving to gain altitude. If he couldn't rise enough to clear the yard arms then he'd run afoul of the sails or tangle himself in the halliards. Or, more likely, he'd be filled so full of arrows that it wouldn't matter. He considered turning away, to pass abeam of the dark vessel, but that would leave him open to more archery fire. The safest way past was right over the top, stem to stern. 

He was close enough to hear the creak of her timbers when he passed, and saw the mad scramble in the rigging as sailors strove to reef her sails. Then the ship shook slightly, and there was a grinding sound as her heavy keel struck the first of the rocks.

He continued to rise, looking down onto the crowded deck as he went, and saw a sight that chilled him even more than the cold night air. Stacked amid ships were landing boats, coracles by the look of them. Enough to set a small army ashore.

"Of course", he thought to himself, cursing for not seeing it sooner. No matter how good a pilot boat they had, there was no way for this craft to actually make shore. At least, not here. All she could do was get close. From there she'd have to drop anchor and lower her boats.

Coracles were ideal. A set of wooden ribs, covered in oiled hide, they were lightweight, and they could be stacked one on another during transit.

He altered course, and prepared his second flask of the Greek Fire. He had two left, and a pair of the red flasks they had taken from the raiders earlier in the evening. He hoped they were fire, but hadn't had time to check.

He watched the small flask drop away in a steep arc, an arc that grew steeper once in the wind shadow of the sails. He missed the stack of boats he'd been aiming for, but caught another, and suddenly the ships deck was illuminated in dancing red.

The last of his own followed the first and struck a second set of boats, sending splatters of flame onto a third. 

Arrows were flying his way, but those shooting from the deck were firing almost straight up, and risked having their own spent quarrels rain back down on them.

He left a bank of archers behind as he passed each mast, only to encounter a new set waiting and ready. He saw no more landing craft, so he didn't feel the need to risk using the enemy's weapons against them. He was wounded and bleeding when he passed the ship's stern castle, but managed to stay aloft.

Now he wheeled about, shifting out of that enchanted tailwind, and slowly made his way back towards shore. For better or for worse, he'd done all he could.
*** 
Seeburn reached the small struggling form and held out a hand. His had closed only on water, but the stout sailor struck out with a final effort and grabbed the Barbarian's hand instead. He looked outward, striving to see the other survivor, and sadly, he could.

The second Halfling was struggling, floundering and thrashing in the waves but making no headway. Seeburn knew that he might reach him in time, but doubted that he'd be able to drag both back to shore. With leaden limbs and a pain in his heart, he turned back towards shore. "A bird in the hand.", he muttered to himself.

Cassius was slowly making his way out as Marcus played out the line. When he reached the end of the first rope, Nedel was ready with a second one. He'd sent magical lights dancing out across the water, and was just able to set them above the far swimmer, but he had no actual aid he could lend.

Then First spoke up. "Help is on the way.", he said, intoning a conjuration. 

"Shark!", screamed the far Halfling, as he saw a dorsal fin cut quickly through the foam, blood in the water drawing him like a lodestone to iron. He thrashed more desperately, but with no more effect.

Seeburn found new life in his lifeless limbs, and it seemed as if he nearly ran across the remaining distance to shore. There he collapsed on the rocks, his tiny burden wrapped in shivering arms.

Cassius cursed. He hated to abandon the small swimmer after having come so far, but ... 

  He redoubled his efforts, his powerful arms pulling him farther from shore with each passing moment. He didn't really think he could outswim a shark, but he was certainly going to try.
*** 
"Whooohaaaa!", whooped the King as he launched another cask of flaming tar at the enemy ship. Aboard he could see that the crew had given up trying to work the rigging, and were now fighting fires with everything they had. Yet her captain was stubborn, and had refused to signal the surrender. The other two had white pennants flapping in the breeze, but the commander of this last one was bound and determined to go down with his ship.

The King was more than willing to oblige, and all but danced with glee as he called for the catapult to be reloaded.
*** 
Nedel and Marcus were busy tending to two prisoners and a near-frozen Barbarian prince.

The Sorcerer's magic quickly helped shed the shivering trio of seawater, wringing the wetness from them head to toe. That, however, did nothing to warm the blood.

"There's an Inn nearby.", Nedel observed. 

"It will be closed and shuttered.", Imagina countered as she shared her own woolen cloak with the blue-lipped swimmers.

"I can fix that.", laughed Cassius, taking up his sword again. "Bring them."

"I've never seen anything like that.", Marcus kept saying. "I've never seen a shark help a man to shore."

"Well, you have to ask him nicely.", smiled First. "I've set him and his friends to circle the ship, and keep the others in their place."
  [FONT=&quot]***
"You say there was a fourth ship?", asked the King. "We only saw three."

"The fourth rode in dark, and tried to land troops at the headland.", Marcus informed him. "They were using a pilot boat to fathom a passage close enough to shore. First and a few of his Centaurs helped us, and together we managed to take out that pilot boat, and drive the main ship aground. We have prisoners from both battles."

"And I suppose you're going to credit my son for these victories?", asked the King, his voice heavy with scorn.

"He called on battle magics to help him in the first fight.", Marcus confirmed. "The second one was a team effort."

"I knew it!", swore the King. "Not just books and letters, but magic as well? Of all the useless...", he trailed off into a stream of obscenities, his face flushed with fury.

"Um, did you want to direct the capture of the last ship, Your Majesty?", asked Marcus, at a loss for anything else to say.
*** 
The King and his immediate entourage arrived at the north shore to take charge of things. Local fishing boats were called into service to ferry prisoners from burning or disabled vessels, and the King himself reviewed the damage.

"It looks like you folk did a good job here.", he admitted grudgingly, after looking things over.

"Who destroyed the wall on that hut?", he asked, already knowing the answer.

"The building was damaged during the battle.", Penn offered. "Your son simply didn't know his own strength."

"And he used magic to do this?", the King demanded.

"He was a giant on the battlefield.", Penn assured him. "He and Cassius blocked the two streets leading from the entry plaza. He was foaming at the mouth, and laid such a swath of destruction that his enemies dared not close with him. They hurled poisoned blades at him from the fringes, but with none who could stand up to him for more than a few moments, the 'fringe" became the front line far too quickly for their taste. Two fled the field with their tails between their legs. The last wasn't quick enough, and died where he stood. Seeburn seemed almost sorry when he ran out of people to kill."

The King turned a leary eye towards the Bard, unsure if he spoke the truth, or was just telling what he might wish to hear. Then he looked towards Seeburn, measuring him as one might look at a horse on the auction block. 

"You seem to have forgotten how to defend yourself.", he observed, noting the myriad of scabbed over wounds on the Barbarian's body. "But at least you haven't abandoned the blade entirely. Go clean yourself up."

Men arrived to report the status of the port, and the King seemed pleased.
*** 
"People!", the King called to the roaring crowd. "You've done well tonight. While Stonehoof clearly won the Archery tournament, you, my people, have won the day. Let us have another day tomorrow, a day of feasting!"

He waited for the roar of the crowd to fade before continuing.

"The shipwrights tell me that one of these prize vessels can be made seaworthy again within two days. At that time my son, Seeburn, will lead a small war party against our enemies in Hibernia. And then the real celebration will commence!"

Penn buried his face in his hands. Unless the King had some other plan in mind, he had just announced to the enemy their exact time of departure, and exactly where they were going.
*** 
"It's not quite as you take it, friend Bard.", the King explained. "Your wit has proven its worth, and you've stood the test of battle. You don't fight the way I do, but then your people aren't mine either. But my son, he was raised to be a man, to face his opponents squarely. This magic thing...", he shook his head in near despair.

"The battle magics can make him a mightier warrior than ever before.", Penn argued.

"But a true warrior finds the fire within and draws his might from there. He needs no magic for that."

The Bard pursed his lips, thinking carefully before he replied. "He's as fierce a warrior as I've ever seen. I know how it must feel, to stare a foe in the eye and see the truth dawn there, that he isn't man enough to face you and he knows it. That he's going to die and there's nothing he can do about it. But you know the greater truth than that. You know that it takes more than a warrior's fury to be a King. Your son seeks to grow beyond the fury, to be more than just another warrior on the line."

"But he must still be a warrior of the line. He won't be a man that other men will follow if he gives up being a man at all."

"Your son will make you proud of him. He won't lay down his blade, not while he lives. Of that you can be certain."

"We'll see.", the King said, still troubled.
[/FONT]  ***
Seeburn resisted the urge to pick at the stitches that traced their way over his body. He'd refused magical healing, and gone instead to the wise women of the castle, for it was the way of his people that the women would work the needle, and gut a man's wounds closed after the battle. 

Magic had always been available, but there were always more in need than there were blessings to share, and a warrior's battle scars were the trophies he would carry forever.

He looked up when his father entered. The King hadn't knocked, but then Kings didn't have to, and manners weren't exactly emphasized in Mor Castle.

"We're having some games tomorrow, at the celebration.", the King announced. "You'll be fighting in the first round, so get your rest."
  *** 
"I don't believe it.", Imagina declared when she saw Penn trundle down the stairs. "You've been here two days, and you're still waking up alone. Is that a new record?"

"Well, darlin', you're welcome to cure that condition any time.", the Bard laughed in reply, making his best imitation of the local tongue.. They were both getting comfortable enough with each other that they could joke about such things, for they knew that that particular match would never be made.

"He's probably smart to keep a lonely bed around here.", Seeburn said as he doctored his porridge. He was in the battle games today, and didn't want to weight himself down, so he ate light.

"The women around here are possessive, and the fathers are protective.", he continued. "And they've heard about you.", he added pointedly.

"Why so down my friend?", the Bard asked, straddling a chair at the table. "We won last night, and we did it with almost no casualties."

"My father has called a celebration today, a day of fun and games.", Seeburn replied, as if that explained everything.

"So again I'll ask, why so down?"

"You have no idea what my father considers 'fun'."
*** 
The lists were posted, and Seeburn fumed. 

"Valmont? Sargent of the Guard?", he growled. "My father matched me against him?"

"Too challenging?", asked Penn, looking the matches over himself. "Ah, I drew someone named Feardig'."

"No, it's an insult. I should be matched against the Captain! And what do you mean, you drew Feardig'? Don't tell me you posted to the lists?"

"Of course. Spirit of the occasion and all that.", Penn laughed. "It's a game, how bad could it be?"

"Remember what I said about my father's idea of 'fun'? It's blood sport, live steel. You'll get yourself killed." Seeburn then watched as his friend realized what he had gotten himself into. "Why so down?", he finally asked in satisfaction.
*** 
The crowd had gathered on the slopes above the shoreline to cheer their favorites, and the rocks echoed back their cries. Below stood the first two contestants, Seeburn and Valmont.

The two were well matched, despite Seeburn's wanting to face a greater warrior. Seeburn was quicker, even on the damp sand, but Valmont's stamina was all but legendary.

Seeburn stepped forward smartly, bowed towards the King, then raised his blade in salute to his opponent.

"Wha' the devil is all tha'?", asked Valmont in confusion.

"Those who are about to die salute the King.", Seeburn explained.

"Ye've been in Rome too long, lad. This is sport, not to the death, and all this bowing an' waving your sword about all fancy, well, I guess what they say about you is true."

"My father would be just as happy if I died here.", Seeburn said grimly. "So yeah, it's more than just sport."

Valmont hefted his axe as if truly feeling the weight of it for the first time. It was the burden of life and death, a weight that couldn't be felt with the hands, but one that the heart felt all too well.

"If that's how it has to be, lad, then, well, good bye."

And they were at each other.

Steel rang on steel, and Seeburn drove forward, seeking to press his advantage early. Valmont yielded a single pace before the onslaught, then held. 

They traded blows, Seeburn's speed matched by the sheer power of the other's great axe. Soon Valmont was bleeding from half a dozen cuts and slices. Seeburn's wounds were fewer, but deeper, and he began to realize that he might lose this fight.

So he let loose. He opened his heart and let the inner fire flood his body, the battle madness wash through him. He went berserk.

Now the fight became a matter of desperation for Valmont, for when he looked in his friend's eyes he could see that friend no longer. And he knew that Seeburn wouldn't stop until one of them was dead.

Sparks flew as Valmont slipped a parry, and he felt a streak of fire in his guts as his quicker opponent laid a low slash just above the belt line. A little deeper and that cut might have gutted him.

Seeburn saw his opponent flinch and recoil, saw the blood on the tip of his sword, and drove forward in pursuit of his rapidly backpedaling foe. He saw the other lower his axe for a moment, and with a roar he brought his sword up into a towering overhead blow.

And it was over. The victor stood panting, watching the surprise in the eyes of his foe, his friend, as he sank to his knees.

The victor pulled his axe free and stepped back. Yeomen rushed in with a litter, and healers pressed vinegar soaked cloths into the wound to staunch the flow of blood. The pain would be excruciating, but it would save his life, if there was any life in him to save.

And on the rocks above, the King smiled in satisfaction.
*** 
  "You've seen what this is now.", Marcus warned Penn. "You can get killed out there. Don't be afraid to run away, if it comes down to it."

"I'll be okay.", Penn assured his friend. "And of course I'll run. I'm not stupid, you know."

"I don't know.", said Nedel. "You signed up for this, didn't you?  That was pretty stupid."

"True. But I'll bet I'm giving the odds makers headaches."

"May you know the blessings of Jupiter, and may his glory carry you through this day.", Marcus prayed, feeling the twin blessings take hold.

Across the way, his opponent was receiving similar guidance and support from the local priest of Dagda.

Marcus and the other priest locked eyes for a moment, then each smiled.

"I'll wager a gold on the Bard.", Marcus offered.

"Make it platinum and you have a bet.", replied the other. The pair shook hands, and the deal was struck. Then, almost as an afterthought, the Dagdanite spoke a few dreaded words: "_Dispel Magic_".

Penn felt part of Marcus' blessing fade, and so he did what he always did when he was afraid. He sang.

"..welcome to your gory bed, or to victory. 
Now's the day and now's the hour,
see the lines of battle lour,
see approach proud Breton's power,
chains and slavery.

Who would be a traitor knave, 
who would fill a coward's grave,
  let him turn and flee..."

Penn watched his opponent as he sang, a heavily built man, human, hefting a battle axe in one hand and sporting a small buckler shield on his forearm. The man was all but laughing at the slender rapier in the Bard's hand, barely a sliver compared to the arms he knew.

Then the baton dropped, and the battle was on.

Penn sprang forward, muttering a spell as he went. "_web of steel_" His hooves dug into the wet sand, and he fairly danced circles around the other. A quick slash slid in above the buckler, and the oak thick arm revealed there flowed red.

Then the magic took hold, and he flicked his light blade upward to ring the flat of it against the other man's helm.

Feardig' blinked and shook his head, trying to clear his vision from that light but ringing blow.

Then the merrily dancing Fey was upon him again, slashing at his other arm, and again rapping the side of his helm with that toy of a sword. That dancing, lightning quick, razor sharp toy of a sword.

Again he saw double from the surprise blow, and he staggered back a step, trying to buy time for his head to clear.

And Penn was on him again, pinking his left thigh this time with a low cut. But the whip-like back slash of the blade missed its mark this time, and Feardig’s vision remained clear.

"My turn!", he growled, gripping the axe in both hands. He stepped towards Penn, his axe a circle of shining steel that drove the Fey back, stopping his dance.

"Ohhh crap.", swore Penn, realizing that his game might be over.

And now the battle was on in earnest. No longer dazed or confused by the flashing sword technique, Feardig' was battling like a true berserker, pressing and driving, and leaving the Bard with no time to plan, no room to dance, barely a chance to breathe.

But that hard, furious attack was weak on defense and left Feardig' open to the Bard's blade, which scored again and again whenever the pair closed.

Then came the moment. Feardig' lunged, and Penn dropped to one knee, below the incoming blow. And then the foam on the man's lips turned pink with blood as he impaled himself on the extended blade. He staggered for a moment, looking lost, as if he didn't quite know what had happened, or how he had come to be on this beach.

But the battle madness was still in him, the madness that will drive a man to spend his dying breath striving to reach his enemy. He swung his axe with all that he had left in him, felt it bite deep, and saw the Half Satyr fall just as the darkness overtook him.

And it was over. A howl of disapproval rose from certain quarters of the crowd, for both men lay on the sand, and without a clear winner, no wagers could be paid off.

And on the rocks above, the King looked troubled.


----------



## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

***
Penn and Seeburn both recovered from their injuries, with help, and the festivities continued.

Many of the games were fun, most were warlike, but one in particular brought some to their feet. 

"They can't do that!", Imagina declared in shock. A man was being brought out onto the field and tethered to a stake with a long chain. Archers were lining up to fire. 

"Sit down!", Seeburn ordered sharply, his old fire coming to the fore once more. 

"But that's barbaric!" 

Seeburn glowered at her. "Look at where you are, and look at who lives here.", he said with emphasis. "These men were given a choice. If they can dodge the arrows long enough to free themselves, they're free. They understand exactly what they're getting into." 

"But why?" 

"It's simple. We're at war. The enemy has burned some of our fields, stolen or slaughtered some of our flocks. Its winter, and we just took over 700 prisoners last night. We can't feed them all. We won't intentionally starve them, but if I have to choose between feeding my family and feeding an enemy who came to kill my family..." 

The Enchantress' mouth worked for several seconds without any resultant words coming forth. Her lands seldom suffered this level of privation, and winters like this were unheard of. 

Marcus watched as harsh reality set in on his companion. Rome had crucified entire armies that had come against her, and slaves often fought for the entertainment of the crowds in the Colluseum. This kind of sport might not be to the lady's taste, but it was sport none the less, and no man was being forced to participate. 

He did notice, though, that the Centaurs had, as a body, turned away from this spectacle. 

A cheer went up as the first of the prisoners fell. More would follow. 
*** 
The fires roared and the music played, the people danced and the minstrels sang far into the night.

The castle's capacity to throw feasts was running thin, but the King wouldn't let on such a weakness. To hide the sparseness of his larder, he covered with generosity. 

"Here here!", cried the King, raising a heavy bow above his head. "Tomorrow we hunt!", he cried. "Form your parties and make your plans. The group that brings back the finest trophy will be awarded handsomely. My own great bow will be theirs!" 

Cassius quietly groaned. "We're going, aren't we?", he asked. 

"Is there really a question about that?" 
***
The morning was gray, as all mornings had been for years, but this morning had the added benefit of light snow shifting to occasional slushy drizzle.

None the less, hunting parties were setting out well before dawn. Some rode out through the fields and into the hills beyond. Some hunted in the closer woods. Several parties had arranged for boats to take them up or down coast, to get away from the other groups, and beyond territories that were in danger of being over hunted. 

Seeburn lead the companions to such a boat, a smile on his face and a hunting falcon on his arm. "I sent a few friends ahead, to scout and be ready to beat the bushes.", he said with a conspiratorial air.  

"I guess it's good to be the King's son, eh?", Sylus smiled, nudging his friend in a friendly way. Then he looked at the kilted Scott a bit harder. "You know, for a man who got beaten half to death in front of his father yesterday, you're in remarkably good spirits." 

"My father was happy for me. Not that I lost, but that I fought with a sword and gave it everything I had." 

Marcus nodded, then paused, as if expecting something else. "Where's Penn?", he asked, when he realized that the Bard was absent. 

"He said he wants to work on some potions.", Sylus informed him. "Besides, can you imagine trying to hunt with him around? He'd be singing and talking and scaring all the game away. I mean, I like him well enough, but he never shuts up." 

Imagina raised an eyebrow in surprise. That was the longest speech she'd ever heard from the normally taciturn huntsman. "Cassius stayed behind too. I don't think he likes to hunt." 

"Hunt? He doesn't even own a bow.", Sylus laughed. "Sometimes I don't understand that boy." 

The cry of the gulls echoed off the rocky shore as they headed south, and the smell of saltwater filled their nostrils as the sail was set. The winter sea was choppy, and the wind cut like a knife, but the boatman knew the waters well, and guided them safely to their destination. 

"We're well south of the Wall", he reminded them, "so be on the lookout for trouble. I'll land you there, at the inlet, and I'll be back with the evening tide. If you're not ready then, I'll check again in the morning. If you aren't back by then, I'll go get help." 

"You mean, we're poaching on someone else's lands?", Sylus asked in surprise. 

"Does that bother you? It's part of the game.", Seeburn laughed. "The Bretons poach our lands, we poach theirs. Come the spring, we'll be at war again, and these lands might change hands. " 

"Doesn't bother me.", Sylus laughed. "I've never owned any land of my own, but I hunt all the time, and my pot never goes empty. I just wanted to be sure." 

The boatman paddled hard to catch a small wave and ride it in, high onto the shore. They finally slid to a grinding stop on the gravel beach, bracing themselves for balance. "Be safe, be warm, be lucky, and be back by sunset.", the boatman advised as they clambered out of the small craft. 

Something colorful fluttered in the breeze on the bluffs above, and Seeburn laughed. "My friends have been here all right.", he said, pointing upslope. He then lead the group up a narrow slot in the stone and clay, cut by a rivulet. 

As they climbed, they spied what the Barbarian had been pointing to. A pair of bodies, dead less than a day, were laid out on the slope facing the sea, pinned in place by a pair of arrows each. Bright ribbons had been tied to the fletchings, to mark the location. 

"Friends of yours?", Nedel asked, nodding towards the pair. 

"No, just their handiwork. Sometime the Bretons post a shore watch. Now they get to watch the shore all they want. It's the fortunes of war, you know. My friends will have set up a hunter's camp inland, and we'll probably have a hot meal at midday, thanks to them." 

The sorcerer nodded, but noted the uncomfortable looks on Marcus and Imagina's faces. Unlike he and Seeburn, they weren't accustomed to having servants about. Sylus, as usual, kept his feelings well masked. 
*** 
Sylus and Seeburn took the lead positions, one to the left of the group and one to the right. 

Sylus easily spotted the tracks left by the scouts, and decided to veer away from them a bit. Their tracks were so heavy and clear that they would likely have frightened much of the local game. He understood the value of a beater or a good dog when hunting small game birds, but they weren't going to win any prizes with grouse, rabbit or game hen. And despite Penn's pretty speech to the King, sometimes you did go hunting for specific quarry. 

He held up his hand to get Seeburn's attention, then parted his fingers and pointed towards a heavy stand of trees off to the left. Seeburn understood the hunter's sign and altered his path accordingly. They'd approach from two sides to flush out whatever might be there.  

Sylus hadn't seen anything in those woods, nor any real spore or trail sign, but Seeburn didn't know that, and so he lead the group out of the planned and prepared hunting area. They were on their own. 
*** 
Hours passed before they came across any real track, but that's the way it is when you hunt. Patience is emphasized.

Seeburn saw Sylus' signal, and read the sign right. Two fingers to the forehead meant deer or elk, and three fingers pulled tightly together and pointing to the ground meant clear tracks. 

They followed for perhaps a hundred yards when the Ranger pulled up, looking troubled. He waved the group together, since he knew that the others wouldn't understand the silent language of the stalker. 

"A small herd of deer came through here.", he explained, tracing the track with his fingers. "Wolves followed. See how their tracks are on top of the deer? The deer are walking, but the wolves aren't. See the length of the stride?" 

"So what does it mean? What do we do?" 

"We hurry. The wolves might have gotten their kill already, and scattered the herd. But I haven't heard any howls or yips, so I don't think so. At least not yet." 

Seeburn nodded, agreeing with both what the trail sign meant, and with what they should do. 

"Blackie, up!", he instructed, casting his bird into the late morning breeze. 

The sharp beat of his wings faded as he gained altitude. Then he circled one time and headed inland. He knew what his master sought. 

The winter branches rattled in the cold wind, skeleton bare, just dense enough to confuse the eye when one tried to follow a bird in flight, but Seeburn needed no eyes at all to know that his avian friend had found what they sought. The bird circled far ahead, then stooped, hard, off and to the left. 

Soon it could be seen flying back, the limp form of a dead rabbit dangling from his talons. 

"Does your bird know that rabbits don't have antlers?", laughed Marcus. 

"Oh he knows. But he found the deer before finding his own feast.", Seeburn assured them. "A thousand yards or so ahead. He circled the area, that's his signal." 

And they set off at a quick trot, with Sylus pausing only occasionally to make sure they were still on the trail. 

He slowed the group to a walk as they approached the area, and again Seeburn took a flank position. 

Listening carefully, he still detected no sounds of a wolf pack signaling a hunt or kill, yet he knew that they hadn't passed the pack either. His eyes scanned the area, looking for some sign of movement. 

And something caught his eye. Not low, where deer or wolves would be, but higher up, atop a low rock outcropping. A tiny manlike figure crouched there, one with skin the color of dark red clay, tiny batlike wings, a sharply barbed tail and a grin that could only be described as "devilish". 

"Be careful!", the tiny figure warned in a low whisper. "You're not alone!" 

***
Sylus simply stared for a few heartbeats, then his bow snapped into firing position, but by then the Imp was gone.

"Did you see that?", he asked, keeping his voice low. 

"See what?" 

"An Imp. He was over there.", he said, pointing towards the rock. 

Seeburn's bow was also in position now, and he scanned the area for any disturbance. A flicker of movement caught his eye, a slight swirl in the snow where none should be, and he fired almost before he realized what he was doing. The arrow struck something unseen and fell to the ground. 

"Now that's not very nice.", came a giggling voice. 

" _Rootbind_", Sylus said, sliding his hand beneath the snow to find the earth. And even in the dead of winter, the power of the magic awakened the plants. Starting at the Ranger's hand and spreading forward, a ripple flowed across the woods, and the thick brush began to twist and reach, looking for something to take hold of.

"Well done.", laughed the childish voice. "I don't see how that can fail." 

Sylus' mouth twisted in a silent snarl of frustration. He began to circle to his right, avoiding the area affected by his spell. Seeburn and Imagina began to move to the left. 

"Shhhh.", a small voice urged the Enchantress as she passed a small rock. "You're going the wrong way. They're on the other side." 

She looked down, following the sound of laughter, and spied the Imp in his hiding place.  

The imp, in turn, sat on his haunches and rocked back and forth in glee when the Human simply hardened her face and pressed on in the same direction. She was giving her "friends" neither warning nor aid, but instead saving herself while they stood in harm's way. He heartily approved. 

He didn't even bother trying to warn the other Human, the one who had shot him, when he went past. Instead he simply handed back the arrow the Human had fired at him earlier. The fact that Seeburn accepted it and moved on in silence confirmed that this one too was thinking of himself first. Or perhaps he had designs on the woman. Perhaps? That might prove interesting, he decided, so once more he wrapped himself in shadows and took to the air. 

Nedel and Marcus moved to the right, more quickly and with less caution than Sylus. The Ranger signaled them to get down, but the pair were impervious to reason. Or perhaps they didn't see or understand the silent language of the hunter. 

Nedel saw Sylus' furtive gestures, and froze in place. He peered into the brush and waited, fingers halfway twisted into the magical gesture of the arcane bolt. Anything that moved was going to bleed. 

Then, from behind a broad juniper, there came the low, slinking form of a wolf, his thick fur flowing with shades of gray that would easily blend into the shadows. The beast bared its teeth, preparing to spring. 

But before it could, arcane energies leaped out first, scoring three ragged tears in the beast's heavy winter coat. And with a yelp and a whine, the wolf spun in place and fled, tail between his legs. 

But in those scant few seconds when it was visible, Sylus saw something important. That wolf had been wearing a collar. 
*** 
Someplace in the brush, a hunter cursed silently at the grasses that had wrapped themselves around his legs. He was busy with his hunting knife, trying to cut away the sod that they rooted in, but winter had hardened the ground to near-stone, and he was making no progress.
*** 
Seeburn was so angry he almost couldn't see, but he couldn't afford to lose control right now. He wanted to kill that Imp, but he knew that there were other problems at the moment. He'd heard the whine and yelp of the injured wolf, so the fiendish creature had been telling the truth about the danger, and evil though it was, it hadn't itself done them any harm.

Imagina was ten paces to his rear, and advancing as slowly as he was now. He sought tracks the way he'd been taught, keeping his gaze up and using the lower edge of his vision. And he'd seen them. Several sets of boot prints, areas where the thin dusting of snow had been scattered or pressed flat, small branches that had been broken in passing. 

The trail ended in sadness. Two bodies, his friends from the castle, lay beneath some low cover, their throats slit. This wasn't the work of wolves, that was for certain. 
*** 
Sylus rolled forward from his hunter's crouch, moving on all fours now, toes and fingertips the only parts of his body in contact with the earth. His bow was held crosswise to his body, an arrow in his teeth. "_Call of Nature_", he intoned softly as he went, listening to the quiet whispers of the woods.

Ahead he heard silence, and he headed for it, for in nature only the predator is silent. The world around the predator is silent. And being a predator himself, he was silent. 

There, lurking behind some of the low juniper, was a second wolf. And a third lay in wait off to his right. He'd known they'd be there, for there is no such thing as only one wolf hunting. 

He growled softly, his body adding meaning to the sounds as his magics directed. " _Me. These others. My pack._", he declared firmly. 

" _These. Me. My pack._", came the reply. And both waited.

After a long moment, Sylus "spoke" again. " _Who is alpha? Where?_"

" _Master? He guards the kill._", came the reply, including a sense of direction: Out into the twisting grasses.

" _Good hunting. We won't steal your kill. Peace._", Sylus offered.

" _Peace._" the wolf agreed, though neither side truly relaxed their stance.
*** 
The hunter looked up and saw his lupine companion limping along the edge of the entangled area, saw the blood, and grew frantic. Abandoning his efforts to cut his way free, he stood and tore one foot out of the grasses by sheer might. Then the other. One step at a time he dragged himself towards his bleeding friend, ripping each foot free again and again as he went. Someone had hurt his dog, and they were going to pay!

Behind him a deer, mate of the one the hunter had killed, leaped from cover, only to be tripped and brought down by the grasping grasses. Its eyes were wild with fear as it dragged itself to its feet. There was blood smell, wolves and men all around and it had to run. It had to  _run_! Everything it knew, every fiber of its being urged flight, but it couldn't. Somehow it couldn't move its feet. 
*** 
Seeburn saw movement in the clearing, a man with a bloody knife in his hand ripping and tearing his way across the open area. 

Slashed throats. A bloody knife. His bow came up unbidden, and he let fly with deadly accuracy. 

The man in the field cried out and arched his back in pain as the quarrel struck home. But he didn't fall. Instead he pressed onward, more determined than ever to get free. 

Seeburn tried to line up a second shot, but found his line of fire blocked by a thrashing deer. He fired anyway. 

The deer bucked and thrashed in pain, twisting and ripping at the grasses with such vigor that it nearly broke its own leg in the struggle. But neither bone nor grass parted. It was a nightmare come real, the worst of all terrors., and it would not end. 
*** 
The song of the bowstring and the man's cry of pain galvanized the wolves.

Dashing through the brush, leaping over the pair that Sylus had been talking to, came another wolf. It barreled into Sylus, taking him to the ground. 

And the other two ended their stasis as well. One sprang forward towards Nedel and Marcus, razor sharp teeth set in jaws that could crush bone. But those teeth closed on thin air only, blocked aside by the Sorcerer's staff. 

The second wolf saw Sylus on the ground, being savaged by its hunting partner, and it couldn't resist. It sprang into the struggle. 

Sylus, with deep regret, was forced to defend himself. He feinted with the arrow he'd been holding, while at the same time drawing his sword with the other hand. He had no footing, and laying on his back he couldn't truly put any weight behind the blow, but steel bit deep and a wolf fell. 

And off in the distance, a hunter brought his own bow into play, sending an arrow back at Seeburn.  

" _Be my right hand!_", intoned Marcus as he stepped away from the snarling wolf. A flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, and a spear appeared on the scene, the chosen weapon of Jupiter, king of the gods. It drew itself up from where it had struck, moving of its own accord, and stabbed at the wolf in an attempt to drive it away.

Nedel also shifted away from the conflict, sending another flurry of arcane bolts into the attacking wolf. 

Seeburn fired again, and once more was gratified to see the far archer recoil in pain. Instead of returning fire, the man gave a loud whistle and began to run, dodging into the trees, heading south, injured wolves behind him. 

Seeburn went after him, for the wild madness that lay in his heart let him run like the wind. But while the other man had a direct path, Seeburn had to finish skirting the glade of twisting grasses, and so the Barbarian fell behind. 

The wolf harrying Sylus looked up at the whistle. It was a tribute to the discipline the man had instilled that the creature could tear itself out of that fight, but it did. It turned and ran. 

Off behind him somewhere, another wolf was snapping at a spear and dying when it caught it. The battle was over. 

With an effort of will, Sylus ended his spell, returning the undergrowth to its winter sleep. 

Seeburn saw movement within the clearing now. A wounded deer struggled to its feet. His blade was out in an instant, and the deer fell dead. 

And rising from the grass came four more wolves, held prisoner by the spell until this moment. 

They looked at Seeburn, who had hurt their master. They smelled the blood, heard the death throes of the fallen deer. And then they heard once more their master's whistle, and turned to leave. 

Seeburn's bow was out once more, and he fired at the lead wolf as it turned to leave. 

The small pack turned on him as one, and suddenly he knew how the deer felt. 

In the middle of this madness a small form appeared. Red, winged, dancing and taunting. "Ha ha, can't catch meeeeee!", the Imp cried, darting south. 

The wolves ignored the distraction and charged Seeburn. 
*** 
Nedel swore when he saw the hunter making his escape. If that man got away, he'd return with more. Many more. His feet were moving before his brain had fully formed the thought, and he found himself sprinting through brush in hot pursuit. A lone Sorcerer from a city far away, chasing a hunter and his pack of wolves through a wilderness that the hunter knew well. 

But the man continued to flee, his wolves having either run ahead or dispersing into the brush. Nedel found himself hoping the wolves were very quick indeed. 

He broke out of a small stand of trees and scrambled down a gravel slope. For a bare instant he had a clear view of the man, but before he could raise his hand or summon the power, the man had realized his danger and darted to cover. Nedel tried to parallel him, but found that he couldn't re-mount that slope as quickly as the southland man had. 

He stopped and panted for a few moments. He had run some distance from his friends, and realized that none had followed him. Pressing the pursuit now could get him killed. And to the north he heard the roar of a giant, and the sounds of a wolf pack on the attack. 
*** 
The pack came in quickly, it's leaders attempting a swift, slashing attack while the others circled. Their teeth met leather and armor, but Seeburn was in trouble and he knew it. So he did two things.

" _Verbeig!_", he announced, feeling the magic take hold and elevating him to the towering height of a small Giant. Next, he let go. The anger he'd felt towards his father, the loss of his friends, the sight of their murderer escaping, all of it roared through him like a river. It rose from the pit of his stomach, through his heart and came out his throat in an animalistic cry of rage. His vision ran red, and Seeburn was gone. All that was left was the fury.

Across the field, Sylus heard that roar, heard the cried of the wolves, and knew he had to hurry. 

" _Vitai_", he murmured softly, laying his hands on the injured wolf. You didn't kill another man's hunting dogs. That was just wrong.

Imagina's bow sang, and an arrow struck the haunch of one of the circling wolves.  

Seeburn roared and swung his huge blade, oblivious to the aid his friends tried to give, oblivious to the pain in his legs as a pair of wolves tore at his heels in an attempt to hamstring him. Oblivious to everything except the need to kill. And kill he did. His sword swept completely through one wolf, cleaving through a small sapling on the follow through.  

And Sylus came bounding in, bent nearly double, snarling and howling like a man possessed, bashing at wolves with his longbow as he came. 

The remaining wolves tried to flee, but Seeburn's reach was long, and another wolf fell in mid spring, parting with a spray of blood and landing in two places. 

And it was over. Seeburn's head snapped from one side to the other, madness in his eyes, looking for something to kill, but there was nothing left. His friends knew that look all too well, and backed away, letting the battle rage fade. Until it did, it wasn't safe to approach him. 
*** 
"All in all, a good hunt.", Sylus said, trying to raise Seeburn's spirits. "Two deer, and a small stack of wolf hides." He wasn't happy about those last, but he knew that the others didn't really understand the hunter's code.

"They were my friends.", Seeburn said simply, as he prepared the bodies of his fallen comrades for the long, cold trip home. 

"It's war. And everyone who dies is someone's friend.", Nedel said. 

"I'm sure the men staked out by the shore were friends of the hunter who escaped.", Imagina added. 

The look in Seeburn's eye silenced her. It was plain that he simply couldn't equate the death of two strangers to the way his own friends had died. War or not, death is seldom a welcome companion. 

[FONT=&quot]*** 
The trip home was a long one, made longer by head winds and heavy hearts. They'd won the field but there was no sense of victory. 

That evening Seeburn sponsored a memorial for his fallen friends, an odd mixture of sadness and celebration as people spoke of their virtues in life and drank to their health as if they were still present.

Added to this was a turbulent undercurrent, for they'd held festival, battle, more festival, contest and then this sad remembrance, all in the span of three short days.

Some blamed Seeburn for the strange days, for all had been quiet before he and his friends had arrived. Others blamed the Bretons of Carlisle, the neighboring city to the south with whom they traded goods and occasional curses, and from which the lone hunter had probably come.

Sylus, ever cautious when angry moods and alcohol mixed, kept his ears open. He was surprised at what was said.

"The evils of Carlisle have finally been met.", one man said. "The city stands deserted, cursed for the wicked ways of the Bretons there."

"You lie!", swore another man. "Why would anyone flee into the snow in a winter such as this?"

"Nay, 'tis sooth I say, for I heard it from me cousin, who knows the brother's wife of the stable tender for the south guard. And she says...", the conversation trailed away, lost in the revelry of the room.

"Demons inhabit that place, I've always said.", came another voice.

"I thought you always swore it was the dead man's curse that dwelt there.", came the challenge.

"Demons or the undying, same thing. The point is that even the Bret's know when things are getting too bad. The point is...", came another snippet.

The huntsman kept moving, for as an outsider he knew that his presence was viewed with suspicion, at best.

He spied Seeburn, standing near to Marcus, who had passed out from too much drink. It was unclear if he was planning some mischief, or preventing it, but he was still upright and that was the important thing.

"I'm hearing rumors. Some of the hunting parties, some of the patrols, some of the border watchers, all saying the same thing. People fleeing Carlisle, the city empty or emptying. They'll be looking for a refuge, and some will look this way."

Seeburn nodded, his pain and anger clear on his face. "They killed my friends, let them die the winter death."

Sylus nodded, then spied Penn. "Here, let's get Marcus to his cot, while we can still walk ourselves." He'd had little to drink, but wanted a way to leave gracefully before a brawl broke out. And while the whip-thin Bard would be of little help carrying the drunken Cleric, he too looked as if he wanted an excuse to leave.

Their escape was foiled, however, by the entrance of one of the King's messengers, summoning them to a private audience.
*** 

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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

"I've heard tell that our good friends in Carlisle have been driven from their homes. This presents a great opportunity for us. Seeburn, I need someone to go there and learn the truth of the tale. If it's true, we may indeed have land for our new friends, the Centaurs."

Seeburn groaned inwardly, for when his father said "someone" in such a tone, he usually meant his son. 

Penn leaned over and exchanged a few hurried words with Seeburn and the others, then nodded. 

"Your Majesty.", the Bard began, "this indeed an marvelous opportunity, and we're all more than happy to help our good friend secure his Principality." 

The King stood slack jawed for a moment, taking in what had just been said. The Bard pressed on. 

"I admire your insight into the matter, for to gain this additional territory will not only grant you a buffer between yourself and the Bretons, it will also give your people confidence in your family line. This boon to your son shows your confidence in him, and helps secure your own position, as your enemies will now have two cities to try and remove you from. It will also quell those ugly rumors that Seeburn might have royal ambitions of his own." 

"Well, of course...", trailed off the King, still trying to figure out how they had gotten to where they were.  

After working out a few details, the companions left the King's chambers in good spirits. 

"He was going to pay us what?", laughed Cassius. 

Seeburn hefted the small purse. "200 Dinar.", he chuckled. "He still thinks of us as mercenaries, I'm afraid." 

"Well, I propose that the King's generosity be added to the Weregilt for your fallen friends.", Penn suggested. "It will make a clear statement that we aren't for hire that way. Besides, I can think of a couple of widows who can use the help." 

It was quickly agreed that they'd leave that very night. Of course, most had been drinking, and after returning to the "wake", they drank some more, so no one was going anywhere that night. 
***
"Wait, we agreed to do what?", Marcus asked, as he took a sip of Bacchus Blessing to clear his aching head.

"Investigate a deserted city, and claim it for the King.", Penn explained carefully. 

"I thought we were sailing for Hibernia. What happened to that plan?" 

"The ship will be ready by tomorrow, but getting a crew willing to make that voyage during the storm season? That may take longer." 

"It's no big thing.", Sylus said from the corner. "We spend a few days on the road, we hunt down the problems, take what we can of value, and head back. What could go wrong?" 
*** 
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't go with you this time.", Nedel said. "I have an obligation to my family, and an opportunity has come up to deal with a long term problem."

"Do you need help with this problem?", asked Imagina. "You know we're here for you." 

"It's not the sort of problem you can help with. I've been thinking about this ever since I lost my commission with the 5th Legion. I'm taking on too many responsibilities and I can't keep neglecting them. I'm going to wrap up my business here in Mor, take the King's gift back to Rome, and then..." 

"Then? Then what?" 

"Then I'm done. I'll have settled my affairs with the Empire, and I'll be free to handle the family emergency. I may or may not be here when you come back, I really don't know. I'll miss you all." 

"Well, be safe and stay out of trouble.", Imagina ordered him with mock sternness.  

The look on the Sorcerer's face was unreadable. 
*** 
The group spent the day making preparations, then set out the next morning.

The day broke gray and cold, with a chill wind blowing from the sea. The road was obscured by snow, and the wind stung like icy knives on any exposed skin. The horses were draped in extra blankets beneath their saddles, and their breath formed tiny clouds before them. 

The teamster they had hired for the trip sat down in the bed of the wagon, threading the reins through the slats of the bench seat, in the vain hope that the wagon sides would offer him some shelter from the razor sharp cold. 

"Welcome to Pictland in the winter.", Seeburn laughed from beneath his heavy woolen wrap. "Keep moving and you won't freeze. Much." 

"Marcus, if anything freezes and breaks off, you can fix it, right?", asked Penn, trying to keep up his usual good humor. 

"We'll just put it back on and let it freeze in place.", the Cleric replied. 

But good humor ran out quickly, and snow began to fall. 

The camp that night was a tight one. They secured their tents one to the other, both as a barrier against the wind, but also because it was almost impossible to drive stakes into the frozen ground.  

Caleb, their driver, set up a lean-to with some canvas as a shelter for the horses, and to contain the light from their fire. They were still within the lands of Dumfries, technically, but between the weather and the war, there were few people to be seen, and no farm houses had been sighted for the last several hours of the day.  

Still, just because they hadn't seen a friendly face, that didn't mean that there were no unfriendly faces out there, looking for them. They kept their fire low that night, and stood careful watch. 
*** 
The next morning was white. All white. It had snowed over night, and everything was covered in a soft, silent blanket. They could tell where the road was because of the stone markers, but otherwise could have been or gone anywhere.

Even the trees were white, leafless Birch trees, white bark against white snow, black branches like skeletal fingers reaching for the gray winter sky, they rattled like bones to mark the wind's passage. 

Breakfast was porridge and hot tea, then they worked to strike the camp as quickly as they could. 

The road wove through the hills, keeping to the easiest route if not the straightest. The farmlands of the valley lay behind them now, their stone fences no longer present to guide the traveler.  

Sylus rode the point, and Seeburn's white hawk, ironically named Blackie, traced lazy circles over head to warn them of unexpected dangers. 

They skirted the camps of several large groups, avoiding contact. Whether they were soldiers or scouts, hunters or refugees, they were likely Bretons out of Carlisle, and thus enemies. 

Suddenly a look of pain crossed Seeburn's face, and his eyes darted skywards. "Blackie's in trouble!", he said.  

And a moment later the enemy was upon them. 

A huge, howling man-beast landed in Caleb's cart and smashed him with a powerful paw. The man, caught by surprise, fairly flew from his seat and landed in the brush by the road. The draft horse screamed in terror and would have bolted, but the reins were still tightly wound around the teamster's hand. 

Two more of the creatures sprang from cover and attacked. The first one slashed at Imagina, his claws tearing at her heavy wrap but drawing no blood. The other nearly unhorsed Penn with the fury of his attack, and tore a long bloody gash down the Bard's arm. 

From the sky came Blackie, with four smaller attack birds in tight pursuit. Without hesitation he dove into Seeburn's magical pack, seeking his master's protection in that place. 

And the battle was joined. Marcus leaped from his saddle to stand over the fallen drover, his spear in his hands. "Jupiter, give us your strength this day!", he prayed, sharing the blessings of his god with all. 

" _Fiero!_", spoke Imagina, targeting a lance of flame into her attacker's chest, sending him staggering back in shock and pain.

" _Weave of Steel_", Penn incanted as he drew his blade. Without hesitation he slashed at his foe. The beast proved surprisingly nimble for its size, and the Bard's blade cut only thin air. The creature struck back, to be met with a lightning quick rippost that left it dazed for a moment.

" _Verbieg!_", called Seeburn as he leaped from his horse, landing beside the beast that assailed Imagina.

But the titan sized Barbarian was quickly surrounded by a quartet of blood red birds, darting in and out, pecking and clawing at him in a mad frenzy to get at Blackie, who still hid inside the magic bag. And their claws scored deep. 

Seeing that the enemy was already within the group, Sylus drew his blade and closed for combat. Seeing that Seeburn had one attacker engaged, he moved to the other, blade held low for a rapid, slashing strike. 

Behind them Marcus called for his father's aid again, this time in the form of a spear that fought and struck on its own. His foe, however, ignored the distraction and tore at Marcus with tooth and nail, battering and bloodying the Cleric with every strike. 

Seeburn and his foe were trading blows, and the monster was getting far the better of the exchange. Again and again the Barbarian seemed to step directly into the monster's path, while the hairy mockery of a man managed to step away from Seeburn's blade as if he knew in advance where the blow was aimed. And the birds continued to swoop and strike, a cloud of blood and pain about his head and shoulders. 

Penn leaped from his own saddle and slapped his horse on the rump to clear it from the field, then drew out the magic wand of healing to try and help Seeburn. 

But as fast as he could heal the titanic warrior, the birds and the beast continued to strike, bite and slash. 

Imagina loosed several bolts of magical energy at the birds to try and drive them off, but they remained fixated on Seeburn and his pack. 

In the rear, Marcus and the summoned spear were double teaming the leader of the pack, but even so they were having little effect. He saw that his friends needed his help, but he was fighting for his life and had none to give. 

Finally inspiration came to him. " _Vaporous_", he called, summoning a cloud of fog to obscure the field, then escaped under the cover it provided.

Seeburn was fighting a losing battle, and his foe was howling with triumph. Penn darted back and forth between the pair of monsters, trying to heal Seeburn and aid Sylus at the same time, and not doing too well at either one. He'd caught a few blows in the process, and wasn't looking much better than the embattled Barbarian. 

The monsters weren't standing unbloodied either, but showed no signs of falling back. The hungers of winter dictated the scene, for if they fell back now, injured and with no meal to show for it, they would soon die. They had to press on. 

From within the fog bank came roars of rage as the enchanted spear struck at the pack leader again and again, and the monster bellowed and slashed at the thick cloud, rage driving him to find and kill an attacker that wasn't there. 

Blackie, realizing that his friend and master was near death, took a daring move and bolted from his safe cover, trying to draw the flying foes off in pursuit. The tactic worked, and they darted across the winter sky in a mad chase. None knew if they would ever see the bird again, for it was clear that he was sacrificing himself to save his master. 

But the sacrifice came too little and too late. The monster struck while Seeburn's attention was drawn to that furious flight, and Seeburn fell to the ground, blood spurting from his thigh. 

Now the pack leader finally found his way back into the fight, and he closed quickly on the sound of Seeburn falling. 

A quick slash of his claws and a howl of triumph, and Penn lay on the ground beside his friend, his ribs laid bare and his heart's blood splattered across the ground. 

"Sylus, your bow!", cried Imagina, as she loosed a bolt of her own into Sylus' foe. The monster toppled, freeing the Ranger to take up his preferred weapon. 

His arrow took the second monster high, under and upraised arm, and laid him low.  

Which left them, bloody and bruised, to face the pack leader, who was all but unharmed. 

[FONT=&quot]***
The pack leader howled his triumph, then hunched forward and advanced on the spear wielding Cleric.

"_Vaporous Maximus_", cried Marcus, immediately burying the entire area in an impenetrable cloud of fog.

Then he ran. He crashed through brush, shattering frozen branches as he went, fleeing as fast as he could. And behind him he heard the enemy in hot pursuit.

He reached the edge of a snow covered hill that descended to a creek bed below. Spying a rotted stump, he threw his shoulder into it, dislodging it from its frozen roots.

The stump tumbled down the slope, bouncing noisily off of everything in its path. And while it went down, Marcus went sideways, hurling himself into a nearby snowbank where he lay still and quiet.

The hairy man beast came bounding into sight, furious that his prey wasn't standing and dying the way he wanted, following the sound of Marcus flight and his tracks in the snow.

He never hesitated when he reached the edge of that slope, but went down, following the trail the stump left behind. And at the water's edge, he stopped. No trail lead from this place, which to him meant that his prey had fled either upstream or down. He sniffed the air and turned upstream, chasing the wind that would have carried the scent of man away.

Above, Marcus heaved a silent sigh of relief. He waited in the snow until his fingers and toes were so frozen he thought he might not be able to rise. Then, bucking the feathery heaps of powder off his back, he slowly, carefully made his way back to the scene of the battle.

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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

*** 
Penn looked around, finding his surroundings both familiar and strange. He was on a road, leading down, with many other people around him. The pain of his wounds was gone, and the cold no longer bothered him. 

And he knew he was dead. All at once it became clear. This was the path to the underworld, the road he had walked once before in the flesh. But it was somehow different. Instead of being part of the stream of spirits flowing down, he found the other spirits milling around, looking lost. 

"Why aren't we moving?", Penn asked the nearest one, a balding man in a toga. 

"I don't know.", the man said. "I was hoping to see my wife in Elysium, but I can't seem to get there." 

"The line hasn't moved for days that I've been here.", added a woman who was listening.  

"Weeks, or so I've heard.", put in a third man. "The gates of the Underworld are closed. No one knows why." 

Penn felt a shiver run down his spine. Weeks? It was just about that long ago that he and the others had destroyed the Betrayer's Blade, fetched from this very path.  

He began to ask soul after soul how long they had been there, and while many were uncertain about the passage of time in the sunless realm, the time the gates had closed seemed to be painfully close to the destruction of that weapon. 

Then a thought came to him. If the paths of death wouldn’t take him… 
*** 
"He's alive, though I don't see how.", Marcus declared, examining the torn remains of the Bard. His ribs were shattered, his flesh torn so deeply that his beating heart was exposed. It had pumped his body dry of blood, and now convulsed spasmodically, as if trying to lie down and give up, but was somehow denied that rest.

Seeburn was leaning against a tree, exhausted but conscious. His body tingled from head to toe with the aftereffects of the battle rage, his mind in that oddly numb state that follows when the madness has spent itself. And in this state it seemed perfectly natural that a man nearly torn in half could live, if you could just put those halves back together again. 

And that was what Marcus was busily doing, pouring healing magic into the ragged, broken form just as quickly as he could.  

Sylus was using the second healing wand to tend to his own wounds, as well as Imagina's and Seeburns.  

"This wand's virtue is nearly spent.", he warned the Cleric. "We've drawn on the god's blessings perhaps more than we should." 

"This wand isn't any better.", agreed Marcus. "But somehow, it's enough." 

And Penn opened his eyes. For long moments he was seeing both worlds, the bitter, bloodstained snowscape of wintery northern Britania, and the sunless road to Hades' shadowed realm. Of the two, Britania was the less inviting. 

"Why?", he asked hollowly. "Not what, just why." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Why am I alive? Why is Death's Door closed?" 

"Okay, you need to explain that question.", Marcus said firmly. "But not here. The smell of death is too strong here. Wolves will come, and we're in no shape to fight them. Let's move." 
*** 
It took some time to gather the scattered horses. Caleb was back in the cart nursing sore ribs and a lump on his head, but declined the offer of ice to take away the swelling. Somehow it just didn't seem funny under the circumstances.

"So you think that the sword was tied to this somehow?", Imagina asked gravely. 

"Aye, either our removing it from the dark road, or plunging into the sun's fire. I couldn't pin the date down any closer than that, but that's about when the way seems to have been barred. I couldn't reach the front of the line to be sure." 

Then, turning to Seeburn, he smiled. "I may have some good news for you, by the way. I ran into a couple of friends of yours on the road. They're going to try and return the same way I did. Since we just finished their wake the other day, if the pyres haven't been lit yet they may be waiting for you when you get home." 

"We mourn for three days.", Seeburn warned. "They may or may not have been sent to the charnel house by now. I honestly don't know." 

"Well, hope for the best.", Penn said, wondering what would happen if the burnt ashes rose again. He also wondered if they would be welcomed back as easily as his friends accepted him. But though he walked in the open air, he had the feeling that when the way to the next life was open again, he'd be called back there.  
*** 
Sylus spied the thin curl of blue smoke before he smelled it, for the winter chill had numbed some of his senses. 

Overhead Blackie soared, wary now of the sky above as well as the world below. He had returned alone, bloodied but intact. What had happened to his pursuers none knew, and he himself wasn't talking. 

But Blackie showed no fear of whatever the source of that smoke was, and Sylus knew that it was the trace of a single fire, which meant a small camp rather than a large group of refugees. 

He spurred his horse forward, steering him carefully between the low drifts and the bare trees. Jostling the trees might cause a snow cascade, which would give his position away, and he didn't want to be seen before he himself saw the camp. 

Peering through the winter wood, he saw a welcome sight. It was a Gypsy caravan, dug in against the snow. 

Better still, he saw at least one man he knew, chopping wood for the fire. 

"Theobold!", he called. "Well met, friend." 

The burly Traveler looked up in surprise and laid down his axe. "Sylus? What brings you to Britania?" 

"We're headed south right now. Why are you here? What happened to the rest of the troupe?" 

"After Florence, it seemed best that some of us known to be moon marked be, well, hard to find.", he explained. "The families often trade workers amongst themselves, so it was no problem. Bela will be glad to see you. I think he was sweet on Apellenea." 

"Ah, well, she's not with us any more. She had to take a different road.", Sylus said sadly. "But let me tell the others who I've found. We can share tales around a warm fire." 
[FONT=&quot]*** 
The road into Carlisle was silent. The cold of winter had quieted the few birds that remained, and the presence of riders drove all other living things into hiding. The riders all wore thick scarves of wool across their faces, and even the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves were muffled by snow on the road, leaving only the creak of leather saddles and the soft huffing of the horses themselves.

The Gypsies had told them many tales of the horrors of Carlisle, some of which might actually be true. They’d also sold them a few things they’d “salvaged” from the city, and though it had seemed as if the companions had bargained well, somehow their purses were feeling very light indeed.

“Grikka said that there was a giant in the city, one who was eating the flesh off people’s bones while they were still alive.”, Marcus said, ticking off the tales they’d heard.

“I doubt it.”, replied Sylus. “Most people would die after the first bite. Besides, Giants like their food cooked.”

“Bella said that there was plague, a horrible festering death for all who lived there.”, continued Marcus.

“Then who would have lived to tell the tale, and who would have gotten close enough to hear of it?”, questioned Penn.

“Theo said there were undead patrolling the streets day and night, servants of a great necromancer.”, Imagina said.

No one had a counter for that one, and the silence hung in the air for an uncomfortable length of time.

“Tobias spoke of cultists who tried to summon a fiend, and failed. The monster rampaged through, killing those he could and driving the rest away.”, Cassius said, trying to get the discussion rolling again.

“Possible. I suppose it depends on the type of fiend they were calling.”, Marcus said after a moment of thought.

As they approached the city itself they saw small camps scattered about, and decided to risk direct conversation. Penn went in with Cassius and Imagina, while the others decided to scout about.

“Hallo the camp!’, called Penn, as they approached one.

“Hallo, strangers.”, came the reply. The man who had spoken appeared at first to be fairly fat, until you saw his face, which was thin and bony. Then it became apparent that he was wearing layer upon layer of clothing to try and stave off the cold. He eyed the party, well dressed, well fed and well armed, and stepped aside with an air of resignation, inviting them into the small circle of shelters.

“We’ve nothing worth stealing, so if you’ve come to rob us you’re wasting your time.”, he said bitterly, indicating the ragged oval of makeshift tents, perhaps a dozen in number.

“We’re not bandits, friend.”, Penn assured him. “We’re just travelers hoping to share your fire, and perhaps a bit of news.”

As the Half Satyr unwrapped his heavy scarf, the man’s face blanched, and he began to shake with fear. “Take what you will, but leave us in peace.”, the man all but begged.

“What’s wrong friend?”, Penn asked, his voice heavy with concern. “I told you, we aren’t bandits, and we mean you no harm.” But he realized that his words were falling on deaf ears. The man was all but petrified. Then he saw others in the camp openly staring at him, while many were moving to the far end of the small compound.

“You have the city, what more do you want?”, a woman called, drawing a small child under her snow sodden wrap.

“I think you may have me confused with someone else.”, Penn said, making an elaborate show of empty hands. “I’ve not visited your city before, much less taken it. I’m just a wandering minstrel seeking a warm bed, a cold drink, and to share news of the road.” He opened his outer wrap to show his colorful performer’s garb, and brought out his seashell adorned lyre.

“It sounds as if you have news worth sharing.”, he continued, once he had dismounted. 

“What pit spawned you, foul one.”, spat an old man, brandishing the silver kettle of the Dagda, one of the local deities.

Penn carefully leaned forward and kissed the holy item. “I hail from Greece, actually, and it isn’t at all foul.”, he joked, trying not to laugh at the look of wonder on the holy man’s face.

“B-but… you should be burned.”, the man stammered in confusion.

“If I were indeed a fiend of the pit, I would be. Of course, if I were such a fiend I wouldn’t be freezing my cloven toes off out here in the cold and wet, now would I?”, the Bard continued, still trying to lighten the mood. “Now, if you want foul pits, I know a few. I just left Dumphries, to the north, for example.”

That drew a small, involuntary chuckle from some of the children, who had doubtless been raised on tales of their “evil” neighbors up the coast.

“No, I’m no fiend at all, just a wandering Fey striving to keep body and soul together in hard times. But it sounds as if you have better tales to tell than I, so I’ll tell you what. I’ll share what I have of bread, cheese and a bit of wine, if you’ll share your fire with me, and we’ll both tell our stories.”

And so the evening began. Once the people there understood that, despite his horns and narrow boney face, he wasn’t some Devil come to steal their souls, things lightened up considerably.
*** 
Sylus worked his way along the trail, following the tracks in silence. The heavy snow made these so plain that he could have tracked them at a full run, but he didn’t want to run into his quarry before he was ready.

He counted at least six sets of tracks, and there may have been more. Their faltering and irregular pace showed in their footprints, and spoke of exhaustion and possibly illness. He followed, keeping both his eyes and ears open.

In the distance he saw an elk spring away. It was far from the magnificent forest prince one might normally think of, for his frame was drawn and gaunt, and his coat ragged with heavy winter fur pulling off in tufts. He fled, burning precious reserves to escape a desperate hunter. Sylus continued on the trail at hand.

He came upon them, huddled in a pack, standing around one of their own who had fallen in the hunt. They were as ragged and gaunt as the Elk he’d seen, and had that tinge of madness in their eyes, the haunted hollow look that an only empty belly can give. They turned as one when he revealed himself, unsure if they should charge or strive for an escape.

“Well, I wondered who was trying to run down an Elk on foot. Now I know.”, he said quietly as he slung his bow.

“Can you help us?”, one of the men asked, indicating their fallen companion. “We haven’t eaten in days.”

Without a word, the master archer reached for his pack and pulled out carefully wrapped parcels of salted beef and hard biscuit. He held them up so they could see what he had, then tossed them towards the group.

The refugees almost fell over themselves to reach the provisions, and began to tear into them with almost rabid abandon.  “Bless you, traveler.”, one of them called between bites.

Only one man tried to help the fallen woman, sharing his own portion with her. Sylus smiled, and knew who he was going to be talking to.

As the people ate, he began to build a fire.

[/FONT]


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

*** 
The night passed quietly, and in the morning the two groups got together to share what they had learned.

“They say that there’s a Demon in town, taller than a church tower, and that he’s killed everyone he sees.”, Penn began. 

“That’s what I heard as well.”, Sylus agreed. “Some had gone back into town to try and get some food, but they didn’t come out again.” 

“Some took refuge in the church, hoping that the holy ground would protect them. They may still be there.”, Marcus added. 

“So, are we ready to kick that thing back to Tartarus?”, asked Cassius happily. Seeburn nodded, checking the edge on his sword. 
*** 
The streets echoed with the sounds of hooves on cobbled stone. Some streets were almost intact, while others were charred with black soot and the stink of brimstone. The companions didn’t know the city, and so found themselves backtracking out of closed off alleyways again and again. They were avoiding the major thoroughfares as much as possible, because broad, straight roads would allow them to be easily seen from a distance.

Every now and then they caught sight of the fiend, towering over some of the smaller buildings. He didn’t seem to be doing anything, and they didn’t want to give him any reason to change that. 

“I’ve found that church yard.”, Sylus reported, as he returned from a scouting foray. “You won’t like it.” 

They followed the scout through a twisting maze of narrow avenues, their horses growing more and more agitated with each turn. Finally they had to stop and tie the beasts to a rail, lest they begin to neigh in panic, or bolt and run. It was actually easier to stay hidden on foot, and that seemed like a good idea. 

The building he lead them to was of old stone, and the ground around it was yellow-gray with sulfurous residue, but the hellfire taint stopped at the edge of the property in a hard, sharp line. 

Within they found the remains of the people. They had taken refuge in the chambers below ground, behind thick stone walls and heavy oaken doors. The doors stood loose on the hinges, burned to charcoal and ash. 

“They burned from the inside, out.”, Sylus pointed out before leading the others down the narrow stair. 

Within lay the refugees, staring sightlessly from gaping eyeless sockets in charred skulls. Some had been trying to flee, while others had apparently been struggling to keep them within. 

Marcus was clearly shaken by what he was seeing. “These people burned to death.”, he said, stating the obvious. “They started the fires themselves.” 

“Why would they do that?”, Imagina asked in shock. 

“Look for yourself.”, the Jovian replied, indicating a group of corpses piled together. 

“They look deformed.”, Imagina said as she began her examination. Then the cruel reality dawned on her as she saw more. “They were growing horns and fangs.”, she said in wonder. “The demons couldn’t enter holy ground directly, so they rode in inside some of the people, possessed them.”, she said. 

“Probably caught them when they went out for food.”, Marcus agreed. “The people brought their own destruction with them. And when the leaders here saw what was happening, they…” 

“Sacrificed themselves to stop the evil from spreading”, Seeburn finished for them. “I guess there really are some brave Bretons after all.” 

All stood in silent awe of the courage evidenced in that room. Then they quietly withdrew. They made no effort to bury the dead, said no words of blessing over the fallen, for they had by their sacrifice hallowed that ground far beyond any power of prayer or deity. 
***
_”Did you find what you were looking for?”_ , came the voice in their heads, both soft and thunderous at the same time.

Marcus started at the intrusive presence, then looked up. The fiend was peering at them over the rooftops. 

“What did you do here?”, Marcus demanded, clutching at his holy symbol. 

_”I did nothing. That was the others, and they’re gone now.”_  , came the voice again. _”Come and see.”_.

Slowly the companions walked around the intervening building and approached the town square. 

A huge circle had been drawn on the ground, traced in ashes and powdered iron. Symbols adorned the perimeter, and on the far side of the square seven charred piles of bones stood. The circle was conspicuously broken at that point. 

_”These called me here to serve them.”_  , the fiend explained. _”They left the tail off of the third eye-rune, and omitted an entire passage from their ritual. Such sloppy spellwork deserves a response, don’t you agree?”_

Marcus nodded dumbly, afraid to speak. The fiend did indeed tower over the buildings, and he was sitting down. Standing he would dwarf the city walls, and could place an eye at the windows in the highest tower in the palace itself. 

_“Others, tried to summon enemies to fight me, to drive me away. Those were the ones who tore the people’s souls apart. They’re gone now.”_ 

“So why are you here?”, Penn asked, finding a spark of courage someplace. 

_”I was summoned to this place, and can’t leave until I finish my task.”_  , came the simple reply. _”I don’t like it here. It’s cold.”_, he added.

“So what was your task?” 

_”I don’t know. I lashed out too quickly, and killed all of my summoners. I have no way home now. Can you send me home?”_ 

“Where is your home? Are you Infernal or Abyssal?”, Penn asked, drawing desperately on what little he knew of the lower realms. 

_”I am Infernal, from the outskirts of Dis.”_  , the being replied, identifying himself as a Devil. _”The enemies called upon Abyssal forces to kill me, and those they called for help turned on them. Can you send me home?_”, he repeated, almost forlornly.

Penn thought furiously. “I know of a way, but you wouldn’t like it. This may have to wait until we can find a better solution.” 

“ _What way do you know?_”, asked the Devil hopefully.

“You’d need to cooperate, and it would hurt.”, Penn began evasively, then simply gave up. “You were summoned here, and are still linked to your home. If you die here, you go back where you came from.” 

_”I don’t think I’d like that. Find a better way.”_ 

“We will, I promise. We’ll find a way to help you.” 

_”And what would you want for this help?”_  , came the next question, revealing that the immense Devil was truly neither slow nor stupid.

“What could we ask for, safely?”, Penn replied with a smile. The Devil smiled back, knowing he’d been caught in his trick. “No, all we ask is that you stay here, where we can find you, so when we find the way to send you home we can use it. Is it a deal?” 

The Devil nodded. 

Almost as an afterthought, Penn asked, “Do you have a favorite beverage? Perhaps we can find you something to help pass the time.” 

The immense creature smiled, revealing an incredible number of pointed, razor sharp teeth, arrayed in rows like a shark. 

_”My favorite is Fey blood.”_  , came the simple reply, as he leaned over towards the Half Satyr.
[FONT=&quot]*** 
"I can't believe that worked.", Imagina said as the companions rode out.

"I can't believe he didn't kill us.", Cassius said, shaking his head.

"I can't believe you were willing to give him barrels of Fey blood.", Sylus said.

"Well, I can't believe we had a source of virgin's blood to sweeten the deal.", Penn laughed.

"We will not speak of it!", muttered Marcus, his ears flushing red at the very thought of the matter.

"Oh don't worry about it, my friend. It's a curable condition.", the Bard replied. "Besides, I think I know why he was so apathetic. You caught where he comes from, didn't you?"

"He said it was the 4th circle of Hell.", Seeburn said. "What difference does that make?"

"He's from the city of Dis, specifically. The heart of Despair, in fact. It's the natural state of the place, in fact, and our Infernal ally suffers from it as a normal condition. He simply gave up."

"So why do you call him an ally? It's not like he's actually going to help us."

"Of course he is. He agreed, as part of a bargain, to simply sit there and wait. That means that he has to, until we return to send him home. Nobody is moving back into that city, so your father's forces can annex farm and field as he will. There is no city to claim or defend them, after all. We won."

[/FONT]


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

*** 
"You won?", the king asked, incredulous at the news. "The fiend that emptied an entire city, that drove out their entire army, you bested him?" 

"Not with blade or bow, but at the bargaining table, and he may not even realize it just yet. He'll hold the city until we're ready to claim it, and until then there is no organized force to oppose you to the south. You can expand your holdings right up to, and possibly past, the city walls. Just don't go inside." 

"And what did you give this fiend for all of this?", the king asked, suspicious to the last. 

"I provided him with a few barrels of refreshment, and a promise to find a way to send him home.", Penn laughed. "It took a bit to get him to understand what we were getting out of the deal, but once he did it all worked out." 

"So what was he doing there anyway?" 

"We're not sure. The people who summoned him are all dead. I believe they were going to send him after you, to be honest. I wouldn't put it past them. In any case, someone else tried to call in Demons to try and get rid of him, and some of them may still be running around. But he's going to sit there in the town square until we return." 

"So, I can simply take what I want?", the King asked, still not believing his good fortune. 

"You can take not only the lands, but the people who work it. You offer them your protection from the 'horror' the Bretons called forth, patrol the areas and you collect your taxes on the quarter day." 

The King rose from his desk and moved across the room to lean his weight on the great map table. And he began to laugh. His hand swept out, removing the markers for the enemy forces around Carlisle, and he laughed. 

"You're a strange man.", he finally said, looking at the Fey. "You find spies by asking them to report themselves, and you win wars without fighting them. I'm not sure I like what my son is learning in your company, but I can't find fault in the end results." 

"Well, you should.", Penn replied. "In fact, you should be furious. In particular, you should be furious at dinner." 
*** 
The following evening was an oddly solemn occasion. Refugees had started to arrive from Carlisle, and the King's resources were being stretched to, and past the breaking point.

"'twill be a hungry spring, my liege.", Lord Cornesh declared. "Better to turn them away." 

"You have already started to empty your own grainary to feed the prisoners you have.", added Burnlough, the clan chief from the northern marches. "You won't be able to withstand a siege when it comes." 

"Who will lay siege to us, if we hold Carlisle?", the King answered. "Our enemies to the north now serve as our thralls, so there's no threat from that direction either. So you say we have too many people? Too much land? May I have this kind of problem every season." 

He rose and marched around the table, his voice ringing across the hall as he spoke. 

"In the course of a few short weeks, our enemy's have made mistake after mistake, and our positions have become more secure than ever. But if we allow our enemies to recover and regroup, we'll be the poorer for it. Yes, it's a gamble. But the prize is well worth it. So clear the woods in the southern pass, and let these folk build steadings there for the winter. We'll feed them what we can, and we'll extend our patrols to include their northern farms." 

"So your son has earned his lands?", came the question from somewhere in the halls. 

"My son? I've heard the tale of his exploits, and his part in this was to fall in battle against the forest beasts. This was given to us by our enemies, not taken by our courage." 

Seeburn was on his feet, rigid with fury. "I've fought for you, and I've won prizes you didn't dream were in your grasp. I've earned my inheritance thrice over!" 

"You've earned nothing!", thundered the King, his face distorted with fury. "You were born with my name, and I’m sorry to allow you even that. Now sit like the hound you are! Sit and be silent, for this is a time when men speak." 

Furniture crashed to the floor as the Prince stormed out of the room. None blocked his path, but none met his gaze. 

"Then begone!", shouted the King after him. "Begone from my home, my holdings and my sight, and return not for a full year! Banished you are, by your own arrogance and pride." 
*** 
The ride out of the city was cold and lonely. No words of greeting or farewell met or followed the companions, for none dared risk the King's wrath. Word of the banishment had spread quickly, and the order had been given that neither Seeburn nor his companions receive any aid at all.

They crossed into the southern woods, and there stopped to rest. 

A group of riders came from the winter wood to meet them, their expressions dour. 

"So, it is done.", said the lead rider.  

"Yes, you are to continue south for two days, then turn to the east. Return to the city in a week's time, and tell no one of this meeting.", Seeburn instructed. "Do you need our cloaks, to carry off the ruse?" 

"Nay, we have garb to match yours.", the leader replied. "Whence get you now?" 

"We meet the ship on the south point, and from there, well, its best you not know." 

The other rider nodded gravely, then turned away south. 
*** 
It was after sundown when they first spied the ship. The captain lowered a barge to handle the animals, while the companions rode along to keep them calm.

"Grikka!", called Seeburn with joy when he saw the old Gypsy woman on the deck.  

The old woman laughed and embraced the Barbarian Prince. "Tis an odd day indeed when we are given an honorable send off, and the King's son is the one who skulks under cover of darkness." 

"Not to worry.", Seeburn laughed, patting his inner pouch under the heavy wraps. "I already have his pardon, in writing, and you are always welcome in Dumphreys." 

"At least until we're not.", joked Theobold as he joined the reunion. "But tell me, why the whole dance?" 

"We have a job to do in Hibernia, and our enemies have spies in the palace. So we make them think that the King has abandoned his plots against the Red Masque, and sent us away. You get the passage in our place, so those spies won't ask why the ship was sent." 

"I love it.", Theo laughed. "Are you sure you don't have some Gypsy blood in you?"


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## Greenfield (Jun 4, 2012)

Interlude:

This isn't exactly an epilogue, in that the tale isn't finished, but this is as much of it as I recorded at the time.

I may try to recreate what's left from memory, but it's been a year or so.

Now if this story seems long and filled with diversions, that's only because it was.

We had several weeks when the DM was absent ans someone else had to fill in, but to do so in such a way that we returned the realm to it's original upright position.

The tale was begun, and finished, by Mr. A, who played Euphemia.

The hunting trip was managed by Tinker, and then by me.

The side trip to Carlisle was run by the Blind Bard, and remains an open issue in our game.  We should be addressing it soon.

At about this time the player/DM I've called The Viking had to leave our group (hence Nedel's abrupt departure), and has suffered extremely poor health since then.  If you have a prayer to spare for a stranger, he could use a few.

I'll see what I can recreate of the tail end of this story, and what's happened since then.  If I can, I'll post more.


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