# The Red Hand of Doom - Completed 8 February 2008: Against Tiamat and Epilogue



## Pedestrian (Jun 15, 2007)

*Chapter One: The Witchwood*

Four bold adventuers moved slowly along the Dawn Way, relic of the Great Empire. They had travelled three weeks from holdings of the Gathics, having opted to move northward, to Elsir, in pursuit of treasures detailed in a faded map uncovered in the lair of Goblin raiders they had thwarted. The warmer northern climes, along with the approaching summer, made the roads hot and dry, and it had been some time since the quarter had enjoyed the shade of a roof over their heads. They had discussed their options, and were currently intent on stopping over at Drellin’s Ferry, a small village along the Dawn Way, 

Sir Tarnus, knight errant of valiant Heironeus, Templar of the Southern Tradition, rode at the rear. He looked every bit the part of church’s champion, clad in plate astride a powerful steed with a heavy blade strapped to his back. His features were hard but handsome, a manner used to giving orders and being obeyed, but also one that could inspire and rally. Though dirty and dusty from days of travel, his zeal lent him a radiance that shone through.

Marcus and Tom Morris, walked ahead of the templar, chatting about the weather. In looks and in manner, the two could not have been more alike. Marcus, a mysterious man of Argyle blood, was tall and thin, hungry looking with an occasionally disquieting gleam in his eye. He rarely spoke, preferring to save his breath for uttering the words of power. He supported his weight with a spear, intended for battle but more often used as a staff. It’s haft held many indentations and grooves, currently two were occupied, with two gems, one of opal and the other ruby.

Tom, a Bereg Dwarf through to his bones, was short and stocky, firmly ensconced in solid steel and bearing a massive sword, he was expressive and chatty, his blonde chin-braid shaking from side to side as he regaled Marcus with tales of wrestling prowess he had witnessed. He was a servant of Kade,  known in the northern lands as Kord. Tom’s faith was of an older stripe than Sir Tarnus’, or even the Orthodoxy from which that had sprung. To Tom, Kade was no wayward son, no lesser favoured child of the all powerful Pelor, but the paragon of warrior virtue, one of the old gods of the Argyles, before the Great Empire’s church changed everything.

The fourth member of the group was Marduk. A great black Gnoll, or the more common epithet “marsh dog”, he had recently been emancipated for duties to the Gathic village where he had toiled as a slave from puphood. Having found a talent for combat, he had opted to travel north with the group after he had been set free. Marduk ranged a little ahead of the group, keeping an eye for trouble. Unlike wild Gnolls, Marduk was quiet and retiring, preferring to avoid attention or confrontation, though his brave heart was unmatched.

So intent on studying the trail ahead was the Gnoll, however, that he neglected to study the trees. Obscured by the shady boughs lurked Hobgoblins of the Red Hand, trying their luck at a spot of banditry.

Afforded a clear view into the forest from astride his steed, Tarnus spotted the ambushers immediately and leapt from the saddle, brandishing his sword in two hands. Clarity, his horse, though loyal, was not trained for battle, and would balk from blood shed. Marcus extended a fist and, with a word of power, outstretched his fingers and flung bolts of force at one of the Hobgoblins closest to him. A barrage of arrow fire followed, and soon enough, the real battle was joined, with Tom Morris rushing headlong into the woods, slashing with wild abandon to drive back one of the bandits.

Tarnus gave a rallying cry, and set off in pursuit of another, his fervour in the son of Light impelling him to greater fury, slamming bodily into the Hobgoblin and flinging him into the underbrush. Marduk hefted his great bow and made two shots into the brush, hoping to flush out any lurkers. In return, he was feathered with arrows. More shafts clattered from the forest, clattering off Tarnus’s armour, but drawing blood from Marcus. In reply, the mage caressed an opal embedded in the haft of his spear and, slamming the but of the weapon into the ground, compelled Marduk to swell to monstrous height. Tom swung upward at his foe as he clambered up the roadside ditch, and scored a mighty blow against the Hobgoblin.

The champion of Heironeus pursued his target through the woods, but the choking underbrush and swinging branches obstructed his path. As he rounded a tree, his opponent lashed out with a quick stroke, surprising him and nicking Tarnus’s forearm. Marduk, engorged with arcane strength, thundered up into the woods and, with one mighty overhand smash of his massive war-axe, obliterated the archer who had shot Marcus, who completed the ritual to gird himself with magery to reflect further attacks. The Hobgoblins, starting to panic at this superior foe, attempted to retreat. Tom was ill-equipped to keep up, instead thrashing wildly at the retreating Hobgoblin.

Tarnus finally planted a sword through his foe and, with narry a look back, set off to rejoin his comrades. Marduk, hoping to assist Tom and unable to find further Hobgoblins on his side of the road, bounded across the path and attempted to cleave his dwarven friend’s enemy in twain. The nimble – and panicked – Hobgoblin managed to duck just in time, avoiding a grisly end. Marcus, meanwhile, sent more glittering energy bolts after the Hobgoblins, wounding them. Having seen the damage that the massive Gnoll was capable of, the two remaining Goblin archers fired their bows, bringing low the already wounded giant. With a crash, Marduk fell to the ground. Tom, muttering an imprecation against Goblins everywhere, channelled divine energy into the warrior rather than pursue the retreating soldier.

The ruckus from the battle had alerted other members of the Red Hand platoon, and another detachment of soldiers came running down the path. As his allies jockeyed for position, Tarnus once again raised his stuff and, this time caressing a ruby imbedded in the shaft, send a roiling bolt of flame into the densely packed Hobgoblins. Military discipline won out, as only one fell, though all were terrible scorched.

At this moment, two fiendish hounds of fiery aspect bounded out from the undergrowth to attack the recovered Marduk and Tom Morris, but both were quickly despatched by the pair. followed by a hulking Hobgoblin bearing twinned blades – the leader of this band no doubt. Tarnus, the hand of his god upon him, surged forward, sword held level as if a lance and, in one terrible impact, impaled the commander. 

Another devil dog appeared between Marduk and Marcus, but the heart of the goblin troops was no longer in the battle. They fled, and the last hound was finished by a deft axe-blade of Marduk’s.

The group looked around, Tarnus recovering the blades of the captain, while the other three searched the ruined building in which the Goblins had been camping. Within, Marduk found the bodies of five humans – a woman and four men, three clad in simple armour – while the meticulous Tom Morris discovered a pouch of gold, which he scooped up and tied to his belt, thinking to mention it to his companions later. He was immediately distracted, however, by a disgusted Tarnus casting aside one of the Hobgoblin’s heavy shields. Even scorched by fire and rent by weapons, the blood red hand was still visible on it’s face. Tarnus and Tom both recognised that as a symbol: “Tiamat” murmured the dwarf.

The dead champion’s twinned blades were split up, one to the knight, the other strapped clumsily to the belt of Marcus. Sir Tarnus recovered his mount, and the four set off once more for Drellin’s Ferry.


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## Mark CMG (Jun 17, 2007)

Cool!  Keep it coming!


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## Pedestrian (Jun 28, 2007)

*Session 2: Drellin's Ferry, an old man, and a problem with "Snakes"*

The Dawn Way broadened and dipped, like a stony twin to the slow moving river Elsir it ran alongside. The companions smelt wood smoke ahead and could glimpse a few homes already, along with tiny skiffs tied up on the broad river. They quickened their pace, looking forward to some much needed refreshment and relaxation before heading off to the Witchwood.

“Ho there, travellers,” called a mail clad human, a broad shouldered fellow with a waxed moustache, his voice crisp, bordering on refinement but with a hard edge all the same. At his back stood three other guardsmen, brandishing crossbows at Marduk. “Hold! State your business for bringing monsters to this peaceable town!” His sword was drawn, but lowered. He approached the group.

Marduk hunched low, attempting to appear less massive, less threatening, while his allies stepped to the front. Marcus glowered at the crossbowmen, his inner eye already marshalling the energies needed to boil the flesh from their bones. Tom took the initiative “Now my lambs, there’s no need for weapons. We’re just passing through on our way, making a stop-over.”

“Aye, well, be that as it may, we of Drellin’s Ferry have our own have enough troubles without monsters walking in our midst.” The moustachioed man’s gaze flicked to the gnoll, who was attempting – and failing – to smile in a placatory fashion, baring yellowed fangs.

“Monster? No, that’s our friend, Marduk. He won his freedom defending a village south of here. Gathic, you see.”

“Hmm. Well, if you’ll vouch for it, then I’ll let you pass into our village. But” and he fixed each member of the group with a flinty stare “I’ll want your word that it’ll cause no trouble in this village, and that he does not go about unescorted.” Tom assented, and the guard motioned for the others to stand down. Nervous, they did as ordered.

“Do you know of a place we might stay in the village?” Asked Tom, the previously tense situation already forgotten by the garrulous dwarf.

“Well, there’s the Old Bridge, a fine watering hole. You might prefer the Green Apple though,” he cast a meaningful glance at Marduk, “it’s less pricey. But the Bridge is the better place, I’d say.”

“Well, thank you.” Tom turned to the rest of the group. “Off to the Old Bridge it is then boys. I’d quite fancy a beer!”

Sir Tarnus paused a moment with the gate guard. He exchanged some small talk with the man, learning that he was a Sergeant Hersk. The templar discussed the growing Goblin problem, and finished off by shaking hands with the Sergeant, and wishing him luck, before joining the others at the Bridge.

He arrived to find his three compatriots at the bar, already swigging ale and disturbing the patrons. Tom and Marcus seemed to be having a heated debate with the barkeep, a middle-aged Halfling. Marduk was again hunkering down, trying to occupy as little space as possible. Tarnus noted then that most of the staff seemed to be of that breed, though the Inn itself was sized for larger folk. Ah, he amended as he approached the bar, experimentally twisting one of the stools. The furniture was adjustable for those of smaller stature. He took in the patrons, mostly humans, merchants and their ilk by dress, though one or two travelling sorts, adventurers with little regard for a fine suit, but much esteem for a comfortable rest.

“I’m afraid I can’t be having a marsh dog sleeping in my rooms” said the Halfling. “My other guests just wouldn’t be having it. It’s a charity that I’ll let it stay in my stable.”

“Charity? Two gold is a lot to call it charity!” Replied Tom.

“Two gold?” Cut in Tarnus. He knew if he let Tom have his say, things might escalate. He reached one mailed hand into his belt pouch, producing eight coins. “That’ll see for us all then.” He handed the coin over with a perfunctory smile. He pause, producing another “and some green tea as well.”

“Well, so long as you’re paying, I’ll have another drink!”

The door to the Old Bridge opened, and the inn-keeper looked up, and straightened immediately. “Speaker Wiston, Captain Soranna, a pleasure. What brings you to my establishment?” The Halfling motioned to one of the servants, a younger Halfling woman with a familial resemblance.

“Oh, no, no Kellin, we won’t be staying long.” Speaker Wiston’s voice was pipe smoke thick, each word weighed before utterance. “I am here to speak with these gentlemen,” he bowed to the group. “Good eve to you, sirs. I am Norro Wiston, Town Speaker for Drellin’s Ferry, and this is Guard Captain Soranna Anita. We were informed of your arrival by Sergeant Hersk – I understand there was some discussion at his post – and the Captain and I wished to come and speak with you.”

“Well,  we’re listening, but be quick. My beer’ll start feeling neglected.” Said Tom, a broad grin on his face as he gripped his cup in two thick hands.

“Perhaps if we could discuss this more discreetly. In one of Master Kellin’s booths?”

Once they were all seated discreetly away from the other patrons, and Tom had stopped mumbling about spilt beer, and all this walking being no good on his short legs (Speaker Wiston, to his credit, remedied the first with a round, and tactfully declined comment on the second) Norro continued.

“As you are no doubt already know, we have been having some trouble here at Drellin’s Ferry, with goblin raiders” Norro paused to take a deep gulp from his cup before continuing “not your usual band of marauders, fit to be scared at the first drawing of blades, either. Seems like a fair sized warband have moved into the Witchwood, north of here. You look like capable sorts. We were hoping you could look into this for the town.” Speaker Wiston’s gaze fell imploringly on Sir Tarnus.

“Well, as I see it” spoke Tom, pausing a moment to stifle a belch, “you’ve asked for our help, and we’d be right nasty ones to say no. We’ll clear out your forest for you, my lamb. Besides” here he flashed a mischievous grin “I hates goblins.” The Speaker and Guard Captain Soranna were both taken aback by this sudden agreement. They looked to the other members of the party, who nodded agreement to the dwarf’s pronouncement..

“Before we set off, would it be possible for you to provide us with some information on the situation?” Sir Tarnus kept his gaze level with the Speaker’s own, but more as a reassurance than any attempt to intimidate the man. “Has anyone else gone in to try and deal with these goblins? Do you have any idea of the size of their forces?”

The Speaker paused before answering, his eyes rolling up in thought “We’ve sent – what? – ten of our finest into the Witchwood, though only one made it back and… she did not survive. What we could glean from her ramblings before the end… a tribe perhaps a hundred strong has infested the Witchwood, probably having crossed over from the Skull Gorge Pass. She also mentioned” Norro gulped visibly “some sort of necromantic curse overtaking the old keep.”

“Hmm. It seems likely then that we head to this Skull Gorge, to investigate,” Tarnus considered “Is there any aid you could offer us before we set out?”

“I’ll speak with the wise in out village” Soranna replied “we’re a small township, but we have some means. Whatever I can gather, I will bring to you midday tomorrow. Is that agreeable?” The knight nodded his assent.

“We gathered a pair of magical blades earlier. Is there anyone in Drellin’s Ferry who could help us unravel their dweomers?”

“Sertieren the Wise. He lives in a mansion overlooking the river. You can’t miss it.”

The Speaker and the Captain arose, but Soranna hesitated a moment longer. “Venturing into the Witchwood has always been a risky venture, but even moreso now, and you’ll need to pass through to get to Skull Gorge. You’d be wise to seek out Jorr, last of the verderers around these parts. You can find him on the Witch Trail – it goes right across it – or, if you come off the Dawn Way you’ll find a turning about nine miles from the edge.”

“Many thanks.” Sir Tarnus saluted, and Soranna returned the gesture before departing.

“Ah, that’s the way.” Chuckled Tom as he thought on one of his favourite teachings – _true strength comes in aiding others to find their own_ – before downing his pint. “Why don’t we all go and check out that Apple. I’ve got a bit of a thirst on.” Only Tarnus declined, instead deciding to seek out Sertieren and have the swords identified.


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## Pedestrian (Jul 1, 2007)

The next morning, Marduk terrified the stable boy, the fright only compounded by the appearance of Tom Morris and Marcus from other stalls. They had decided they would rather spend the night in solidarity with their friend, sleeping with the horses, than enjoy comfortable beds while he languished in the cold. Sir Tarnus, who had chosen to sleep in a comfortable bed, was already awake and taking breakfast in common room, having made his venerations to the Divine Champion previously.

Happy to wait for Captain Soranna, the four enjoyed a light meal upon the Green – though Marduk was somewhat distressed when a mother took her children from playing too near. Midday arrived, and the Captain was punctual. She presented the four with several scrolls and elixirs gathered from the Salacian Orthodox Church of Pelor, the congenial Sertieren the Wise (who Sir Tarnus had had the pleasure of acquainting himself with the previous night while the others had been enjoying the green apple. Tom had been relating to him meeting the proprietor – a dwarf woman named Tharrma – who he hoped to talk to again when they returned) and the Grove, a relatively open circle of practitioners of the ancient ways of the Argyles.

They thanked the captain, and left Drellin’s Ferry, heading down the Dawn Way to meet with Jorr, Marduk leading the way. Sir Tarnus decided that, if they were heading into forest, it would be best for his steed to remain stabled, at least for the time being.

The sun was high in the sky by the time the group reached the verderer’s old cabin. The path leading to it was little more than a game trail, only picked out because of Captain Soranna’s directions and Marduk’s woodslore. The forest here was thick and green, the remains of far larger green lands dating back to before the coming of the Empire.

Marduk started to move forward, but froze, holding up a massive hand to ward off his allies. As he did so, three heavy-set black shapes bolted from out of the cabin, low to the ground. The powerful hunting hounds stopped just shy of the party, barking canine threats, fierce white teeth flashing in the mid-day sun. Marduk stood his ground, making no threatening moves.

“Woodsman Jorr” Sir Tarnus was forced to shout to be heard over the howls of the dogs. “Woodsman Jorr, we were advised to seek you out by Soranna Anita, Guard Captain of Drellin’s Ferry for aid in tracking the goblin menace that threatens the village.”

“Sorrana, you say?” A old man, weathered by his advancing years, lurched from the shadowy porch of the cabin, brandishing a crossbow of pale wood that looked as old as he. He favoured his left leg, but other than the grey hairs on his head and lines upon his face seemed to be in good health, possessing an almost feral air of vigour. He winced in the bright like, fixing one forest green eye on each member of the party, though the crossbow remained unflinchingly pointed at Marduk. “Don’t think that young Soranna’d be sending out a marsh dog to track goblins. Might be that the beast’d be up for joining ‘em.”

“My friend’s name is Marduk, and he hates goblins as much as any human, an’ perhaps as much as me!” Spat Tom, placing his stout body before the gnoll’s, though the top of his head came only to Marduk’s belt. Jorr seemed amused by the image though, and whistled his to his dogs, who immediately dropped their ears, ceased their barking, and turned to ran to their master. The woodsman lowered his crossbow, absently ruffling his hounds before striding over.

“So, Soranna sent you, you say?” He extended his hand to Sir Tarnus, who clasped it firmly. “What do you need of me?”

“Captain Soranna advised us that you would be able to serve as a guide for us through the Witchwood. She said there are none who know these woods better, and we could do well with the aid in finding the nest of the savages that have beset Drellin’s Ferry.”

Jorr nodded. “Hmm. Well, Soranna was right to send you to me. Witchwood is dangerous enough, even without the troubles been raised by those goblins crawling over the place. If you’re looking to put a stop to that, well, I’d be happy to help.” He nodded again, squinting at the group. “I’ll expect to be paid, four gold a day for showing you around the place.”

“What?” Tom’s eyes bulged “Here you are, sayin’ how you hates the goblins, and we’re here to put a stop to their depredations, not asking a thing of the good people of the Ferry as it’s the right thing to do, and you’ll only help for some coin?”

“Good deeds are one thing, but they don’t put bread on my table.” Jorr spared Tom only a brief glance. “Now, do we have an agreement?”

“C’mon Tarnus. Marduk’ll be able t-“

“We have an agreement, Woodsman Jorr.” Sir Tarnus interrupted.

Jorr nodded, quickly ducking into his cabin to fetch his cloak and a pack. “There’s still a good few hours left in the day. Let’s be off.”


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## Pedestrian (Jul 1, 2007)

The sun was low in the sky, and the shadows of the trees stretched long fingers, darkening with the encroaching night. The air was heavy with the smell of wet earth, and echoing through the boughs came the slow gurgle of a stream. The Dawn Way was submerged under boggy water, and the ground had become soggy, clogged with water from the Swift Creek. Jorr walked ahead, testing the ground with a stout length of wood to make sure that they not loose the road, Marduk working alongside him. The woodsman did not speak to the gnoll, but would grunt approval when Marduk displayed a bit of woodslore, which contented the beastman.

“The Creek must have flooded – strange given the weather – which is causing all this bog. Pretty soon, we’ll be come up Blackwater Causeway. The mud there’s deeper, but the causeway runs through it, so none of us will have to swim.” Sure enough, a path of wooden planks, rising scarce a foot above the water, greeted them at the next view. Far more interesting, at least to the companions, was a ruined caravan, half-submerged in the murk by the river.

Immediately, Sir Tarnus and Marduk waded back into the quagmire to investigate. Tom waved them off, emptying muck from his boots, while Marcus watched over the pair. Abruptly, the gnoll stopped and grabbed his friend’s arm to point out a large, strange snake coiled around the wreck. The pair unloosened their weapons before proceeding. They werewithin a few feet of the broken wagon when the snake, hissing, rose up and up, to be joined by five identical beasts, crests flaring as they writhed, joining together in a massive central body which looked like a cross between a lizard’s scaly hide and a bears huge girth.

“Hydra!” Called Marcus, already invoking magic to shield himself. Marduk and Sir Tarnus wasted no time, charging at the beast, and Marduk landed a solid blow against it’s solid trunk, though not without cost as the monster tore at him with its savage maws. Injured, it retreated into deeper waters, leaving only its heads exposed. Sir Tarnus managed to cleave one away, but Marduk fell under another writhing onslaught, and Sir Tarnus only remained standing under the strength of his devotion, hacking wildly as the snapping, slavering heads that surrounded him.

“Blasted murk! Blasted monster!” Shouted Tom, invoking the power of Kord as he rushed forward, Marcus giving cover as he flung arcane projectiles one after the other, fishing Marduk out from the waters he had sunk into, channelling healing energy into his friend, who quickly revived. The stout priest looked up at the monster in horror as its ruined neck stump began the horrific process of regrowing a head.

Forsaking the meagre impact of his minor arcana, Marcus called upon the powers of the gems lodged in his spear. He summoned fire and sent a bolt of incandescent flame just behind the creature, blasting it, raising pained screams. Again, a globe of fire, and the reptilian cries filled the mire as the hydra’s exposed heads were blasted to pieces. With only two heads remaining, the creature abandoned its nest, retreating up the river. Sir Tarnus was all set to pursue it, but could not follow into the water.

A quick search of the wagon revealed it to be a wrecked supply caravan of goblin origin, only bones and rust to tell of their fate. One skeleton, presumably of high rank, wore a breastplate that was still in excellent condition. Marcus examined it, determining that it was indeed of magical manufacture. It was quickly decided that Marduk should have it. Their investigation complete, Tom, Sir Tarnus and Marduk regained the causeway, where Tom healed the hurts of his friends using a white wand.

They pressed on over the creek, fat with flood water from the mountains, and soon regained dry-land. The flood water subsided, and once again they were upon the Dawn Way. The darkness was growing thick, and Jorr advised that it would be best to camp for the evening. He was interrupted by a piercing shriek.

The four produced weapons and looked about, seeking an enemy. Jorr pointed through the woods to a ruined tower, just visible through the trees. At the top of the tower, a ghastly green light flickered, and again came a cry of ghastly torment. “Vraath Keep.” Said Jorr by way of explanation. “Some say as it’s haunted, though I’m not so sure. That green light, that’s not been about before.” The old man sat down, unpacking some food.

“Vraath Keep?” Repeated Sir Tarnus. The name was familiar… He reached into his belt, to produce a soggy parchment, long forgotten since arriving at the ferry. Their original reason for coming this far north. Though now almost illegible, some words could still be made out. Was that word Vraath, or was he just imagining things in the unreadable ruin?

“Aye, Vraath. I reckon it might be place the goblins’d think to hole up in. Not many people like to go up there” the old man shivered “As I say, some say it’s haunted. Still, might be worth a look.”

Marduk, having removed his armour for the night, paused for a moment, then reached into his own pack, producing one of the elixirs Captain Soranna had gifted the group with, a phial of crystal clear liquid. He showed it to the others. “I could go. I move quicker than you all. I’d be up there, and back, and they’d never see me. If there’s anything there.” Sir Tarnus nodded his approval.

“Be careful, friend.” Advised Tom, fixing the gnoll with a serious look. “Mind out for anything… unnatural.” Marduk nodded, gulped down the potion, and was gone.


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## Pedestrian (Jul 1, 2007)

*Session 3: Marduk Scouts, and the assault on Vraath Keep*

Not-being-seen was strange. He was sure that touching things would break the spell, but that made moving in a forest hard, with all the branches. He decided it would be best to crawl along on his belly. Would that count as touching? It helped that being low meant he wouldn’t be spotted. Wait, he was not-seen, so that didn’t matter. Couldn’t stand up though. Might bang something, and then he would be seen. The earth here smelt of old and new death and fires and goblin piss. That was new. He wasn’t sure if the spell made him quiet too, so he held his breath as long as he could. There, ahead. He entered a clearing, and on a low hill the stone-house. He could stand, but no, they might see him. Of course not. He was not-seen. He craned his neck upwards to look at the building. The highest part pointed up above the rest like a finger, green fire shining from a window making a nail. A finger, pointing up at the sky. Only stars and black there. A piercing shriek echoed down from the finger, and he fought the urge to whimper. If he was heard, that might break the spell. He rose off his belly, risked a quick sprint. There, an entryway and bones. Big bones. Bigger than him. That was where the old death smell came from. It looked like the doors had been bashed in. Good, he wouldn’t have to touch them, and could look more. Inside. It stank of goblins here. Goblin dung, wolfs too. And a cat maybe? Over the broken door and into the house. Lots of little buildings in the big building, lots of doors, but they were closed. The inside was filled with big rocks, and more big bones. Still low, glad it was night and his fur was black. But no, he was not-seen, so it did not matter. Inwards. One of the little-buildings-inside-the-big-building was connected to the green finger. Like a fist. There were voices from inside, the stink of goblins and something else, something furry. Another Marsh Dog? One of the walls was bashed in, with more bones. He crept over the rocks. Quiet. Don’t breathe. Four goblins around a fire, and a hairy creature with horns. Not a marsh dog. The hairy-horned-thing looked at him, and he froze. Did it see him? No, he was not-seen. Good. Across the stones. Another building, it’s door nearly off its hinges. Smells of maybe a cat wafted out. He snuck through. The slightly swinging door brushed his shoulder. Panic! But worse, glowing green cat-eyes the size of plates opened, and the not-cat breathed in deep, looking at his direction. He froze. What to do? But the magic held. He was not-seen. But the not-cat sniffed in his direction. Too much! He ran, over the rubble and past the big bones and down the hill. Only when he was in the forest did he slow.

*

Marduk burst into the camp site, shocking Marcus, who had been on guard as he materialised after nearly tripping over the seated mage. The ruckus woke Tom and Sir Tarnus, and the three tried to calm the Gnoll as he babbled about green-fingers and not-cats. Slowly, he calmed, and the rest of the group got a picture of what went on at the keep. It seemed that the  goblinoids were quite lax at this time, content that the superstitious fear of the keep would stop any investigators. Knowing something of the habits of goblins, it was decided that they would attempt a daylight assault, where the night-sighted creatures would have less of an advantage, and would be tired from their nocturnal activities. Jorr stated firmly that he would remain here at the camp site and wait for them. Tom looked disgusted, but Sir Tarnus nodded his assent. Given Tom and Sir Tarnus’ reliance on heavy armour, stealth was out of the question. Instead, a frontal assault would be used. They set off through the forest, Marduk leading the way.

Sir Tarnus was astonished at the sight of the giant bones – Marduk’s description of “big bones” had not impressed itself upon his mind – while Tom muttered a swift prayer to Kade, hoping that the bones were just that, and not unholy minions of the curse on the keep. Luck was with them as they hustled over the broken gatehouse, the goblins having not set guards.

The quartet gained the advantage of surprise over the main body of the hobgoblins and their minotaur commander. Sir Tarnus challenged the beast to face him, quelling the bestial creature with his steely devotion. Marcus used arcane energy to engorge his gnoll ally, swelling him to Ogrish proportions. Tom called upon Kade’s beneficence, uplifting his allies and cursing his enemies. Two hobgoblins bolted, one out the hole in the wall, the other through a door that undoubtedly led to the haunted tower. Sir Tarnus engaged the minotaur, slaying the beast as it attempted to flee, and Marduk and Tom hewed down hobgoblins left and right. Marcus attempted to blast the hobgoblin that was now rushing across the courtyard, but was too late as it battered its fists upon the stable door, alerting the worg riders within, who burst out in short order.

From within a broken down building emerged the “not-cat” Marduk had spoken of, a brutish, bat-winged creature with a spiked tail. “Manticore” murmured Marcus to no one in particular as he blasted a goblin off of its worg. It seemed content to watch the carnage, however, as the adventurers battled its “allies”. Marduk chased the last worg rider down, cleaving the snapping devil-wolf in two, letting the panicked goblin flee.

“Looks like one got away to warn the ghost.” Stated Tom. The others nodded. They waited a few minutes, then formed up before the door, Marduk in the lead. With a careless foot, he opened it, to be confronted by a bow-wielding hobgoblin and a hulking, hairy bugbear.

“Friend, protect me.” The bugbear seized the initiative, entrapping Marduk’s mind. The massive Gnoll smiled at his new friend, and strode through the door to stand beside him. Marcus flung bolts of arcane force at the hobgoblin, while Tom invoked the power of Kade once more – with the exception that he now designated Marduk as “foe”. Sir Tarnus attempted to charge into the chamber, at which point the waiting hobgoblin slammed the door in his face. Irritated the templar shoved the door open.

Marcus last sight was of the bugbear pointing a hooked claw at him, whispering in goblin. “Shadows milky, eyes rot.” His confusion lasted only a second, as darkness clouded his vision. He was blind. Sir Tarnus rushed the hobgoblin, slamming him aside to gain entry, while Tom moved more cautiously inward. It was not certain whether Marduk would lash out unprovoked, or seek only to protect his new master. Struggling to decide what to do, he opted to call down Kade’s wrath on the bugbear, but the creature’s will was so strong that it shrugged off the effect. Tom was relieved to note that this did not seem to provoke his friend.

The bugbear called out to Sir Tarnus, once more in the Common tongue, “Friend, protect me”. He was shocked to see the warrior shrug off his enchantment through the strength of his conviction “My faith shield me from your black magic, monster” cried the human as he finished off the remaining hobgoblin. Seeing how the battle was turning, the bugbear swallowed a potion, levitating a few feet in the air. As he tried to fly away, Sir Tarnus lashed out with his sword in an over-head lunge, wounding the bugbear.

This pushed the ensorcelled gnoll over the edge. Bellowing fury, Marduk leapt at Sir Tarnus, hacking madly with his great-axe, cleaving a bloody arc across his flesh. For a scant moment, the templar’s knees shook and it looked as if he might buckled under the force of the blow. 

“Heironeus!” Sir Tarnus called, his eyes shining with fervour. He span around and impaled Marduk on his great sword. It seemed that even this killing strike would not stop Marduk, who lashed and spat at the human, screaming in a rage. Then, the terrible impact of the wound took it’s toll, and Marduk slumped, sliding off the end of Sir Tarnus’ blade.

The knight had already turned once more to face the bugbear, but too late, as the evil sorcerer flew up and out of the tower.

Tom rushed forward, pulling a scroll from his pouch to dispel what curse the bugbear had placed upon Marduk, then urgently set to restoring the gnoll’s health. He found that, despite the severity of Sir Tarnus’ sword blow, his friend yet lived, and channelling the divine energy of Kade, he soon revived him. The gnoll favoured Tom a doggy grin, but would not look at Sir Tarnus.


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## Pedestrian (Jul 1, 2007)

In the other room, Marcus was alone in darkness. Distant, he heard voices calling, the clash of weaponry and replying screams of pain. Marduk had been struck down. Silence, broken by Tom’s quiet prayers. An inhalation and cough. Movement. There, shouts in goblin from overhead, ignored by the others. A throaty growl, and the clashing sound of powerful wings beating. The acrid stench of carrion, a crash, a deafening roar. The Manticore!

“Help!” Marcus shouted, panic as he looked around futilely. He channelled power from his staff, flinging magic wildly, but his efforts were rewarded with cries of pain. Now the rattle of armour as Sir Tarnus charged into the room, a bellow as Marduk followed. A ripping sound of flesh as the gnoll’s axe bit deep into flesh, the iron-tang of blood swamping the air.

Then, a hand on his, rough fingers with a healer’s touch. “No fear, my friend, no fear. I am with you.” Tom. He held on.


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## Pedestrian (Jul 1, 2007)

Tom Morris was a true son of Bereg, and had a knack for stone. He and Marduk were pressed to the floor of the bugbear’s chambers, the dwarf gently tapping the flagstones.

“Hear that my lamb?” He tapped again. Marduk did not, but he nodded dutifully. “That is hollow. Which means” Tom sat up “that there is something under here. Something the goblins didn’t find. Here, help me shift it.” It was heavy, but Marduk’s muscles alone would have been sufficient to the task. They pulled out the loose stone, revealing a set of iron rungs set into the wall. Eagerly, the pair clambered down.

The utter darkness was no trouble to them, and they took stock of their surroundings. On the floor, an ancient skeleton impaled on an arrow the size of a javelin, an ornate sword still clutched in one cadaverous hand. Three alcoves sat behind three iron grates.

“I don’t suppose we have a key?” Tom asked the dead body “No? Well, I commend you to Kade anyway.” He looked to Marduk. “Looks like this is going to take muscle.” Marduk grinned, and hefted his axe.

The din of the two bashing away at the iron echoed up through the ruined keep, finally reaching the ears of Sir Tarnus and Marcus. They had broken into another room, looking for a seat for the blinded mage. It had turned out to be some sort of war chamber, and the knight had been occupying himself with scanning a battle-map, charting the path the “Red Hand” intended to take across Elsir Vale. The clanging and banging broke his concentration and, when it did not abate, he elected to investigate. Gently, he guided Marcus to the bugbear’s chamber, only to find Tom and Marduk finished with whatever they were doing, and the two of them climbing up out of a black pit, ferrying items up and down with them. They brought several coffers, a gleaming sword, a polished black dragon skull, two necklaces (one with coppery scales, the other giant teeth), two thick bottles (one filled with black liquid, the other with grey), a gauntlet the size of a man’s torso, a staff of silver-white wood imbued with divine energies and an iridescent cloak. Setting this hoard down, the pair set to trying to smash open the coffers with their weaponry.

Sir Tarnus picked one up, looking at the symbol emblazoned on it. “V” he murumured, remembering back to his education at the chapel.

Later that night, having rejoined the tracker Jorr at the campsite, and now a thousand gold and – debatedly – a whole keep richer (A deed found  in one of the coffers to Vraath keep and the lands around it. Tom believed they should give the land back to the people of Drellin’s Ferry, the others were not so sure) Sir Tarnus told his companions of the story of Vraath Keep.

After the fall of the Rhestilor Argyles, there had been chaos in their former lands, Elsir. After several decades of this, an heir of the Vraath line sought to unite Elsir Vale under his banner. To this end, he had sought to make the Vale safe, and make a grand gesture of his power. He had set his sites on the giantkin of the Witchwood. His pre-emptive strike against the giants was wildly successful, and after defeating the Witchwood tribe, the Lord Vraath returned to his keep in triumph. His victory was short lived, as the giants who survived called on their mountain relatives and brought ruin to Vraath Keep. The Lord was never heard from again, and his fate remained unknown. Many believed he had fled into ignominy, as no body was ever found. Likely, the skeleton far beneath the Keep was Lord Vraath, dead from the arrow still impaled in him.

Sir Tarnus did not take his eyes from the sword that had been reclaimed from the keep, running a finger over the snowflake pattern that ran across it, shivering at the chill.


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## Pedestrian (Jul 6, 2007)

*Session 4: Skull Gorge Bridge*

Peering through the tree-line, the four companions looked out over Skull Gorge Bridge. The structure, spanning nearly two hundred feet across the gorge, was Great Empire work and, despite being six centuries old, perhaps more, looked solid. Patrolling the near edge was one of the fiendish hounds they had encountered on the path to Drellin’s Ferry. In each of the near towers rising from the bridge they had seen a hobgoblin sentry, and presumably there were more on the other side. The creatures held long bows at the ready, holding them with confident ease. Of greatest importance, however, was the green dragon languishing at the far end of the bridge. Every half an hour or so, the creature had been making lazy circuits of the bridge, before returning to a circle of tents, the Red Hand encampment.

They had set off from Vraath Keep at first light, tarrying only to allow Tom to invoke Kade’s blessing to heal Marcus’s ravaged eyes. Along the way, they had encountered a forest giant male, withered and old, but still massively strong. The meeting had been cool, and they had escaped, only realising after that the gauntlet recovered from Vraath keep might have some connection to giant. They had returned to where they had found the creature, but it had gone. Not sure what else to do, they had left the gauntlet and pressed on.

Jorr had opted to retreat into the forest, not willing to risk the drake’s wrath. Not wanting to waste the daylight, Sir Tarnus waited for the dragon to complete its circuit and signalled for Marcus and Tom to begin their preparations. Marcus girded himself with magical armour, while Tom entreated Kade’s assistance in the coming battle, bolstering his allies and enhancing his strength. Marcus had time to enlarge Marduk, but the suddenly swollen gnoll caught the attention of the dragon, even from across the bridge. The creature bellowed a warning.

Marduk, taking advantage of his enhanced reach and strength, leapt across the stony grass leading to the bridge, crashing into the hell hound and felling it with one clean blow, catching several arrows from the sentries for his efforts. Marcus detonated a fireball over the two nearest towers, though the hobgoblins attempted to shelter behind the fortifications. Sir Tarnus unslung his longbow, firing arrows up at the towers, while Tom jogged as fast as he could to reach the battle. Marduk’s sensitive ears caught the sound of crunching glass, and looked up to see the dragon swelling in size. At its side stood a familiar figure, the cunning bugbear from the keep. The gnoll snarled and gripped his axe, rage boiling out of him.

Another fireball crashed over head, bringing shrieking agony to the hobgoblins, and Marduk moved to intercept the fiendish dog, brother to the one he had slain, and with one more mighty swing downed the beast. The green dragon took wing, soaring up to the bridge as Tom caught up with Marduk, and vomited forth billowing clouds of acidic poison, catching them both. Tom’s new cloak, gained from the keep, flared brilliant green, lessening the agony. He invoked Kade’s wrath against the serpent, and his prayer to the Dragonslayer was answered, a peel of thundering robbing the beast of its strength.

Marduk’s senses were blanketed by agony. He could scarcely see, blinded by the acid, the chemical stink mixing in his nostrils with the stench of his own dissolving flesh. His strength waned though his anger only grew. He could hear Tom shouting something behind him, and saw the dragon sag, nearly buckle in flight. Marduk did not think, he only acted. With a roar, the gnoll leapt across the wall of the bridge, catching the dragon and grappling its wings. Tom charged after him, hand outstretched, but missed, a golden flash rising from his fingers, alleviating some of his friend’s hurts as Marduk and the drake plummeted to the ground with a gut wrenching echo.

Tom gaped, ignoring the pain of his wounds as arrows rained down from either side. He recalled the staff from the keep and grasped, perhaps irrationally on the idea that it might be of some help. He would need rope. Marcus had rope! An arrow shattered beside his foot, reminding him that he would need to see to the immediate situation before anything else. The dwarf beseeched his god to lessen his hurts, and was answered.

Sir Tarnus, meanwhile, had given up his bow in frustration, unable to strike the sentries in the towers, which Marcus had whittled down to a single archer who was gamely putting arrows into Tom. Across the bridge, the hobgoblins were massing fire on Tom under the orders of the bugbear from Vraath Keep. A ferocious bellow echoed up from the cavern, and all eyes stared unbelieving as the green dragon emerged from the ravine, it’s scales shattered, body broken, but still, impossibly alive. It soared back to it’s tower, where the bugbear, with a flash of light emanating from his belt, alleviated some of its hurts. Tom was infuriated and, with a curse as ancient as his people, called down his god’s anger against the dragon. Once more there was a peel of thunder and the vigour drained from the drake, fading from emerald to grey.

Sir Tarnus cast aside his bow and ran forward to stand with Tom, a hobgoblins bearing a bloody handed shield ordering his men to bring them down. As the bugbear pushed its way down the stairs, the dragon took wing once more, soaring over the pair, coating them in acid as it flew past. The dwarf, battered and bruised, nearly fell, but the beneficence of his god held him up.

Marcus, who had been attempting to remove the last of the sentries with carefully placed magical missiles, looked up in time to see the dragon, foaming at the mouth, swoop down on him. He attempted to tap into his growing reservoir of personal might, but too late as the beast clamped its massive jaws down on him. A flurry of fang and claw, and the sorcerer slumped to the ground, bleeding heavily.

The two on the bridge had been retreating, attempting to out distance the arrows of the hobgoblins, and save their friend, when the bugbear pushed his way to the fore, one clawed hand, wreathed in energy, extended before him.

“Suffer” he crowed, locking fierce red eyes on Sir Tarnus.

The knight had only scants seconds. He looked at Tom. “Flee.” And then he was gone, engulfed as an arc of arcane lightning crackled across the bridge.

Tom’s mind reeled in confusion. He looked wildly about. Marduk was dead, a fierce warrior whose sacrifice had proved in vain. Tarnus was dead, a charred ruin of a once proud man. Marcus was likely slain under the claws of the dragon which was even now bearing down on him. He could not leave them here, those who had died to bravely. He must stay. He must.

He called upon Kade once again, bolstering his failing strength with divine power, then dragged the body of his fallen ally around the tower. He might not be able to shake the dragon, but he could at least avoid the arrows of the blasted hobgoblins. Dropping Sir Tarnus, he prepared himself for the dragon’s attack.

As the beast swept in, Tom called out to his god for a final time, and once more was answered. His blade glowed bronze, cloaking the dragon in slowing shadow. The dragon, near blind from the halo, chomped down upon the dwarf’s vambrace, doing no harm. But Tom could not balance himself, and his return blow swung ineffectually off of the beast’s armoured belly.

The dwarf looked up into the dragon’s slavering mouth, dripping with foul acid. He could hear the stomping of hobgoblin boots crossing the old bridge. He mouthed a last prayer to Kade as the drake’s jaws descended.


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## Pedestrian (Jul 6, 2007)

There was darkness, and light. Pain and heat followed by coolness. Earthy smells, tainted by the coppery tang of blood. Rough, skilled hands carried him, nursed him. Relief flooded him at the familiar touch. His friends must have won through.

“Tom…” Marcus’ voice was a harsh whisper. Pain! He opened blood gummed eyes, looking into a haggard, familiar face.

“I’m… I’m sorry son. I couldn’t save your friends” replied Jorr “You rest now.”

Marcus tumbled once more into lonely darkness, away from the burning wounds and aching sorrow.


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## Doctor DM (Jul 6, 2007)

oooohhhhh. They got torn up pretty bad. This is a crazy good story hour. I hope there'll be more.


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## Pedestrian (Jul 23, 2007)

*Session 5: New faces, the Battle of Drellin's Ferry*

Xerxes pushed the door to the Apple, the humbler of Drellin’s Ferry’s two alehouses, aside. It was near empty, noted the northerner, only a few off-duty guards in attendance. There was another as well, a cloaked figure. His pulse quickened, images of Seraphim dancing across his mind, cruel swords cutting his flesh. Usurpers. He shook his head, banishing the thought. The stranger was no enforcer of the faith, just some broken traveller nursing his hurts alongside his mug. Xerxes was a student of mysteries, passing through this barbarous land in the guise of a magi. The native tribes of this area – Argyles they called themselves – believed the lie easily enough. The dark-skinned man nodded, and his accomplices filed into the shady inn, a burly half-orc and an athletic Salacian.

Sol, the Half-Orc, was massive, looking every inch the gladiator he had once been, bristling with weaponry. Born in the frozen Wazlad, Sol had been captured at a young age by a rival tribe, taken across the Glass Sea and sold to the goblinoids of Srax. He had fought his way to freedom, only to be cast out onto the burning sands. Xerxes had first found Sol – or rather been found by him – while exploring the ruins of Srax, ancient Gnomish cities left to decay by the Goblish conquerors. One secret of many Xerxes possessed. Sol had saved his life, and the two had been fast allies. Xerxes had even taught the Half-Orc to read, for which the warrior was eternally grateful, in his own way.

The other man, Kayan, was one of the other tribes of the southern continent. Salac styled itself the seat of a reborn Great Empire, bolstered by a reborn Orthodoxy. Betrayers. Xerxes always smiled at that thought. Perhaps someone should send a ship north, across the Gateway, to inform the Empire of this change. Kayan himself, a whip-thin man of corded muscle, was part of this new Orthodoxy. Eaters of filth! Xerxes had been surprised to learn of the man’s ordination upon meeting him. Kayan certainly looked like no priest the northerner had ever seen, resembling more the chancers and robbers of tombs he had worked with previously. Yet the man was a fellow of singular learning, and had called down the powers of the gods on more than one occasion.

The three of them had been hired in Dennovar, a sprawling trade city to the east, to investigate the halt of trade along the Dawn Way, brought on by increasing tales of hobgoblin banditry. As was always the case in Dennovar, they had been approached by a shady figure in an inn, ready with gold, but not with details of for whom they were working. City fathers or city crime lords, it mattered little.

“Take that table” Xerxes said to Sol over his shoulder, pointing over at the corner of the room, near the cloaked figure, but far enough away to respect his privacy. Pelor – Liar – knew, Xerxes could understand the need for it.

“And you get the drinks in” replied Sol with a crooked grin. Xerxes grunted affirmation, and moved up to speak with the barkeep, a short woman, a “Dwarf” of the south lands, who introduced herself as Tharrma. She seemed interested in small talk, but Xerxes didn’t have the head for it this day. He ordered three mugs of ale – good stuff, not the cheap swill he and Sol usually contented themselves with – as well as a pie. He was starving.


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## Pedestrian (Jul 23, 2007)

Marcus stared into his cup, as if a sage trying to divine the future. He had awoken only fully that morn, five days since… He’d had enough time to the recover strength to travel. He had decided to return to the Ferry, to warn them of the threat, and perhaps to gather willing swords to go north and put the creature that had slain his friends to the sword. The magi winced in pain, more of the heart than the flesh, as the memory of the beast’s scything teeth, wicked claws. Another sip banished it.

Marcus was oblivious to the comings and goings of the Inn, lost in his thoughts. The quiet whispers and soft scrape of chairs fell on deaf ears. Only when the seats around his own table were moved did he look up from under his hood. Speaker Wiston, Captain Anitah, Kellin the Halfling and a woman he vaguely recalled, Delora Zann, owner of the stables sat around him, eyes intent.

“Hello, Master Marcus,” said Wiston, his voice quiet, hesitant, looking at the mage with a look both fearful and insistent. “A runner was sent to my home telling me you had returned” the old man gulped deeply “Could you tell us what happened? Where are your allies? Is the… the threat ended?”

“No.” Marcus looked away from them, draining his mug. His heart clenched, tears pooling in his eyes, so he barked out a harsh chuckle to drown them. “No. It is worse than we suspected. And my friends… are dead.” He ran the fingers of one hand around the rim of his mug, revealing a jagged, half-healed gash running across it.

Speaker Wiston gasped. “Blessed Light, my apologies Master Marcus. You need a healer” he waved to Tharrma, who cast scowls at Kellin every now and again. “Good Tharrma, despatch one of your servants to the Temple, have them bring a priest from there.” He did not wait for her reply, returning his fearful eyes to the tale-teller.

“We pressed through the Witchwood, guided by tracker Jorr as you suggested Captain Soranna. We found a camp at Vraath Keep, routed them there, and pressed on to the Skull Gorge, investigating information we’d found the indicated we would find the mass of this Red Hand there.” Marcus looked into his cup, and Speaker Wiston called Tharrma over to refresh him. The sorcerer swallowed the drink in one gulp, then pressed on. “The leader from Vraath Keep had escaped and alerted the rest of the Hand, whose number included a-” Marcus closed his eyes, struggling to continue. His voice became clipped, and he motioned for more drink. “There was a dragon. It killed my friends. I was only saved when Jorr snuck back. I came here as soon as I could walk again.”

Marcus drank in silence, regarding the faces of the Ferrymen. Wiston looked shocked, horrified. The Captain and the blonde woman had expressions of grim resignation. Kellin seemed incredulous.

“Well… well I am… I am sorry for your loss.” Wiston finally spoke. “Perhaps, having routed them from the keep, you’ve routed th-“

“Did you not hear me!?” Marcus shot to his feet, flinging his chair backwards. The movement was too much, and he had to brace himself on the table. “They have a dragon. Yes, we slew hobgoblins, by the dozen, but the dragon is the real threat. So long as that remains, there can be no hope for peace!”

“Sounds to me like you ran into a rearguard.” Kayan had been listening intently to the conversation – better that the frankly off-putting sounds of Sol and Xerxes eating their pies – and was unable to restrain himself from speaking. This seemed to involve what they had been sent here for anyway.

“And who might you be, Sir?” Speaker Wiston enquired. Marcus reseated himself, graciously accepting the help of one of the tavern servants.

“That’s Kayan, who doesn’t know to keep his thoughts to himself” supplied Xerxes, with a grin that looked more like a grimace. “I’m Xerxes, and this is Sol” the half-Orc grunted over his pie “we’ve just been sent from Dennovar. Some of the people that way are concerned about the trade troubles hereabouts.”

Speaker Wiston considered this a moment, a flicker of terror crossing his face, before he indicated the three should move closer. “We would welcome any and all input from experienced champions such as yourselves.” Xerxes and the others obliged. “Tharrma, bring food and drink for us.” He turned back to the table. “So, a rearguard you say? That would indicate we face a far larger force.”

“Yes.” Supplied Kayan. He thought a moment. “Though if it is, it means the larger bulk of this Red Hand is heading north” he reached for his mug, but the look of relief on Wiston’s face paused his hand “but that would only be my guess.” He looked at the sorcerer. “Marcus? That was your name? Did you manage to discern anything of the motives of this Red Hand?”

Marcus looked at the stranger, Kayan, remembering the map covered in goblin scrawl they had recovered from Vraath Keep. He felt an odd reluctance to be parted from it. Not after so much blood had been shed for it. The Argyle pushed aside his hesitation, grabbed the scroll from his pack and all but flung it at the Salacian. Xerxes and Sol exchanged a glance, but Kayan was already lost in translation.

“Hmm. How man did you say you slew, Marcus? Goblins I mean.”

“Perhaps two dozens. But the real threat is-“

“That’s a… good effort. I commend you and your friends. But” he placed the map on the table, his finger over a patch of scratchy writing on western side of the vale “this says ‘All tribes assemble here’. I think we are dealing not with a rag-tag band of bandits, but an invasion.” Kayan traced his finger along a line running through the Vale. “Skull Gorge Bridge, where you fought the dragon? Ozzurandeon was to hold it until the Hand arrives. Hmm. Not a rear guard at all then. An advance force, to hold the area.” He nodded to himself. “The map says they intend to reach – and sack – Drellin’s Ferry on Day 5.”

Wiston’s face drained of all colour. Sweat began to bead his brow, and a strangled sob escaped his lips, drawing a look of concern from the three other Ferrymen at the table. “What… we must…”

“You need to fight” Sol’s hand was a fist, eyes bright with fury “It’s the only thing those orange scum understand. You have to show ‘em if they go for you, you’ll come back twice as hard.”

It seemed too much for Wiston, who nodded dumbly before pulling away from the table. “I must… I will gather a council, to discuss our options.”

“You don’t have no options!” But Sol’s call fell on deaf ears, as the speaker hurried from the Inn. Wordlessly, Captain Soranna, Kellin and Delora Zann. Xerxes and Kayan watched them leave, while Sol shook his head, a scowl edged into his pallid features.

“That doesn’t bode well for the defence of this place” muttered Xerxes as he pulled Speaker Wiston’s untouched plate over. “Marcus, would you show us the way to Skull Gorge? Maybe we can look around, try and slow them down. Kayan will ensure you are fit to travel.”

“I would relish the opportunity.” Beneath the table, Marcus’s hands clenched into fists.


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## Pedestrian (Jul 23, 2007)

Having set off at mid-day, the four of them had managed to reach the Witchwood by nightfall. The forest was still and silent, the quiet broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl. A faint rumble in the distance seemed to herald a storm.

Sol lead the way, his great axe rested on his shoulder casually. Marcus consulted with Xerxes and Kayan, describing in detail the dragon at Skull Gorge. Xerxes was flicking through a thick, leatherbound tome that glowed with an ethereal quality, making his features seem washed out.

“You are certain it was a green?” Kayan asked. Orthodox trained, he would not readily trust the knowledge of a haphazardly educated hedge magi.

“Yes. It bore a dramatic crest, crocodilian features, spat clouds of acid and, oh wait, it was green!” Replied Marcus with a scowl.

“Hey, what’s that?” Sol point ahead at something his orc eyes could make out. Xerxes hurried to stand beside him, his eyes momentarily flickering with a dull flame.

“Someone… something approaches.” Xerxes nodded to the half-Orc, who readied his axe. Xerxes raised his hands, and his gloves began to crackle and spark with electricity. “Kalibosh am Lboo!” A blot of electricity exploded just to the left of the creature, who shielded his face from the sudden light, and eliciting barks from the two hounds at his side.

“Hold! Don’t attack” cried Marcus, hurrying forward. “Jorr, what brings you out of your retreat?”

The old man glared at Xerxes with his good eye, hunched over and sucking in breath. “Trying to stay ahead of that damned Red Hand” he paused, wiping a hand across his face. Marcus noticed the jagged cut, shallow but bloody, on his face. “After you got back to the Ferry, I thought I would look around the Bridge, see what I could find” a pained expression crossed his face “I’m sorry Marcus… They’ve strung up Tarnus and Tom. I thought to try and cut them down but, well, I was lucky to escape with my life, and this” he reached around behind him, pulling out a white ashwood staff, passing it to Marcus “I remembered that you found it in the keep.” Shadows passed over the old man’s face. “They’ve reached Vraath. I’ve just managed to stay ahead of them. You’ve warned the locals, yes?”

“Aye, he did. Fat lot of good it did too.” Sol sneered. “The old man that run’s the place’ll probably be wandering around even now.” The warrior snorted. “Probably keep on going in circles when the goblins take his head. Like a chicken.”

“Sol has the right of it,” supplied Xerxes “Wiston said something about needing to assemble a council, to ‘discuss options’.”

“C’mon then. Maybe I can prod them along. There’s no use staying here. The Witchwood’ll be red before day break.”


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## Pedestrian (Jul 23, 2007)

Marcus looked out across the Elsir at the massed numbers of the Red Hand. They were numberless, baying wolf-riders from the Wazlad Steppe, hulking giantkin out of the Iron Peaks, and row upon row of disciplined Hobgoblin Clansmen from Srax. Crowding the sky were chimera and wyverns, and above them a massive red dragon. He smiled at the chimera, remembering the thrashing they had given an advance scout to the Ferry. The strangers from Dennovar had shown their mettle then.

The council had taken place the morning they had returned from the wood. Jorr had managed to gather together the wise and, after some initial hick-ups, the voices of reason had been heard, and the four of them had been put in charge of arranging defences. Those too old or infirm to fight had been sent on ahead. The town guards, along with his new companions and he, had opted to remain behind and try and slow down the Red Hand. Jorr, that old fool, had run off in the Witchwood some time the previous night. Marcus doubted him a coward, but suspected guilt over the death of his friends weighed heavy on the old man’s heart.

He was not the only one to feel such. Staring across the teeming numbers, Marcus thought someone else might have thought them a fool to contemplate remaining behind. Feeling the thrum of magic through his blood, he smiled grimly, spooking the three guards who had been chosen to guard him. He cared not if he were a fool. He relished the chance for revenge.

The horde had come well prepared, with hewn logs to craft rafts from. No doubt, they were surprised to see the Ferry still bobbing on the river currents. His smile cracked into a manic grin as the hobgoblins began to board the ferry. Curls of flame flickered about his fingers as he reached forward…


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## Pedestrian (Jul 23, 2007)

Itching from the countless phantom arrow wounds that punctured his heavy plate mail, Xerxes watched as a bolt of flame blossomed over the Elsir. Pained screams and the stench of cooked flesh wafted over the waters, filtering through his spirit-forged helm. Marcus had set the fireball rolling.

Xerxes spared a glass to the positions the guards had taken up on the roof tops, bows in hand. He grunted to Sol and Kayan who stood with him in the centre of the main road, before returning his gaze to the horde over the river. He saw that the entire army had drawn back from the Elsir seemed a shame, greater numbers, greater glory and all that. Then, from the mass, the grim looking beasts, chimeras, soared out over the river, blade bearing hobgoblins sat astride their backs. Two of the creatures, one the white of bleached bone, the other the tawny colours of a desert cat, sped towards Marcus’s position. A larger, fierce orange-red chimera, banked to it’s right, drawn by arrow fire from Captain Sorrana and her men, exhaling a cloud of roiling flame over them. The hobgoblin eagerly sprung from the creature’s back, disembowelling one of the guardsmen, his bow falling from numbed hands.

The next few moments were, to say the least, chaotic. Sol immediately dashed off through crooked back-streets in an attempt to assist Marcus, while Kayan invoked the blessings of the gods, bathing himself, Xerxes and a fair portion of the guards in heavenly light. Bolstered by this, and hoping to draw the Chimera away from Captain and her archers and what a glorious scene it would make he shouted some random syllables and flung crackling lightning from his hands, but it sailed wide of the

“Aim for spaces where the heads join the body!” cried Kayan “their hide is softer there.” Xerxes nodded as he flung more bolts of energy at the creature, to no avail, and the creatures ravenous heads tore and bit at the men on the roof. With all but one of her men dead, Captain Soranna quaffed a potion, grabbed the remaining warrior and flew deeper into Drellin’s Ferry, to where another squad of guards had set up a position. The Red Chimera, forgetting it’s hobgoblin ally, pursued.

A cry echoed out from across the rooftops, and Xerxes turned in time to see Sol beaten down by the twin assault of the White and Blue Chimeras, the two of which were themselves bleeding from terrible wounds inflicted by the half-Orc. Weighing his options, the northerner ran as fast as he could, Kayan beside him.

Kayan muttered something, and one of the hobgoblins on the roof froze as it was about to deliver a killing stroke to Sol. Xerxes concentrated a second, reaching out with his mind to Sol’s unconscious form. There was a moment, a wrenching as his mind touched the half-Orcs, and then he had time to see Marcus bolt down the stairway, pursued by the other hobgoblin, before the Chimeras closed in on him and here was the chance for glory!

Xerxes forced himself to move carefully, not wanting to plunge through the roof due to his heavy armour, gripping his spear in both hands. He recalled Kayan’s advice, and thrust at the gap between the goat and lion’s heads of the Blue Chimera. He heard a clattering sound from the stairway, and prayed to the Good Son that Marcus was well. More distant, Sol’s familiar warcry brought a smile to his lips. He tried another jab, this time at the White Chimera, but was thrown off balance by a paw lashing out from the Blue, though his enchanted armour reflect the swipe. The White bounded forward, slashing apart the last guardsman casually as it headed for the stairs. Footsteps clattered up the stairs

Panicking slay them all and the songs would be that much better Xerxes dived forward, weighing heavily into his spear as he aimed for the wound Sol had already inflicted. He struck true and pushed his spear forward, levelling the extra weight of his armour into the thrust. The Chimera roared, desperately trying to turn it’s crackling, lightning spewing Blue Dragon head to face him. To no avail. Xerxes bore down, blood drenching his hands, his arms, mixing with the blood that flowed from his own spectral wounds. He heard distant thunder, the blood pounding in his ears, the beast thrashing on the roof. Stillness.

The stench of charred flesh reached his nose, wafting over the tang of blood. He turned around, saw Marcus, weary, bloody and hurt, his arm around Kayan, who supported the mage. Behind them was the still steaming corpse of the other Chimera.

From across the roof-tops came Soranna’s Bugle. The retreat had been called.


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## Pedestrian (Jul 23, 2007)

They met with Captain Soranna and Speaker Wiston in the dense forest east of Drellin’s Ferry. Already the Red Hand Horde were setting about their barbarous work, as lurid flames clawed the night sky with crimson fingers. Soon, Worg Riders would be ranging ahead, and the Chimera, Wyverns and other Dragonkin that supported the Horde would control the skies.

“What will you do next?” Asked Speaker Wiston, not taking his eyes from the burning ruin that his home was swiftly becoming. “Where will you go?”

“We intend to head north, to investigate the ruins of Rhest in the Blackfens” said Xerxes, still clad in plate, his voice booming and authoritative from within the confines of his helm. “The map Marcus recovered from Vraath keep indicates that something of interest to this Red Hand is there.”

“And Saarvith, the man hunter.” Uttered Kayan, a look that was almost haunted across his face. “A goblin that renowned turning up in here at the time of this conquering army is more than mere coincidence.”

“Good, that is good” muttered Wiston, his mind far away.

Captain Soranna, seeing her Speaker in such disarray, spoke up. “There may still be boats, tied up river, used by fishers of the Ferry… or at least, before this” she sighed “please, take them. Even rowing up river, it will be quicker than walking.”

Xerxes nodded his accord “Very well. We’d best waste no time” he looked to the other three “every moment we tarry, the Hand moves further into the Vale. Let’s find these boats.” He grabbed up his pack, Kayan and Sol doing the same.

“I am… deeply sorry, Master Xerxes,” Marcus’ soft voice cut across the night “but I think our paths shall separate here” the sorcerer tried to smile reassuringly “at least for the time being. I feel my talents will better serve protecting the refugees of the Ferry, and warning those ahead of the Horde.”

Xerxes did not miss the hard look in the man’s eyes. “And should a certain Green Dragon happen to fly over…?”

“So much the better.”

The northerner shrugged. He could understand the thirst for glory. He breathed out, a deep wind that carried the weight of the day, and with it the armour he wore faded, swept away with the smoke. The arrows were the last part of the binding to fade, revealing unscarred flesh beneath. “Come then Sol, Kayan. We travel light.”


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## Aholibamah (Jul 23, 2007)

I like that you've written this purely as a story, and also the vividness of a party breaking up not once but twice shows how deadly the encounters can be--thought it seems to me that you've made them a lot more so.


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## Pedestrian (Aug 3, 2007)

*Session 6: Into the Blackfens*

Sol had decided. He wasn’t fond of boats, didn’t like swamps and downright hated bugs. The first night after getting the little fisher boat, they’d pulled up to the banks of the river, and near immediately been ambushed by goblins. Goblins and worgs. They’d beaten most of them up – Kayan had scared one of with some witchery – but then Xerxes had decided, and Kayan agreed, that it would be best to press up the river for a bit, to make sure that they weren’t stabbed in the night when that one who’d run off came back.

Of course, it had to be he, Sol, who pulled the boat back into the river, and he who did most of the rowing. Oh sure, the other two chipped in, but their arms were like match-sticks, and just not up to rowing the little boat for more than an hour at a time.

It was also he who had to drag in the boat every night when it was time to rest. Sol had thought they could just tie the boat down somehow and sleep in it. Much simpler. But nope. Kayan and Xerxes both needed their rest so they could do their magic. It didn’t help things that every morning, Xerxes’d wake up like a bear with a sore head, stagger off into the woods and only come back after Sol was sure he’d been stabbed by a goblin. Or ate by a dragon, which seemed common in these parts.

About the sixth day on, while still on the river, was when the bugs came. The first of them anyway. Sol had seen bugs before, remembered peeking at swarms of them as a runt in the tribe during summers up in the Wazlad before he was sold. But these bugs were big. Big as his hand! Kayan and Xerxes had done some sorcerery, and the bugs couldn’t get at them. But poor Sol? He ended up crawling with the little blood-suckers. “Stirgees” Xerxes said. Sol didn’t think they looked like fish, but then, he was no book learner.

He couldn’t very well chop at them with his axe, even his hammer was too big for the job. He’d had to resort to grabbing them and squishing them, even throwing one of the Stirgees at another. That had been funny, though maybe only because he had been light headed after the little beasts had done their work. And who had had to row the boat, even with feeling so sick he just wanted to curl up and sleep for a month?

That’s right, Sol.

A few days later, they’d come onto a big lake. Lake Rhestilor. Sol though that was the city they were going to, but he wasn’t sure. As he’d been rowing the boat along, humming a little tune to himself, he’d looked into the water. It was dark, and seemed pretty deep, but every now and again he was sure that he could see stone buildings down in the murk. When he said so to Xerxes, his friend had nodded and stroked his beard. Sol wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he just kept rowing.

At least by that point, Kayan had done some magic to make him feel better from the Stigees. And just in time too! More bugs! Even bigger. Sol hadn’t needed the other two to tell him that these were wasps, but he hadn’t known they could grow to the size of a horse! That had been a hard fight, and he’d been stung a few times, which made him feel pretty rough, but they’d won. No sooner had the last bug been dropped into the water, than he’d had to sit himself right back down and start rowing again.

That was yesterday. About lunchtime, they’d managed to hit land. Well, sort of land. More mud. But they could walk on it. Xerxes and Kayan hadn’t wanted to leave the boat behind, and Sol figured that it was better not to waste it.

So now he was dragging a boat along through a swamp. The other two helped every now and then, but they just didn’t have the arms for it.


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## Pedestrian (Aug 3, 2007)

As the last hours of light in their first day in the Fens faded into shadows, dark as the waters of the lake they had just exited, the drone of nocturnal insects began. Tired, caked in mud and irritable from countless tiny bites, Sol trudged ahead, his axe resting on one thick shoulder, his other hand effortlessly dragging their little boat through the slick mud, leaving a track like a thick belied snake. Xerxes followed a little behind. For once, the northerner’s mercurial mood had abated and his compassionate, calm manner came to the fore. The good days came less and less, Kayan thought. What demons drove him from his homeland still pursued him.

Sol let out an excited whoop, dropped the boat-tether and set off at a run, cutting the water sodden marsh with all the grace of a frenzied bull. Kayan sighed, but his pace quickened as he struggled to catch up and see what had so excited the half-Orc. He could see a hillock rising from the boggy waters, capped by two trees and what looked to be the corpse of a horse sized owl. The bird had been killed by massive injury to the chest. As he drew closer, Kayan saw that the wound appeared to have been caused by some greenish chemical which still nibbled at the corpse, raising a noxious fume like fouled eggs.

The first he knew of the beast was a crocodilian rumble, followed by crashing water. A sinuous creature had burst from the fen, armoured in green scales, the same dim shade as polluted waters. The beast’s movements were hopping and erratic, but possessed a chilling speed. Kayan noted the serrated jaws, spined wings and cocky crested head, features reminiscent of several creatures but unfamiliar in this united form. Kayan felt fear grip his heart. He had neither witnessed for himself, nor in all his times working in the Orthodoxy’s Archives, seen such a creature.

Stunned by enigma, it was only the rapid action of Xerxes that spared Kayan a worse fate, as the horned reptilian belched forth a cloud of acrid, acidic vapour, a mist that devoured flesh as sure as the locust would wheat. Kayan felt his comrade’s powerful body shield his own as they dipped under the water, then the weight was relinquished.

Kayan staggered to his feet, gasping for air, calling upon the relic powers of his belt to alleviate the more serious wounds sustained by now grim faced Xerxes. His vision blurred by muddy water, he only recognised Sol by his guttural bellow as the warrior charged by, axe held high. The creature, viper quick, lashed about with its wings, the black growths along the ridges tearing at Sol’s exposed arms as he slashed at the creature with his axe. The monster set off once more, slashing Sol across the face, only to be caught in a jet of potent flame exhaled by Xerxes. Kayan invoked a miracle, bolstering his allies while placing a malediction against the creature.

But to no avail. The bloody jawed monster, no doubt the killer of the great owl, exhaled another cloud of acid, this time on Sol, who had no chance to shelter beneath the shrouded waters of the fen. Sol attempted to pursue, but was lanced through the shoulder by a blood-hungry spike, and the mighty warrior tumbled into the now gore glutted water.

Xerxes bellowed, a ram sound of anger and pain, as two curling horns sprouted from his forehead, slick with viscera and tattered skin. Kayan muttered a prayer to the Sun Lord for understanding of his sorcerous friend’s demonic aspect. Xerxes ran at the monster, which stood triumphant over fallen Sol, its back to the charging northerner. The crack of split stone echoed across the fen as Xerxes’ blow connected with the creature’s spine, shattering it as lightning hews a tree.

Kayan hurried up and poured the last blessing of his belt into Sol, recalling his friend from the shores of death.


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## Pedestrian (Aug 3, 2007)

Xerxes patted Sol on the shoulder as the half-Orc rose to his feet, grunting thanks at Kayan and wiping bloody muck from his face. Xerxes dug around in the murk to retrieve Sol’s axe, which he returned to his friend. There were still some nasty wounds on the warrior, gashes and welts, but at least the rent in his stomach was gone. “Let’s have a look about” suggested the southerner, and Sol nodded his assent.

They trudged up the hill, which Xerxes thought might make a decent camp if only they could get the bird corpse down from it, but Sol veered off to one of the trees, and begin digging in the muck around the roots. “Saw somethin’” he grunted over his shoulder. He paused, reached into the pit he had hollowed out and, with a deep grunt, wrenched a rusted iron chest, scarred and pitted by acid, and set it down on the ground at his feet.

Xerxes hurried over to get a closer look. Sol tried the lid and, finding it unlocked, flicked it open, revealing a finely made sword, one of the lighter style of blades popular in Embre, a silver circlet set with a small diamond, a thick hematite ring and a milky white pearl. Testing the usefulness of the items, Kayan took the pearl and the diadem, and Sol the ring. Xerxes picked up the thin blade. It was well made, light in the hand, deadly sharp, but he felt mildly foolish. His only awareness of swords was that you tried to stab the enemy with them.

He was just about to fasten the sword to his belt when he heard a light thump. Unnoticed in the deepening twilight, and completely silent, five giant owls had descended from the sky, landing in a circle about them. From their backs sprang a group of elf warriors, dressed in hunting leathers and cloaks which seemed to gather the colours of the swamp into themselves. One of them, probably their leader, said something to the other four. Xerxes knew Kayan understood elf speech, but there was no time to confer. Two of them headed back into the fen, the other two moving up the hillock to examine the fallen owl.

“You. What brings you to the Blackfens?” The leader’s speech was heavily accented, and Xerxes took a moment before he understood. The elf man was tall, muscular and his face was covered in swirling tattoos. He hardly matched the refined image that was recorded in the libraries of his homeland.

“We are searching for goblins in the fens” Xerxes spoke loudly and slowly. He didn’t wish to seem rude, but equally he didn’t want to be misunderstood. Both outcomes would possibly result in their being killed and eaten by the massive birds that now circled overhead. “A horde calling itself the Red Hand is attacking Elsir Vale, and we think they are looking for something here in the fens. At the ruined city.”

“Have you encountered one of my people in the Fen? A young boy, though to you he would look a man. He would answer to the name of Lanikar.”

“Sorry, we’ve only encountered the reptile that attacked us.”

The elf seemed to accept this, as he nodded and strode past the three of them. Xerxes relaxed slightly, and motioned for Kayan and Sol to come to him. “So, what do we make of this?”

“I reckon we could take the elfs, but the birdies’d get us” grunted Sol. Xerxes grinned, but shook his head.

“I admit, I find this a little confusing” Kayan glanced over his shoulder, speaking in hushed tones “Elves this far north? The only elves that live on the mainland are Embrean, and they… well, they are a little more sophisticated. They are not Breogan, obviously, nor Bereg” he paused to think, Xerxes nodding along they he understood very little “In fact, from the markings I would say they are Cale Elves, but that’s ridicu-“

“Humans.” The elf captain interrupted them. He had stood some distance away, but if the tales of elf senses were true, then it was likely he had heard the entire exchange. The two elves who had set off into the swamp had returned and they, along with their fellows, hung back, standing about the trees. “My name is Killiar, “Arrowswift” in your language. My people would thank you for ridding the fen of the Harrowblade, and welcome you to our village. I am certain our elders would wish to speak with you.” Though it was phrased as a request, the elf’s pose communicated clearly that he would not take no for an answer. Ignoring a twinge of ever-more familiar paranoia, Xerxes agreed.

Each of the three was guided to an owl, and they set off. Xerxes was sat behind Killiar, who would quietly point out some landmark in the swamp as they rode. Xerxes paid scant attention, as he had drawn out the Book of All Hours from his pack. Much like Kayan, he had never before encountered a “Harrowblade”. Flicking through the magical tome, he came across an illustration of the beast. As he read, the entry grew more detailed, completed before his eyes. This chilled him. The Book had never behaved like this before. The knowledge it contained before had been readily available, any lack had been his fault for not searching correctly. But more chilling, one word, inked in letters that writhed against the limitation of such small form:

Tiamat.


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## Pedestrian (Aug 9, 2007)

*Interlude at Starsong Hill*

The meeting with the elves had gone well. The three of them had met the elf leader, Sellyria “Starsong”, and discussed their intentions in the swamp. It seemed that the elves avoided the ruins out of respect for the humans who had died there, though the Gnolls who prowled the Blackfens had no such reservations. Recent activity at the ruins, coinciding with the emergence of the Harrowblades, and sightings of a dragon flying over the city had been pressing hard on the Elvin defences. Xerxes, Sol and Kayan had agreed to look into the city – no problem as they had intended to go there anyway.

Enchanted by word of their battle with the Harrowblade, Sellyria had invited them to stay at Starsong Hill and take part in the celebration of Lannikar’s life. Trellara “Nightshadow”, Lanikar’s brother, had agreed, and so the three had joined the singing and dancing, sharing tales with the elves, though Kayan declined the last, unable to think of anything beyond sermons, and he doubted the elves would be interested. Instead, he asked after the village cleric, who, he was informed, was away from Starsong Hill at this time, investigating rumours of a pox spreading through some of the other camps.

Xerxes told the elves of Sol and he first meeting. Xerxes had been exploring ruins in Srax, dating from before the hobgoblins occupation. He spoke of history carved into the stone, an ancient civilisation, enlightened and advanced in matters of philosophy, craft and magic. Then, bandits had attacked him! Hard pressed, he had been fleeing through the night to try and avoid them, but to no avail. With his back to the wall, Xerxes had thought his day done when who should appear from the night but Sol. The hulking half-Orc had set about the villains with his axe. In short order, the bandits were dead and Xerxes was saved.

By the end of his story, Xerxes was quite flustered. The elves looked to him with bored eyes and, though they managed some polite applause, the northerner was all to glad to let someone else speak up.

That someone was Sol. The big half-Orc grasped the talking stick in both hands and took a deep breath. His eyes were closed, and he began to speak. At first, his voice was slow, unsure, but as he got into the flow of his story, his words became more confident. He told the elves the tale of Grun, a tale one of his aunts had told when he was a child.

“Grun had been all things a good orc should be. He was strong and tough, quick and cunning. He knew when to hide and when to fight. He listened to the words of the gods and respected them. Unfortunately for Grun, all these good things had to be balanced with the bad. Grun was a slave. He had been taken by a bigger tribe when he was just a little orcling, and put into work with their herds and in their mines.

“So here was Grun. The biggest orc you ever saw, but shackled into chains and forced to watch sheep and break rocks. In his heart, Grun knew that this was not the way things should be, but he did not know how to make things change. All Grun knew is that they must.

“Grun’s change came about, as many good things do, by paying attention to the words of the gods. The gods speak so loudly, that you can only hear if you watch for the things that are shaken by those words. And so Grun would go about his work, chasing sheep and digging in the earth until one day, after much listening for the gods, he heard them.

“The boss of the slaves, a big fat orc named Urig, carried on him a big hammer, made of iron, covered in dwarf letters. This hammer Urig used to break rocks, and break slaves. All the slaves hated Urig, but not even Grun could fight him, chained up as he was.

“But that day, there the world trembled when one of the gods shouted, and Urig ran away. He forgot his hammer! Grun didn’t waste a second, he snapped up the hammer and used it to bash apart his chains. Clang clang clang! And the chains were snapped. Grun looked at the other slaves huddled about, and decided he could free them too. Clang clang clang! And they were free.

“Grun and the other slaves ran off into the ice, and could have lived there, and most of them did. But Grun had heard the voice of the gods, and he knew that the gods had only granted him his freedom so that he could perform them a service. As a powerful hammer had freed him, Grun decided that he should look for other powerful things, to give them to his gods.

“So Grun set off to look for those treasures. Over the years, he came back from time to time, but always he set off again to look for more. Honour the gods!”

Sol finished speaking, and there was a moment of quiet as the story sunk in. Then, an elf leapt to his feet with a whoop, and clapped Sol on the back. Cheers rang out from the audience, and Sol grinned, blushing a deep green. He slumped down beside Xerxes. “Don’t think I want to do that again” the half-Orc grumbled under his breath, though he did not stop smiling.


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## Pedestrian (Aug 13, 2007)

Kayan looked at the elf across from him. He was tall, thin, and pale with platinum blonde hair, almost white, willowy and sorrowful of expression. Illian “Snow mantle” was not born of the Tiri Kitor, obviously one of the Breogan, though he had been accepted as one of their own. Kayan would have liked to ask the elf how he had come to be here, what he knew of this secret offshoot of the elves, even how Illian knew they existed. Yet the sands of time trickled away so quickly, the Salacian could almost feel them passing through his fingers.

“So, human” Illian’s voice was slow, thoughtful, but his tone was neither dismissive nor rude, instead weighted with a quiet wisdom held in those reserved green eyes “you come to ask me to part with the secret lore of my God.”

Kayan nodded. He had already traded with the cleric for some lesser magic, offering a few coins and one of the ensorcelled swords Marcus had gifted him in exchange for a selection of scrolls and potions. Haggling with the elf was as lengthy and drawn out as the course up the Elsir River had been. Here in the Blackfens, amongst these tattooed elves, he was out of his depth. Truthfully, he was unused to not being able to simply present his holy symbol, make a donation and demand what he wanted. The elves had their own gods, and they did not kneel before the Celestial Throne.

“The magic you seek, the divination of dweomers, is a gift I may call upon, granted by Corellon” Illian broke through Kayan’s foglike reverie. Whether the elf had noticed or not, he displayed no sign. “But it is a gift from my god to his faithful servant, and not something to be traded for all the riches of the world.”

Kayan had expected this. Gold might not interest Illian, but magic? Magic was as sweet to elves as honey was to the bee. The white ash staff the other group had found in Vraath keep might make him more amenable to negotiation. He began to rummage in his back, but was stopped by a hand from Illian. For the first time, an expression – of faint distaste – marred the almost-marble-like contours of the elf cleric’s face.

“You know of the troubles that have recently weighed upon my people, the Tiri Kitor,” Kayan nodded, but Illian did not seem to notice “Killiar reports that they may originate from the human ruins in the swamp. My divinations on the matter have revealed that an enemy of my god, and of yours, has laid seed there that will grow into ruin for us all. I believe it would be in the interests of both the Elves, and your Orthodoxy, if this threat was wiped out before it has chance to blossom.” Illian’s eyes, hard as emeralds now fixed on Kayan “Do this, and you shall have your scroll.”


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## Pedestrian (Aug 13, 2007)

*Session 7: The Ruins of Rhest*

Morning broke over the Blackfens, another scorching hot day with the sun blazing down onto the backs Xerxes, Sol and Kayan. The heat only added to their sweat as, abandoning even a pretence at stealth, they pushed the canoe granted them by the elves across the still waters of Rhest lake. Of the once mighty city, nothing could be seen but the occasional stone building breaking the waters, ruined reminders of a time long past.

Ogre sentries stationed at what had once been the city hall hooted and bellowed as they swept into view, and the three ducked low as they could in their boat as javelins the size of small trees splashed into water. In short order, they were upon the boardwalk surrounding the building.

Sol wasted no time, leaping out of the canoe, setting it rocking dangerously, and sprinting along the swamp soaked planks. Xerxes lacked his friend’s sure feet, and progressed slower along the slick wood. He noticed a second building, of unclear purpose, newly linked to the city hall by the boardwalk. Behind him, he heard Kayan trying to scrabble up the outer wall, relent and begin intoning a prayer to Pelor, and Xerxes struggled and lost against the urge to loudly blaspheme.

From ahead, Xerxes heard the sounds of conflict, the clash of Sol’s axe and the feral grunts of the Ogre sentries. He climbed the steps, seeing the bold warrior fending off four of the creatures, holding them where the wall had fallen in – or been demolished. The crude brutes battered away at the half Orc with heavy lengths of wood bound in black iron, but nimble Sol danced between their blows, employing his own massive axe as a ward, while taking whatever opportunity he could to slash at the Ogres.

Sol attempted to slip through the clumsy brutes, but a powerful blow crashed into his side, sending him skidding along the stone. Xerxes was about to rush forward, and channel the healing power of his belt, but the half Orc sprang to his feet and dived forward, spinning and slashing in a reckless fury of blood and steel before dancing back, once more parrying blows furiously.

Xerxes leapt into the fray, spear in hand, but instead of gouging at one of the Ogres, he released a roiling gout of fire onto the debased giants. On fire, the brutes were quickly dispatched by an exultant Sol as Kayan gained the balcony.

Before them was the long roofless top floor of Rhest’s former city hall. The years had not been kind to the building, and the new tenants even less so. Pile of stone and debris littered the ground, along with waste from the Ogres. Xerxes carefully trod forward, noting two staircases leading downward, and a large hole in the floor just ahead.

He had reached the opening and was about to peer down when a sleek, night-black creature sped up and passed him, spreading its wings as it gained the open air. It was the size of a man, with thick black horn adorning its gaunt and bony head. “Skull dragon” “Black dragon” shouted Xerxes and Kayan at the same moment.

“Mine!” Bellowed Sol as he charged forward, axe held high. With a mighty leap, he reached the creature, his axe carving a crimson arc through its dark hide, and then he dropped like a stone into the room below. There was a loud splash as he hit the water.

“Ssssarvith!” the creature bellowed. At first, Xerxes thought the drake had spread its wings impossibly wide, as darkness engulfed the room, but discounted the thought. He heard a second splash. The dragon had followed Sol into the water. The southerner heard an invocation of the sun, and the darkness receded.

Unsure what to do, and partially motivated by a desire to be out of the cursed light of the vaunted Sun King Xerxes flung himself over the edge of the pit, into the water below, just in time to see the dragon soar past him, away from a furious Sol. He also noted a large, grunting, two headed giant moving towards the half-Orc, before water drenched his senses. He panicked – he had never really learnt to swim – but managed to regain the surface. It seemed the water was restricted to a pool, and the rest of the room was still dry.

From above, he heard a gurgling hiss, and then screams of pain from Kayan before the priest followed his two associates into the pool, the filthy water cooling his stinging skin. By this point, Sol had already regained dry land, weathering the blows of the creature Xerxes now recognised was an Ettin, and was now returning in kind the beating the creature had delivered. In short order, the beast had been felled by the warrior, and the other two were free of the pool.

They had no time to recover, however, as a large set of double doors was flung open, revealing a ferocious looking goblin brandishing a bow, no doubt Saarvith, a taller hobgoblin wearing a black robe featuring a stylised eye and manacle and the dragon. The hobgoblin pointed one hooked claw at Sol “Obey.” The half Orc blinked and, in response, raised his middle finger to the hobgoblin before leaping forward. Kayan was quicker still, however, and invoked the judgement of the Celestial Throne upon the wicked sorcerer, binding him in place with spiritual weight. Sol barrelled into the goblin, and received several arrows in his chest as a result.

Xerxes reached out with his mind and invoked the powers of his dimensional boots, teleporting just behind the dragon and Saarvith. He reached deep inside himself, letting the burning hatred of a god long deposed flow through his blood, filling his belly with a churning crimson flame before exhaling it over the two. The dragon whipped around, shielding itself and Saarvith from the worst of the fire with its wings, but the smell of charred flesh choked the air.

Sol and Xerxes then found themselves subject to a deadly assault of claw and fang as the dragon lashed about in a fury. In response, Sol slashed his axe with deadly precision, puncturing the dragon’s flesh once more, though the goblin managed to dance aside at the last moment. Kayan, meanwhile, attempted to heal Xerxes, but he was filled with battle lust, and pushed aside the unwanted ministration of the weak servant of deceivers.

“Regi! Flee!” crowed the goblin, and he scuttled up one set of stairs, and the dragon bolted up the other. Unwilling to let the pair get away, Sol and Xerxes pursued the dragon, while Kayan gave chase to the dragon. The stairs led back up to the top floor, where the leaders of the Red Hand in the Blackfens were about to make there escape. Seeing their pursuit, Saarvith span around to puncture Kayan with arrows, but his panicky shots went wild. The dragon, however, had much greater fortune, mauling the others and leaving them bleeding on the ground.

The dragon was about to finish the job, but the insistence of Saarvith had him turning tail. Once more, they took flight, the goblin rushing down onto the boardwalk, the dragon leaping into flight.

Still Kayan pursued, and once again he called down judgement, this time on Saarvith. The goblin was frozen in face, his fierce red eyes alive with hatred and fear. As the final words of the interdiction left his lips, Kayan heard the furious roar of the black dragon as it swept back round across the water. Its massive maw snapped down on him, flinging the Salacian into the hard stone wall. Pain shot through him as he felt his ribs crack. Gasping, he pushed himself up. Kayan reached to his belt, loosening the slender crystal wand strapped there. He would not die on his knees against this brute of darkness.

He was shocked, then, to see the dragon had landed on the boardwalk, between Kayan and the goblin Saarvith. The creature appraised him with cold reptile eyes which, if Kayan had not known better, he would have took to have been fearful.

“Parlay” hissed the creature in Draconic. Kayan, willing his hand not to cradle his injured side nodded. “I will take Saarvith, and go. You will let me, and save your friendssss.” The creature waited for his response, which came in the form of a sharp nod. Kayan backed away, not taking his eyes off of the dragon, not even to look at the bloody ruin of his side.


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## Pedestrian (Aug 13, 2007)

Sol grunted and stretched, swinging his axe this way and that. It’d been two days of hard fighting, broken up by one day of boredom. Yesterday, had been spent healing. The fighting with the goblins and the dragon had been a whole two days ago. They’d found some nice treasure, and the fight had been good. One of the rooms had been pretty bad, with stuff for torture he recognised from his days as a slave. He’d wished he could have chopped off that hobboes head again, just for that. Kayan had let the dragon and the little gobbo get away, but he’d wanted to keep him and Xerxes alive, so loaded them into a boat and taken them to shore. There’d been some noise in the night, but he’d been pretty out of it.

One day to heal – no exercise and certainly no looking for fights! – and then back on the boat to look around. Kayan had managed to get them up and about enough after the dragon to gather some nice things, like Sol’s shiny new breastplate. Mithril, they called it. That sounded a bit dwarfy to Sol, but he didn’t mind. It was really shiny in the sun, thick plates of metal, but light enough that he could run pretty fast. It was lighter than his old shirt! Funny thing, magic. Kayan had said it was nothing to do with magic, but it was magic, Kayan had done some mumbo jumbo and it was. Sol was happy to think it was metal magic, like his skill. Kayan had swiped a mace, and Xerxes a nice cloak with a lion on it. There was plenty of gold, but nut much to spend it on, seeing as they were in a swamp where the nearest city was a ruin.

But yeah, they’d come back, and looked around. The rest of the Hand seemed to have cleared out pretty sharpish. Shame, as he reckoned the hobboes needed to be taught the kind of lesson that involved heads being chopped off but, well they’d probably been scared when their gobbo boss had scarpered. So they’d gone back and decided to have a look in the building with the sidewalk, by the city hall. Truth be told, Sol hadn’t even noticed it the other day, he was all excited about getting the Ogres.

The door had been tied shut, which seemed odd, but Sol had chopped the wood down with his axe. That might have been a mistake. One of the massive great green dragony things had leapt out at him. Xerxes had shouted “Spawn!” but Sol was pretty sure it was a dragon. He’d also been expecting to have to chase around after this one, like the last, but it stayed still. It seemed to be protecting stuff. Xerxes was hit pretty bad, so Sol had made sure to hit the monster really hard, so Kayan could fix Xerxes quicker – the bugger had been in a bad mood again this morning, barely sharing a word with either, and it seemed Kayan had to try harder to heal him on those days. Xerxes could be such a grumpy git.

Anyway, they’d done killing the monster and Sol had immediately thought to himself it didn’t run about, it was protecting something, that must have been treasure. He made sure Xerxes was up and about, but as soon as he leapt into the water – he didn’t like swimming, but dragons always had nice things – and looked about. All he had found were some weird, spiky balls. It took him a moment, but Sol twigged that they were eggs. He noticed Xerxes and Kayan had become all grim faced, and he thought he knew why. They’d just killed these poor eggs mums. That was pretty bad, little eggs without a mum.

Then he saw Xerxes fiddling with his electric gloves, and Kayan getting out his wand. They wanted to kill the babies! Sol knew that the big monsters were pretty bad, but eggs were just babies, right? They couldn’t be born that wrong. Kayan had started to talk about how they were the spawn of Tear Mat, and must be destroyed. Sol had tried to talk to Xerxes, but he’d just said “Either help or get out of the way.”

So Sol had got out of the way. He went outside and did his katas for a bit. He moved away, back into the big stone building where they’d had the fight with the Ogres. A proper fight that, with proper monsters who could fight back properly. He ignored the crashing coming from the stone house, just focused on the edge of his blade as it cut the air.

When Kayan and Xerxes were done, Sol wordlessly rowed them back to the shore, and they trudged along in silence. Sol hoped he’d get to fight a real monster again soon.


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## Pedestrian (Sep 26, 2007)

*Session 8: Looking for Ghosts*

Two items recovered from the ruins of Rhest: a ghoulish, barbaric pendant; and a neatly scribed letter, penned by “Ulwai” , whoever that was; had provided clues to the next moves of the Red Hand. It seemed that the pendant – which Kayan had easily identified as a phylactery, house to the withered soul of a Lich – was being kept from an entity known as the Ghostlord, perhaps as leverage for some favours. With an army of goblinkin ravaging the Vale, the last thing needed would be for the profane might of the undead to assist them, even now Brindol could count on support from the elves of Starsong Hill. The three from Dennovar had conferred, and decided it best that the Ghostlord be dealt with.

Of course, before any of that could be done, they needed to find where this Ghostlord was. Research would need to be carried out. Sol had despaired at the thought, knowing his skills, or lack thereof, would only slow the proceedings. Fortunately, both Kayan and Xerxes were accomplished scholars. Trellara, Lore Mistress of the Tiri Kitor, maintained a store of books and scrolls that were of some interest to the elves. Brindol too might house some lore regarding the Ghostlord. Xerxes could summon a steed from the nether to take them to the city, but it would only carry two, and doing so would tax his will greatly.

It was decided that Kayan would remain with the elves, reading through Trellara’s hoard, before reuniting with the others when the elf rangers went to the city. Xerxes suspected, but refrained from making comment, that the lore hungry priest would also spend his time pressuring both Illian and Sellyria for their secrets. Sol and he would ride on to Brindol.

They were not as fleet as they might have been, even with a mount of unreal origin. It was disconcerting, to catch occasional glimpses of the road beneath the quasi-horse, even more so get a fleeting look at where it hailed from. Xerxes allowed his attention to wander as it would, doubly grateful as it allowed him to blank the pressure of Sol’s terrified grip. The half-Orc was not comfortable.

To make up speed, they pressed the creature they rode hard, riding twelve hours each day, plodding progress but steady. It would take three days at this pace to reach Brindol. Xerxes was unsure what that meant in terms of the Red Hand’s progress, but it likely would not be good. Best not to dwell on it.

It was the second day when they spotted the road block. Sol saw it first, nudging his travelling companion as he slipped to the ground. A wooden platform, supported by four wooden posts, overlooked a thick wall, crudely hewn timber and hastily erected. Hobgoblin sentries lolled about the platform, while two massive Ogres slumped against the walls, all of them rendered stupid by the blistering sun. Seeing it, Xerxes dimly recalled rumours of road blocks… had they met with some agent about that? Well, it seemed the Red Hand had set up a camp here, and aimed to ensure that no help would reach Elsir vale through the road.

Practiced companions, the two exchanged a few quick signals, and then Sol was off. The sandals he had won on the bloody sands of the Srax arenas sparked with fire, propelling him at an inhuman speed. Xerxes didn’t wait to see if his comrade connected – hardly like timber could dodge – raising his hand to call his nethereal lance into being. With alien precision, he levelled the point, and charged at the nearest post. The cracking impact shook his arm, leaving it numb. The timber buckled, and sharp splinters sailed through the air. Some struck Xerxes’s mount, and for a moment he could see them, suspended in glassy flesh.

The rumbling growl of the Ogre to his left brought his gaze up, just in time to miss a clumsily swung club. Xerxes could see Sol, already having cleaved one leg of the tower, running up to assist him. As the half-Orc moved, the band on his left arm flashed a brilliant, bloody red, and the second Ogre, in pursuit of Sol, stumbled, mistiming his swing against the former gladiator.

Xerxes, seeing that his ally would deal with the Ogres, willed himself away, a quick jaunt through the Astral plane placing him and his eery steed some sixty feet up the road. Goblish arrows clattered around the mounted northerner. He frowned. He had forgotten about the archers on the tower in all the excitement of the charge. Now they crowded the near edge of the platform, yelling in their buzzing tongue and aiming arrows at the pair.

At that moment, Sol reached the buckled post. The fierce warrior ducked low under the Ogre’s reach – the brute still confused at Xerxes’s sudden relocation – and whipped his massive axe about. One slash tore a gory rent in the Ogre’s chest, the other chopped through the compacted wood of the post. With mercurial speed, Sol dived forward between his foe’s legs as the entire structure collapsed, carrying a dozen or so screaming hobgoblins – and one stunned Ogre – to the afterlife.

Xerxes sighed, then noted the other Ogre pushing up through the debris. It pulled a length of timber up in one massive paw – the other hand being smashed to blood oozing ruin – fixed its one remaining eye on Sol, who was still lying stunned from his leap away from the tower. Xerxes, unnoticed on his mount, levelled his lance at the Ogre and charged.

It was finished quickly, a lance through the back of the neck. Xerxes pulled Sol up onto his mount, and carried on. Someone should probably let Brindol know that the road was cleared. Good thing they were headed that way. They had to find out where the Ghostlord was.

A prod from Sol reminded Xerxes that they needed to get moving.


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## Pedestrian (Sep 26, 2007)

Two days later, they reached Brindol, having passed through the first farms under the flag of the city before first light. The city had a commanding position, atop a high hill overlooking the Elsir, circled by thick stone walls. Already, it showed the signs of a town readying for war.

Warriors in mail lined the walls, crossbows held tightly in hand, eyes on the horizon., The main gate, swollen with refugees hopeful for protection, benefited from a double duty of guards, Lions from their blue and gold tabards. They were attempting to impose some sort of order, but the desperate people of the Vale milled and shoved, moaned and bickered. Despite this, progress was being made as people filtered into the city.

Xerxes had banished their mount the previous day, presuming the defenders might look askance at two strangers riding in to town atop a spectral steed plucked from the nether. As the pair moved up the road, they picked up the chatter from the surrounding folk. The horde has spread out across the vale, burning and looting as they went. The sacking of Drellin’s Ferry had only been  the beginning. While they had paddled slowly up the Rhest, Terrelton had been conquered, despite valiant efforts by a wandering band of Embrean Jasite Knights. Nimon’s Gap taken, and the heroic last-stand of a nameless mage at the Gap, hurling fire at the sky, only to be devoured by a red dragon. Xerxes said a quiet prayer for Marcus, commending his soul to the Celestial Throne.

They were let into town with little hassle, Sol drawing some glances, but no more comment than recommending they contact the captain of the watch, as competent swords would be welcomed with gold.

Xerxes considered as his friend led the way. They knew from the plans the four from Drellin’s had recovered that the Horde’s destination in the Vale was Brindol, as smashing the town would destroy any resistance amongst the northern Argyles. Dennovar might have the money, but only Brindol had the might to oppose the Red Hand. It would be here that the final battle would be fought.

But not right now. The Red Hand was a good weeks march away at best, and moving an army that size could not be done quickly. Time for Brindol to marshal forces, and allies. Soon, Tiri Kitor rangers would join the humans of Brindol in defending the walls. Were there any others in this land who would take a stand with the city? Xerxes reflected on his experience home in the north, the broken remnants of the Sun Empire. Unless the Orthodoxy commanded it, rivals for the Golden Throne would as likely see one another blown away in the desert winds. Hopefully, relations here were not so cut-throat.

For he and his companions, the task was to undermine the strength of the Red Hand, and to do that, they must find the Ghost Lord. Brindol would undoubtedly have libraries, but they would just as assuredly be in the keeping of the temples. Though the Pelorites here were not Orthodox, instead the heretical Templar Tradition of the south, Xerxes would not feel safe. Besides, the Sepulchre of Wee Jas, one of the pagan goddesses of Crucis, also had a temple here, and one of the Witch Queen’s interests was knowledge. Knowledge and death.

Surfacing from his thoughts, he informed a bored looking Sol that he would meet him later, then hurried off up the hill.


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## Pedestrian (Sep 26, 2007)

Sol liked coloured glass. He’d first seen it in Dennovar, had no chance before then, but he’d straight away loved it. Not the pictures, though they were nice, but the way the light shone through the panes on a clear day. Like standing in a rainbow. The first time he’d seen a rainbow, he’d only been small. Just fresh off the cart into the Srax. He’d thought maybe the sweeping lights would  take him away from the cages and the cruel sun. It’d been the first time he’d come down northways, hadn’t been used to the heat then. Now, standing in this pool of colour, it wasn’t so bad.

Rolling his shoulders to loosen a knot, Sol pondered on how much he’d achieved today. He’d booked a room in a rough-but-cheap-tavern, the Zombie, from a bloke named Torgin, a big fat guy, a half-orc like him, a bit greener, who’d seemed alright. Bit obsessed with his crossbow. Sol couldn’t understand why someone would want one. Strange heavy things that could get smashed to bits with any old bit of stone or whatever. Much rather have an axe. Nice to meet another orc anyway. Well, nearly an orc. After that, he’d had a mug which hadn’t been much better than what his cup magic’d up normally, and gone for a wander. Xerxes had gone to look up the Ghost Lord in some books, and Sol had thought he might lend a hand. Not being one for reading – he could, thanks to Xerxes, but truth be told he found words on paper more intimidating than a tree wielding ogre – he’d tried asking people.

He wasn’t stupid, not even bothering to ask people in frilly clothes or women with little children, but ducking into bars, buying a few drinks here or there, and he’d managed to get a good understanding of this Ghost Lord. His story was an old one to the people around here. Born Arikel, he’d led a tribe of lion worshippers some five or six hundred years ago – after the fall of the Empire, but before Salac, anyway. They’d even built a big lion statue. Then, folk had come down from a big city, some said Rhest, and hunted the lions, so Arikel had ordered his warriors to protect the lions. They’d been wiped out completely by the city people. But apparently, the Ghost Lord – which he’d become on the night of his death – had lain a curse on the men of the city. The spirits of lions had got up and led by the Ghost Lord, they’d run rampant through the city, killing everyone. Sol shivered. Always best to not mess with shaman. They could put your insides out.

“Excuse me,” the voice, soft yet resolute, interrupted Sol’s meandering thoughts, recalling him to the temple. He opened his eyes, blinked to clear the colours swimming before them, and looked around and down. A girl, well a woman really, looked up at him with stone-patient grey eyes. She was short, coming to just under his chest, but stocky, broad shouldered and with close cropped brown hair. A warrior then, though she wasn’t dressed like one, wearing simple robes, the dingy cream of cheap cloth, the only point of decoration on her a talisman to the sun god hanging from her neck, sparkling like a star in the multi-coloured light. The look she was giving him made Sol uncomfortable. Weighing him up, he thought. “Excuse me, sir, but is there any assistance the Temple can offer you today?”

“Uh…” he figured laughing would make a bad impression, but couldn’t help cracking a huge grin. Politest way anyone had ever asked him to get out. He looked about, noticing that the common-folk of the temple were giving him a wide berth, before looking back at the templar. Well, she had offered. “Well, I’m looking around, you see, for books. About a Ghost Lord. Arikel something or other. He liked lions, and got killed for it. You heard of him?”

The priestess’s brow furrowed angrily. “The Ghost Lord, Arikel Zarl, was a monster, slain for crimes against both the city of Rhest and his own people. What is remembered, and what happened, are often very different events” she frowned at Sol “If you would seek to learn from his example… well, I cannot stop you, but you’ll find no aid at Temple. The Jasites are more likely to assist you.” She made to move off.

Sol went to reach for her arm, thought better of it. Two serious looking characters in black cloaks were watching his talk with a great deal of interest. Heavies. “No, I’ve got a friend looking with them already.” The priestess stiffened. “I mean, we’re looking to find where he lives… uh, died. We think the Red Hand might be working with him.” That got her attention. “We want to put a stop to that. Goblins are bad enough, but ghosts? That’d be the end.” The priestess had turned to face him again, that same look in her eyes. “See, what I’ve heard around town is that this Arikel weren’t so bad, he just got wronged and wanted revenge. We could maybe explain to him that you lot here, you’re not like the ones what did for him. You all like lions, what with all the pictures of them all over.”

The Priestess shook her head. “I will tell you this much, sir. Arikel Zarl’s death was not as cut and dried as folklore would have you believe. His evil, his turning away from the spirits of his people, came about long before the intervention of Rhest. An aggressive necromancer, his death had long passed him by. If you seek out Zarl, there can be no reasoning with him, only the sword.”

“Either way, we’ve got to get to the bugger afore doing anything about him. Do you know where we could find him?.”

“My apologies, but the archives here at the Temple are not as expansive as they could be. We have histories, but no maps. Perhaps your friend will have more luck amongst the Jasites.” She bowed, and left him. Sol sighed. Well, at least he might get a chance to fight a real monster. The half-Orc shuffled off, not wanting to hang around the Temple any more. Maybe Xerxes had had more luck.


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## Pedestrian (Sep 26, 2007)

The stale air in the catacombs of the Jasite temple was making him sneeze, and he’d had just about enough. Enough of the air. Enough of the piles of scrolls and books, haphazardly stacked, with no appreciation for keeping them in any semblance of order or thought given to preserving whatever knowledge they might hold. Enough of the milky eyed, shaven headed acolyte who had brought him down here, who’s heavy breathing and furtive presence was setting him on edge. Most of all, he had had enough of sorting through dusty manuscripts detailing cabbage soup, crop rotation and the inventory of a ship crossing the Gateway from Embre. If this was the Jasite idea of wisdom and knowledge, then no wonder the Argyles had converted away. Xerxes would honestly consider recanting any sins for the opportunity to once again walk through an Orthodox archive.

“Is… the… master… not… finding… the… collection… to… his… sat…isss…faction?” Breathed the strange little acolyte. Xerxes could not tell whether the creature before him was a human, or a dwarf, or perhaps a goblin. He’d read about the local Jasites in the Book on the way here. The cult had a peculiar practice of giving its acolytes the appearance of blindness, for reasons Xerxes hadn’t yet fathomed. Certainly the little toad seemed fully sighted, following him around like a hound.

“I’ve looked, but I can find nothing of any use in this… heap.” Xerxes brushed past the man, not wanting to wait for him to finish inhaling and the agonisingly slow speech that would follow. He took well the intention of the rattling coin box, however, pushing a silver coin through the slot.

Xerxes marched quickly out of the Temple to Wee Jas, a dingy grotto of heaped earth and stone, the traditional grave barrow of the Queen of the Deep Earth, an image that had slowly changed into concern for death and knowledge, things the Argyles had thought resided in the ground. It was amazing what he could learn from the Book, and he might very well have used it in the barrow, were it not for the nagging paranoia someone might see it. He had no doubt that the clergy of Wee Jas were a sticky-fingered bunch.

He breathed away his black mood, ignoring a closed door through force of will. Though the chill of night was descending, he headed towards the market, hoping the chatter of commerce would take his mind off things for a time. Xerxes couldn’t doubt that his path had changed him, from simple researcher for an arcane academy, to a vagrant, an itinerant on the road, bearded, scarred. Like some philosopher of life in the street plays he had so reviled in his younger years. And worse yet, scrabbling around in some barbarian city, chasing the natives’ fairy tales. Chasing fairy tales had never done him any good.

Still, his own blasted good nature impelled him to continue. The agent who had contacted them back in Dennovar seemed far away now, and they’d likely never see the rest of the gold they had been promised, but he wouldn’t give up. Good-nature or stubbornness? Well, either one kept him on the road, kept him looking into things that he probably shouldn’t, kept him fighting for the homes of others. Not like he had a home to return to.

“Oi! Xerxes!” Sol’s bellow cut over the drone of buying and selling, and Xerxes looked across the crowd for his friend. He spotted him, pushing past the people, his face a scowl of frustrated intention. Xerxes changed his course to meet  Sol’s, politely excusing himself to the strangers in his path.

“All right there? Found anything out?” Xerxes shook his head, and was surprised by Sol’s characteristically large grin. “No worries, I did some lookin’ an’ I’ve found out loads. Seems like this Ghostlord is two blokes. One’s right nice, real hero of the people, raised lions an’ stuff. The other’s a scum bag who probably ate babies. Might be that they’re the same guy.” Sol explained his encounter with the Templars.

“Hmm, well at least we know something, of both man and myth. But we still have no idea where we should look for this Ghostlord, beyond heading south of Rhest, which includes just about all of Elsir Vale.”

“I s’pose you’re right… Still, Kayan might have dug something up amongst those elves. They’re funny lookin’, but they like words.” Sol shrugged his broad shoulders. “Something’ll come up it. It’ll work out. Always has before. Then we can get to fightin’.”

Xerxes chuckled. Even if he ever was tempted to give up, Sol would never let him. The burly southerner might not have been much for elaborate moral debate, but he would certainly box the ears of someone he thought of as a wrong-doer.

“Curios! Trinkets! Exotic goods! Maps and charts! Icons and-“

Sol and Xerxes both stopped, mouths open to speak. Sol spoke first “See, something always comes up.”

“Excuse me, merchant, but you mentioned maps?” Xerxes stepped in front of the hawker, a wiry old man, amber eyed with pale grey hair. His lined, leathery skin was dark, and his accent hinted at a northern homeland. He smiled at Xerxes, inclined his head to a large woman, dwarf-looking, sat whittling on a stool, and continued his cries.

“Looking for maps are you, me dears?” The dwarf woman flashed a grin that did not reach her eyes, and hopped off of the stool. “Well now, I’ve got charts of the Gateway and the Glass, parchment wi’ passes through the Ironpeaks, good maps of central Srax, even one o’ me homeland in the Cales.”

“Do you have any local maps? Maps of Elsir?” Xerxes leaned forward, looking around the little stall. There were a myriad of maps, some unrolled and pinned to the back of the structure, many more rolled in cases. There was also an assortment of strange items – flutes and statues and compasses and glasses and all manner of oddments – which prevented him from having a better view of the maps.

“The Vale? Harrum.” The woman looked disappointed, but not surprised. “Aye, I’ve got plenty of them, fresh scribed from the cartographers up Dennovar. It’s a gold fer one, but they’re on good quality parchment, first copies.” She pulled a clean, new map from behind where she had been sitting, displaying it to Xerxes. He could see the Dawn Way, the towns of Drellin’s Ferry, Brindol, markers for the Witchwood… identical to the map they’d picked up in Dennovar, bar one or two copy errors. He sighed.

“My apologies, but we were looking for something a little more detailed. We seek something a little more focused on the lesser explored areas of the Vale.” He went to walk away, but froze. The crowd had parted for a moment and he was sure he had seen… no, it couldn’t be…

“’Ere, Xerxes, this lady’s map is great. Look at it, oh never mind. Here’s your money, and a little extra cos you’re nice.” Sol handed over a fist full of gold, taking an old, faded map, scribed on lambskin in exchange. “Xerxes, take a look at this map. It’s great. Look, in this ‘Thorn waste’ place, there’s little lion and it says ‘tomb of Zarl’. That’s the Ghost lord. Ooh, there’s ‘Rhest’, remember the dragon there? Hmm I wonder what this dragon thingy here is –“

“Sol, we have to leave.” Xerxes grabbed the warrior’s arm, not looking away from the black cloaked figure. The crowd moved, and the ominous sentinel was gone. Seraphim. He dragged the confused half-Orc along beside him, heading to...

“Sol, where did you say we were staying?”

“I haven’t told you yet. The Drunken Zombie. Bit dodgy, but cheap.” Sol dug in his heels, pulling Xerxes to a halt. “Mate, you’re not ‘aving one of your moods again are you?”

Xerxes looked around nervously, expecting cowled figures to leaps from the lengthening shadows at any minute. “Sol, do you remember, when you first found me, those bandits attacking me?”

“Yup. Surfim you called ‘em. Bastards.” Sol’s mouth lolled open. “I saw one. Up in the temple. Gruumsh’s hairy nutsack.” Xerxes nodded, and attempted to drag Sol on. “No. No” the half-Orc repeated firmly. “Xerxes, if they’re ‘ere, they already know where we’re kippin’. Probably already be there, tryin’ to get the drop on us. Come on.”

Now Sol pulled, and Xerxes was powerless to resist him. They moved swiftly through the press of people, Sol shoving and pushing those too slow or stubborn to step aside quickly enough, Xerxes muttering apologies as he could.

“See, when I was looking around for a place to stay, some folk mentioned a pub called… oh, I forget. It’s a nice pub anyway. Expensive. But it’s not like anyone is gonna start a fight in there. And the doors have locks. The Surfim can think we’re at the Zombie, wait for us there. We’ll hole up at the Raven, Craven Raven, that’s its name, and then slip out tomorrow. Dunno how we’ll get word to Kayan. Those crazy blokes in black follow us, we can show ‘em what for out in the country without having to bother the guard.”

The crash of glass from up ahead brought them both up quick. Though the light of day was fading, Xerxes could still pick out a forlorn looking sign, a distinctly scruffy raven pocketing silver, hung limp in the still air. The Raven was closed, though only recently it looked. In front of the expensive glass windows – now smashed – stood four rough looking men. Each of them had a crude red crescent tattooed around their right eyes. The air about them stank of sweat and cheap booze. Before the two could back away, the group of toughs had spotted them.

“Oi, whatcha lookin’ at, darkie?” spat one of the thugs, to Xerxes. Sol was about to surge forward, but Xerxes placed a hand on his arm.

“We’re just passing through. No reason to get alarmed.”

“Get alarmed. Wassa matter, worrying we’ll rough up yer boyfriend? Bloody empire pervs. Don’ worry none, I reckon we can sort you out somethin’ prettier.” The thug grabbed at himself provocatively. “Sneakin’ aroun’, up tuh no good. Probably workin’ wi’ th’ goblins. We’re Tiger’s, we’ll bust you for messing in our business.”

“Ay, Keif, watchit. I fink I’ve ‘eard o’ these two. They was at the Ferry. Me cousin saw the big’un take on some dragons!”

“Yes. We aren’t looking for trouble, just a place to stay for the evening.”

“I betcha you are, you f-“ the tough lunged forward with his club, but was intercepted by a violent swing from the enraged Sol. The others thugs tried to rush in, surround the half-Orc, but the pair of them were more than a match for the drunken, uncoordinated gang. Two of them were left lying on the floor, groaning and bleeding, while the last fled off down an alley.

“Xerxes, son of Malichi of the city of Ataurk,” The voice booming across the darkness spoke in Imperial. Two black cloaked figures stood atop the roof of the building opposite the Raven. The Seraphim. The rising moon glittered off the edges of their drawn blades. “We are here to carry out the sentence of the Orthodoxy, in the name of the Celestial Throne. Throw down your weapons and accept judgement.” Xerxes let his head fall, just a moment. He could never have peace. His grip on the haft of his spear tightened, and he looked up defiantly.

The speaker recognised the expression, no doubt from countless other pursuits “Very well. The sentence for practicing heresy is death.” There was a crackle, and the smell of saffron, and suddenly the larger Seraphim was upon him, appearing in a whispy cloud of shadows. The smaller leapt from the building, rushing forward to flank him, the billowing cloak trailing behind them foiling Sol’s axe blow.

Xerxes received a stinging cut across the rib, shallow but painful. He heard the light step of the other Seraphim behind him, and teleported away, to the side of the raven, leaving a billowing cloud of bluish mist in his wake. The silent Seraphim pursued, flickering in and out of sight with every step.

Sol held the other Seraphim at bay with powerful swings of his axe, battering his opponents guard with savage, powerful blows. “Y’know,” grunted Sol as he swung to decapitate the cloaked warrior “for a bunch of sun-worshippers, you guys sure like shadows a lot.” His heavy swing went wide, smashing the cobbles beside the Seraphim.

“I am sorry,” the man’s Argyle was flawless, unaccented. He ducked around and behind Sol, and his sword shone like a thousand candles in the night. “But those who would stand with the servants of demons must fall beside them.” He thrust his blade into Sol’s back, passing through his armour and puncturing his flesh. With an animal roar of rage, the half-Orc whipped around with his axe, putting every once of strength and momentum into the swing, slamming into the Seraphim with an audible crunch.

As the slighter Seraphim’s assault faltered just a second, Xerxes took his chance. Once against hopping through the Astral, he reappeared inside the Craven Raven. Wind quick, he flung a bolt of lightning into Sol’s opponent’s back, at the same moment the half-Orc’s axe struck home.

The smaller Seraphim rushed forward, pulling aside the cloth mask she wore, revealing the thin-boned features of an elf-woman. Her luminous green eyes clouded with grief as she caught her falling mentor. “Qin… Qin get away. Flee.”

Tears streamed down from her hardening eyes as she looked up hatefully at Sol. “He will be avenged” she whispered as her features blurred and shifted in shadow “You will pay.”

She was gone.


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## Pedestrian (Oct 26, 2007)

*Session 9: Through the Vale*

The heavy clank of mail booted feet echoed along the cobbles of Brindol, reaching the ears of Xerxes and Sol outside the Craven Raven, accompanied by the creeping yellow light of unmasked lanterns. The pair thought to run, but there was no time, and they found themselves surrounded by four black-leather clad youths, three men and a woman, all hard, cold and clean-cut. The fifth, features hidden behind a heavy iron-mask and thick nearly-black crimson, stepped forward.

“What passes here?” the voice seemed to echo up from some pit buried far beneath the bright places of the earth. Xerxes tried to see the eyes of the speaker through the helm, but could not make them out.

“I am this Xerxes, and this is my friend Sol, defenders at the Battle of Drellin’s Ferry. We were seeking a place to stay for the night, when we were attacked by some thugs,” Xerxes pointed at the fallen Seraphim, “we managed to fight them off but one managed to escape.”

“More’s the pity,” grumbled Sol.

The heavy face-plate fixed on Xerxes, cavernous hollows where eyes should be weighing down on him. “I see.” The contact was broken, and a slight motion from the leader prompted one of the other four to kneel and inspect the Seraphim. The black haired man found something on the cloak and pulled it off, handing it to the leader, who turned it over in one mailed fist. Xerxes was not able to see the symbol, but he guessed it would be the silver sun of the order.

“I will see to it that this… matter is dealt with,” the leader spoke, not looking at either of them “it would be best if you found lodging for the evening. The Red Hand has this city on edge.” Having dismissed the pair, the masked motioned to the four others and they grabbed up the fallen Seraphim. As they set off, the leader called back “In Nomine”, then departed.

“In Nomine…?” Murmured Xerxes.

“Sounds like a place,” supplied Sol, rubbing his injured side.

“No, no it’s… well, it’s a dialect in the Empire. Nearly extinct. In the name of the father. Well, usually.”

“Oh. Coulda been a place. Woulda been handy. Maybe where the Ghostlord is.” Sol, seeing his friend bogged down in the mystery, gently took his shoulder and guided him along the road. “C’mon, Xerx. We can stay at the Zombie now, no-one’s lookin’ for us. Have a nice nights sleep.”

Unfortunately, they found little sleep at the Drunken Zombie. Their cheap shared accommodation left them both on edge, jumping at the snorts and grumbling of their room-mates. Much as if they were in the wild, Sol and Xerxes divided the night into watches, rising with the first light and getting out into the street as soon as they could.

It seemed theirs was not the only night to have been busy. As they wandered down to the market, a dozen familiar outlines flitted across the washed out sky, silencing the chatter of hawkers. The Owls of Starsong Hill had come to Brindol, fulfilling their oath to the three from Dennovar. Sol let out a quiet whoop, and even Xerxes felt gladness pulling at his heart. But he had to be away, to clear his mind and call in the others.

Sol let his friend hurry off, setting his mind to the purchase of horses. He wanted quick mounts, but not frail. It took him a little looking around the city – there was a war on, and horseflesh was at a premium – but he managed to pick up a fine pair, a pale-golden haired gelding and a white and brown dappled mare, along with harness and saddle, for only a slightly marked up fee. The warrior was well aware that they had a fortune in safe-keeping with the elves, and was not in the least bothered by the expense. It was quite a change from the days of slavery, to be able to afford whatever he wanted.

When Xerxes returned, Sol found himself quailing ever so slightly. The lines on his friends face seemed deeper, more accentuated, shadows drawn long over his dark skin. And from his mouth, and the sleeves of his vest, pouring out his boots, came whisps of blue white smoke. Wordless, Sol handed Xerxes the reins to the mare. The pair left quietly, by the Shepherd’s gate.


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## Pedestrian (Oct 26, 2007)

It hadn’t been half a day since they’d left Brindol, and already there was trouble. Seemed like the Hand had reached further than anyone thought. Sol was quite pleased with that thought. He would have shared it with Xerxes, but he was being all spooky. Besides, there was business to attend to.

Having just crested a gentle hill, the two found themselves looking down at a ruined caravan, clustered with a few dead bodies. A group of goblins were dancing on top of it, and a pair of two-headed giants were hooting and hollering, like as if they were going to take on the army next. Sol slid of his horse and unbuckled his axe. Xerxes also started to get off his mare, but the giants noticed them.

The ground shook at the brutes ran up to meet them, clubs coming down hard. Sol brought his axe up just in time to deflect the worst of the blow, but it still set his bones shaking. He didn’t have time to see how Xerxes was doing, but he needn’t have worried. All of a sudden, cold winds whipped up, and the other giant screamed as half of one of its face just dropped off.

Sol took his chance, leaping into the thick of things. He span his axe in a big arc, slashing down the melted giant, and hacking into the calf of the other. The goblins, for their bit, tried to stick him with their flimsy javelins, but he was too quick. Or they were just bad shots.

More angry than hurt, though probably a bit scared that his friend was dead, the other giant tried to pummel both him and Xerxes into bits. It got a good hit in, and put Sol off balance enough that he mistimed his next swing, only catching the mud before the giants fingers. Xerxes, on the other hand, just vanished. One second, it looked like the giant would be taking his head off with a club-swing, the next, Xerxes was gone, and a big spot of black had emerged and swallowed up the goblins. Sol could hear screams coming from inside it, but he had bigger troubles.

With Xerxes vanished, the giant managed to rub its two heads together and come up with one idea. Smashing Sol. He ducked and dodged, dived and weaved, parried with his axe, pulled out every trick he’d learnt on the sands, and some he made up just then, but two heads were better than one, especially when using arms as big as Sol was. He was knocked from side to side, slammed about, rolling with blows that should have clobbered him into the mud, all the while half-hearing the terrified yells of the goblins in the cloud. At least Xerxes was doing well. Barely standing, he still tried to bring his axe up to defend from one last swing.

Darkness. The giant rumbled in fear, then shrieked in pain. Then Sol could see again, and he lunged in, swinging so hard he span with the force of it. But the giant went down, and Sol just managed to get out of the way.

Sol sighed with the relief, leaning on his axe. Xerxes, using the belt Kayan had given him, poured channelled healing magic. It wasn’t like being cured by a priest, where you felt someone watching. Just, being fixed, getting better quick. Sol wondered if it was how a sword felt when it was being made.

The pair looked around the destroyed caravan. There were three iron coffers, heavy, so Sol lugged them back to the horses, who were munching on the grass. None of the guards had made it out alive. They wore the gold lion on a blue field of Brindol. Sol sighed. Every person dead meant a gap in the walls. A quick look showed their swords weren’t much cop either. Xerxes had found a satchel, containing a letter and a key. Sol grabbed the key excitedly. It matched the chests, solid, strong iron. He liked reading, but he liked treasure even more.

Engrossed in the letter, Xerxes waved absently at the chests, which clicked open as Sol reached them. Oh well, thought the half-Orc. He stuffed the key in his belt, and listened to what Xerxes was saying.

“For the eyes of Captain Ervath Helmbreaker.

“I wish to retain the service of the Shining Axes regiment of the Hammerfist Holds in the defence of the free city of Brindol. To that effect, I have despatched with this document coffers containing coins and valuable gems to the price of six thousand crowns.

“In honour,

“Lord Jaarmaath of Brindol.”

Sol was already rooting through the boxes, which held several sacks of coin, along with smaller velvet pouches containing rubies. He frowned for a bit, then began sorting them into piles.

“It seems as if these were intended for the dwarves of the Holds,” Xerxes tucked the letter into his vest, looking over as Sol split the coin and jewels between the horses.

“Yup. Good thing it’s on the way.” Sol pulled out the map, drew a thick finger from Brindol, “We go to Prosser, then along to Dauth, then up south to the Holds. From there, it’s all mountains an’ desert anyway. Nice to have a good sleep before we get to the Ghost Lord, anyway.” The division of treasures divided, the pair returned to the road.

By the end of the day, they had reached Prosser. Years past, the village had been victim of monstrous incursions, but a band by the name of the Six Blades had tamed the beasts of the Prosser Woods, which was now dwindling to nothing as logging took its toll. The place was small, mostly built out of the Blades’ own pockets, and as the woodland had declined, farming had sprung up. Much of the bread and beer of growing Brindol started on Prosser’s fields.

Only one Inn stood in the village, the Six Cups, run by Deillyr of the Starry Cloak, one of the blades. It was a quick stop, just overnight. Sol found himself ruminating over a mug of the local brew, while Deillyr asked about the Red Hand. Seemed the Prosser folk’d got it into their mind that they could stand here. Xerxes soon put paid to that idea, but Deillyr didn’t say they’d come ‘round but that she’d “talk it over” with the other Blades. Sol felt pretty bad that the place was probably going to go up in smoke. The beer was pretty good.


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## Pedestrian (Oct 26, 2007)

Dauth was their next stop. They went along the new road, west out of Prosser, through what was once the heart of Prosser wood. Xerxes felt watched, dim eyes held back by layers only as thick as gauze. The wildness of this place had been beaten back, destroyed, but the ghost of it eked on in a place beyond this. Old dark trees lined the path, solemn trunked and stoic in the face of their eventual demise. Strange, how awareness of other places added to his perception of his own.

Much like Prosser, Dauth had been terrorised by the monsters of Prosser Wood, and saved by the Blades. It was a collection of modified humans houses from the time of Rhest and new built Halfling burrows, overlooked by the burnt out shell of a tower. As they rode through, they saw that the insular nature did not mean the Halflings were ignorant of goings on in the wider world. Bales of hay were being set up to provide cover, and the locals all went about with slings of crude javelins. Xerxes and Sol dismounted, walking over to one of the locals who was resting against a human built wall.

“Ayp, bigg’n?” said the stocky Halfling, sandy haired with a face worn and lined from hours in the sun. The thick accent took Xerxes a moment to decipher, so Sol answered.

“What’s going on that’s made everyone so afraid?”

“You no ‘ear? Gobber be comin’ outta th’ mounts, ‘n’ our town be in th’ way.”

Xerxes nodded “We have found they plan to enslave you.”

Sol, a bit shocked by his friend’s abruptness, added “There’s not much comfort to offer, but maybe you could head to Brindol. They’ve got walls there. Could make a stand.”

“Thar’s no shock in tha’. Jus’ us much they plan t’ ate us’n. An’ we can’t be goin’. This ‘ere be our ‘omes. We ain’t got nothin’ else.”

“So what’s your plan then?” Sol was trying not to sound desperate. The little burrows of the Halflings, protected by bales of hay, wouldn’t last a day against even a squad of hobgoblins foot-troops.

“’Idin’ most. We’re no’ so close t’ Brin’ol tha’ many’ll come. May’ap we c’n give ‘em ‘ard time. In’eges’ion like. Doubt the bigg’uns o’ Brindol’ll ‘ave time fer us’n anyway.”

“I think Brindol will take anyone who stands with them. It’s going to be a hard thing against the Hand as it stands, without turning away help.”

“Oi see’s what yer sayin’. Mayhap you should ‘ave words wi’ th’ elders,” Brund nodded up at the tower, “they be up there, in th’ cellar. ‘S a good place fer war plannin’, spirits in th’ keep are frien’lier to such than those o’ th’ farm” He sucked on his lower lip, thinking. “Oi tell you wot, why don’t you let me put you up in m’ barn? There’s nowhere else’ll fit you in town. Look af’er yer ‘orses too.”

“My thanks, master Brund. We shall take you up on that offer,” Xerxes bowed his head, “and we will also seek out your elders. It won’t be safe for your people here, and if your elders can make it so you go to Brindol, then I shall be happy. ”

“Thanks fer yer words, sir. It of’en be tha’ the big’ll forget th’ small.”

“The stature of the soul never thinks of that of the body.”

Brund bowed and wondered off, leading the two horses as he did. Xerxes and Sol followed the old cobbled road, shot through with weeds and grass, up the hill, to the ruin. As they walked, Halflings looked up at them, but none barred their progress. For all Brund’s talk of making a stand, the Halflings looked resigned to defeat. Xerxes also noticed that there were no children, or elderly about. They reached the old keep, three walls all that was left of the fortification, the ground scorched black. There were no guards posted, and the two descended down an ancient ladder into the once wine cellar of the keep.

Barrels served as seating and fuel for light down in the earth, broken and rebuilt as crude tabling. Just near enough the ladder to benefit from the waning daylight, three wizened Halflings pored over a crudely sketched map of Dauth village, whispering amongst themselves. Just off to the side, a younger Halfling woman in a green cloak with an aged sword strapped to her waist, waited. It seemed the elders had just received a report from her.

“Greetings, elders of Dauth. I am Xerxes of the North, scholar and adventurer. My friend is Sol, a warrior hardened in the pits of Srax. We come to speak with you of the threat of the Red Hand.”

“Ayup,” one of the Halflings, a wrinkled man with a slight stoop, regarded the pair with tired brown eyes “I be Doug, this be Cam” a younger – though still old – Halfling, shorter and stocky, “Th’ ladies are Rose,” a plump, large-nosed woman, “and this be m’ daugh’er, This’le,” the young woman standing outside the group. “We‘re jus’ talkin’ ‘bout the gobbers as it ‘appens.”

“’Ow many of you are there? Who can fight?” Sol towered above the gathering. With his thick, scarred arms across his broad chest, he cast a long broad, shadow, ominously covering the map of Dauth.

“Count is ‘alf the adults’ve stuck ‘ere to keep Dauth ours. Others are off.” Thistle answered, stepping around the half-Orc as she did. “We’re keepin’ ‘em safe, and ne’er you mind where.” Sol grunted in response, whether satisfied or irritated it was hard to tell.

Xerxes took the lead. “I am here to convince you to head for the safety and high walls of Brindol. I can well understand the desire to remain by your homes, but if you do then you throw away your lives. Bricks can be relaid, houses rebuilt. Lives are not so easily replaced.” 

“It be biggun’s trouble,” cursed Cam, “biggun trouble causin’ harm fer us folk. Las’ place we need to go be a biggun town.” He stamped his foot. “My kin ‘ave worked this land goin’ back ten mothers, all while biggun lords and kings was ‘aving their wars and killin’s, an’ look where it got ‘em? Nay, the folk go unnoticed by bigguns, an’ tha’s th’ best.”

“See here,” Xerxes strode forward, rolling out the map that had been reclaimed from Vraath Keep, placing it across the little Dauth parchment. He traced a gloved finger across the path of the Horde, marking where it split, where it rejoined, “the Red Hand has plans to sweep across the Vale, in numbers. Only in Brindol, with her stout stone and strong arms can a stand be made. This Hand is reaching out, trying to crush the rose of Elsir. Only one strong thorn will pierce it, turn the Hand away.”

“The Horde’s comin’ here,” Sol’s voice was quiet, soft. “who’ll stand up for you out here? Who’ve you got to defend you?” Xerxes knew his friend’s quietness was born of anger, anger and fear from an old hurt.

“Me an’ a few other striders, we keep an eye on the wild things, keep hurt away from town,” Thistle fingered the well-worn hem of her cloak “We’re not strong warriors like you’n, maybe, an’ we’ll not be saying otherwise,” her eyes flicked to the gathered elders, “but those that’re ‘ere aren’t aimin’ to be moved offa their land. I just come back from Talar, two days back, watched as the Horde burned it down. I don’ wan’ tha’ ‘appenin’ ‘ere.”

“Good folk, I am not trying to tell you how to go about your business, how to govern your village. But I can see no way for Dauth to stand on it’s own. You must leave for Brindol, the sooner the better.”

“What o’ Pross’r?” spoke up Rose, knitting her doughy hands together, “we o’ Dauth know the Six, know an’ trust ‘em. Times were bad, an’ the Six ‘elped Dauth as much as they ‘elped Pross’r.”

“We gave the Six the same council as we have given you. Leave for Brindol. Stand together with Lord Jaarmath.”

“We’ll… we’ll give it some thought. We’ll def’nately ‘ead Pross’r way,” Doug’s voice was the deciding one on the council it seemed. Sol and Xerxes said their goodbyes, and went to seek out Brund’s barn for the night.


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## Pedestrian (Oct 26, 2007)

Sleep was not peaceful. The still summer air of the Vale always carried the smell of woodsmoke, and the hint of burning meat. Across the starlit night, howls of goblins and their worgs echoed, sometimes close, other times far. Despite the solid wooden walls and sturdy door of the barn, the pair kept a watch through the short night.

Up with the dawn, they decided not to stay to see if the Dauth people left that day. Leaving a small pouch of coin as thanks for Brund’s hospitality, the two mounted their horses and rode off. Brund had taken good care of their mounts, feeding and grooming them himself. The pair also found their packs plumped with sausage and bread, their skins filled with water. Though artifice of the northlands meant they were always provisioned, the kindness was much appreciated.

The two had agreed to move with all haste to the Holds, pressing their horses in the hopes that fresh mounts could be gotten from the dwarves. As such, they made good time, passing from the scrub and light trees of the Vale to the first rolling foothills of the Wyvernwatches. As evening crept on, the lights of the first of the Holds became visible. Still, a grim reminder was behind them, at their back, distant over many miles could be seen a column of smoke. A town aflame.

A bolt rang out from the darkness, sticking into the hard earth of the hills. “Who goes?” cried a voice from the hills in heavily accented Argyle, the unmistakable lilting tongue of a continental dwarf. There was a brief, heated exchange.

“Who’s there?”

“I’ve sixteen crossbows on you, greenskin. If you value your neck, you’ll answer.”

“Greenskin!? You talk to ‘em Xerx, I’m not dealing with savages.”

“We are the warriors who defended Drellin’s Ferry, seeking help for the Vale against the Red Hand. We care not for your aggression, though we understand it in this time. Come forth so we may make proper introductions.”

“Cloth-brained low-landers. Names, give me your names!”

“My name’s Sol, and this is Xerxes. And you have no idea where we’re from!”

“Now you know us, tell us yours.”

Finally, a short, stock figure crept forth from the darkness. “You’ve a tongue on you, Sol Greenskin.” He was dressed in grey leather, with the short beard of a young dwarf. Casually, he held an unloaded crossbow and at his belt he wore an axe and a long knife. He was nutty skinned, and dark toned, with dark blue eyes. “And my name is Bors, son of Bors, of the Hammerfist Holds. I do not know your names, but I can see you are not goblin, nor friend to their kind. What brings you so far in this bad time, away from the security of Brindol?”

“Hammerfist, eh? We’re lookin’ for a captain Helmbreaker.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Are you sure, Bors? An Ervath Helmbreaker, captain of the Shining Axes. We have taken up a duty on behalf of the Lord of Brindol, to secure his warriors in the defence of the city. We discovered the couriers for the message murdered on the road. After avenging them against their slayers, we took up the message… and the money.”

“Ah, well now,” Bors’ brow furrowed, and he looked from Xerxes to Sol and back again, “Well now, maybe I was a little hasty. There is a Helmbreaker around these parts, though I don’t know why you would be looking for him. He’s not much more than a babysitter these days. Still, I can show you to him. Provided you tie off your weapons.”

The pair agreed and, as soon as spear and axe were stowed, Bors lead the way. Along through the hills for an hour, away from the lights and sounds of the hold they went. Bors shushed their questions as the settlement faded away behind them. Finally, the path they followed sloped down and broadened into a flat clearing before a tall cliff. Here was the camp of the Shining Axes. Yet here and there could be seen small people, tiny children and stooped elders, obviously not dwarfs.

“So this is where the other Halflings went,” whispered Sol. Xerxes nodded in quiet reply. They reached a larger fire, where a lone dwarf sat. He was bearish, tall for his kind, massive and hairy. He wore dull grey plate of adamant, his face hidden behind long silver hair and beard. As Bors approached, he peered at the party through tired old eyes, sorrowful as stone that had witnessed the passing of an age.

“Captain Helmbreaker, I bring you Sol Greenskin and Xerxes of the Low-lands, champions of the Ferrry. I found them stumbling towards the holds. They say they have business with you.” The old dwarf nodded, his gaze intent on the flame.

“We found a letter, with some soldiers. It was meant for you, to buy help for Brindol against the Red Hand.” Sol stepped forward, thought better of it. “Xerxes, give him the letter.”

“In times past, things were not so,” the dwarf muttered as he read over the letter. He crumbled the page, threw it into the fire with a casual flick “Bors, see to it this coin is set to provisioning the company. The Axes march at dawn.” He stood, brushing his hands off on his long beard “I do not know you strangers, nor your names, nor what deeds you have or what lies before you, but I know that you hold to the honour of times past. You took up the duty of a fallen warrior, and ensured that mine could know to do theirs, that the time is upon us. Sol and Xerxes, now I know your names. I will know them, and mark them as names of honour.” Helmbreaker stretched, his thick bones crackling like shifting earth “You may share camp with the Axes this night, and we will see to it you have fresh mounts for the morrow. Now I must prepare my men.”

He began a deep rumble them, a chant in the back of this throat as he moved off. As he passed each of his warriors, they took up the chant, a hymn in praise to Moradin, a reminder of honour, and the doom set forth for each. Sol and Xerxes found a place to bed down and slept.

The dwarfs provided tough mountain ponies in place of their mounts, rugged grey haired beasts that, while not as fleet as the horses, were much suited to their path. The first day, they travelled along the passes of the Wyverwatches, the newly built dwarf-roads offering speedy travel. Then came the Thornwaste.

Mile upon mile of hardened brown earth, ever parched land growing drier under the unforgiving summer sun, clogged by greedy brambles grown to monstrous size. Here, they were forced to stretch out every drop, and even with the powers Xerxes commanded they slept through the worst heat of the first day. Creatures slithered and crept throughout the waste, monsters grown accustom to the clawed grip of the Ghostlord. The pendant of the lich, away from its master so long, seemed to throb in profane anticipation as they drew closer.

Yet their map proved true, and after two days of hard trek, the Thorns parted, opening into a basin. The lion crypt of the Ghostlord waited below.

“Let’s get to it then.” Sol was matter-of-fact, axe in hand, as they began their descent.


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## Pedestrian (Nov 6, 2007)

*Session 10: The Lion of the Thornwaste*

Session 10: The Lion of the Thornwaste
Xerxes noted the ghostly forms of lions flitting about the lion statue, fleeting creatures that sent a chill down the part of his soul that was still his. He knew he could reach forth and, with the barest will, snuff them out, but they were not important. The eerie phantasms were little more than fragments of the once proud beasts. He turned his attention to the Lion. It was ancient, for this heathen land, perhaps a millennia old, weathered by time and rain, but still remarkably intact. He wondered what sorcery had made such a colossus.

Sol was completely nonplussed, heading forward between the cat’s paws, where he froze. Xerxes hurried after him, finally seeing what had given his friend paws. Hunched and waiting were the skeletons of two massive cats, guarding the broad stairway into the heart of the beast. But the skeletons were as stony and immobile as the great lion. Sol shook his head and sighing, flashing Xerxes a grin as they passed the statues. He even tapped one with his axe playfully.

As they gained the stairs, a massive serpentine beast launched itself out of the lion, straight for Xerxes. A behir! But no, there was something different something… wrong about the creature. Xerxes skipped back steps, pulling forth from the dark font of the tenebrous presence within him, gripping the monster’s heart in an icy claw and squeezing. The creature faultered, but only for the barest second. This was no normal behir, but a monster birthed of the unholy pit. Striations on the beasts flank, colourless in the night, hinted at relationship with Tiamat’s brood.

The maw descended, enveloping him. Outside, he heard Sol bellow, but he could not make out what. Though panic rose in him, the second his initial onslaught had bought him allowed a moment of planning. He blasted with the cold wind of the Other, and with his mind reached out across the Shadow. The behir’s jaws closed with a snap, but Xerxes was away, across the room on a pile of bones. It hissed and span, rumbling in profane language for the interdiction of its patron, and was answered. Xerxes shrugged off the blandishment and continued battering at the monster with gusts of air.

A furious scream from the other side of the Behir filled the cavern. “XERXES!” roared Sol, and a blossom of blood and gore spread from the creature’s flank as it split in half, its guts spilling out across the floor. A final roar, and it was finished, Sol still trying to split its body in a frustrated search.

“Sol, here!” called Xerxes. Relief flooded the half-Orc’s face, but was quickly gone.

“Hobgoblins,” he pointed one bloody hand to the lower jaw of the lion, “up there.” Xerxes ran forward, taking hold of Sol. He closed his eyes and once more pushed through the Shadow. He was certain he heard Sol screaming as they went, but he shut out the sound, thinking only of their destination, not of where they were.

They reappeared a heartbeat later in the mouth of the lion, and Xerxes felt the presence of Tenebrous recede, spent. Overhead and around were stone fangs as big as a man. The pair wasted no time, rushing toward a pair of heavy stone doors. A solid boot, and they were open. The hobgoblins inside were caught surprised, potions in hand.

With a whoop, Sol was upon them, his axe spinning in a wide arc, bloodying them both. Xerxes followed up with twin bursts of icy wind, slamming them to the floor. “There were three of ‘em!” No time to waste, they hurried on, shouldering aside more doors to stairs leading down. They all but jumped down the stairs, but all they found was an empty room. Doors east and north.

Some quick thinking, east would lead back out it seemed, north deeper in. With no sign of the fled hobgoblin, they decided north. They found a room crowded with jars and tools, with several large tables, similar in design to things Xerxes recognised from his brief training with a surgeon in the Empire. The thought of what had gone on on those blood-stained slabs of stone turned his stomach.

Sol was occupied with a pit in the corner of the room. Xerxes, with his eldritch vision, could see to the bottom, a long way down. Sol, who’s own nightvision failed much before that depth, rummaged in his pack for a bit before producing a little pellet, a huge fanged grin on his face. Xerxes recalled when Sol had bought the daylight stone, his first purchase as a free man, from a merchant in a Dennovarian bazaar. Smiling all the while, the half Orc rubbed the sun symbol on the pebble and flicked it down the hole. It bounced off the walls as it fell, finally hitting the floor, reflecting off a pool of water. Sol shrugged and turned away.

Across the room was another door, and they pressed on. Neither of them needed light, so Xerxes could not tell whether the elaborate and grisly decorations on the walls were painted or not. Images of lions hunting humans, falling upon them, feasting on their still screaming bodies. He was still enough of himself to be disgusted.

They pushed open another stone door, swinging easily on stone pins, opening into a large chamber, illuminated by a sickly green pool in which something span. In alcoves along the room, things crept. Xerxes had never encountered their like, and one hand fled to his belt, retrieving the Book of All Hours. Mechanically, he flicked through the pages as he filled his heart with the Shadow. In the Book it read:

_Bonedrinkers
Undead spawn of goblin kin
Hungry for the marrow of bone
They come as tentacled doom
Know that to win
Rely not on fire nor cold
Neither will screams avail
To attain victory in this travail
You must rush in and be bold
As with all of the deathless
Faith reminds them they are breathless_

The Shadow in his heart bubbled to full potency, and he blasted the goblin-spawned undead with the malediction of a god dead, flensing them of a portion of their vitality. They bounded forward, met by Sol’s spinning axe, cutting one down, but the others piled in, flailing with claws and tentacles.

He and Sol fought back to back, Xerxes with the force of the Other, Sol with strength of arms. Yet the sheer number of Bonedrinkers was too much, and Xerxes felt himself weaken, tumble. Sol shifted stance, stepping protectively over his fallen friend, slaying two more, stopping the advance of another. His whirling blade moved like silver lightning, an avalanche of steel, the incomparable skill born in him and honed on the bloody sands of Srax. Yet it could not be everywhere, and even mighty Sol faltered. Xerxes watched in a haze as Sol faltered, stooped to one knee, forced to lash clumsily with his axe simply to keep the drinkers back.

The Shadow moved in his mind, welling in his heart. Once more, just once. He closed his eyes, letting the black power move through him, blasting the remaining Bonedrinkers into darkness. Seeing the enemy vanish into putrescent smoke before them, Sol collapsed against the wall, leaving a bloody smear behind him.

“Good… good work Xerx,” he gasped. Xerxes shuffled up beside his friend and, with one thumb hooked in the belt Kayan had gifted him with, placed the other on Sol. The countless wounds on the half Orc sealed, though he was still slick with his own blood and painfully bruised. Xerxes was about to channel more healing into Sol, but the big half Orc grabbed his wrist at the last moment, and lay it on Xerxes’ own chest.

“Can’t do it all on my own, mate,” smiled the big half-Orc, achingly rising to his feet, and offered Xerxes his hand. He gratefully took it. “Don’t fancy going near that pool. Probably some sort of squiddy beast in there. What do you reckon is in there?” He pointed a thick finger north, where a short passage led into another chamber.

Xerxes shrugged, and led the way. They came to a smaller chamber, in which floated a shadowy obsidian orb, nearly the size of a man. Around it orbited flickers of orange light which looked, from the corner of the eye, like lions. Sol froze.

“I remember stories from the tribe. My old aunt used to tell all us sproggs about wizards who stole souls and kept ‘em in jars. Jars like this.” Xerxes raised an eyebrow, and once more referred to the Book, which provided only this:

_Sometime the blackest
Deeds of man are not against him
A heart turned on nature_

Xerxes probed the orb with the awareness of the Other but could find nothing. Frustrated, the two backed out into the previous chamber, and decided to follow and earlier branch they had found before Bonelasher chamber.

After hurrying through the dark, they found another door and, past it, an abandoned room thick with dusk and crowded with lion-themed art, tomes and items, a hodgepodge collection of odds and ends. After digging through the mess of sculptures and pictures, they had found no clue as to where to look next. Perhaps a return to the Orb, and attempt to disturb it?


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## Pedestrian (Nov 6, 2007)

A little editorial comment, if I may.

This is the second session of the Red Hand of Doom we've played over MSN (necesitated by a move). It's a shame there's not face to face contact, but it's handy to have the resources available online, and we're not losing that much.

Due to shortage of players, I've included a few rules. Both Sol and Xerxes currently have +20hp, and have the option of refreshing 1/4 of their hit points once per day - used during the fight with the bonedrinkers. Also, they have a Destiny Point, which neither have spent. It's pretty much a "Get out of prison free" card.

The poetry in the most recent entry is something I ad-libbed during play. The Book is a big part of Xerxes backstory and character, and probably what put his feet on the road to damnation. I wanted to give it a bit more flavour than +5 to Knowledge as a Move action. I'm still refining them.

At the end of this session, Sol and Xerxes advanced to 9th level.

Thanks for reading


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## Leinart (Nov 21, 2007)

Well if your short of players and are going to continue gaming on msn Id join up, that is if your even looking.


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## Pedestrian (Nov 22, 2007)

*Session 11: Evil ends*

So, they’d left the arty room after a bit of a chinwag. There wasn’t nothing there worth having, so they’d gone back to the big room with the green pool. He’d volunteered to swim in and have a look at whatever was in it, and Xerxes had waited on the side, his shock gloves at the ready. What would that be like? Anyway, so he’d swam in the green glop. It was cold, but not like snow, more it made him cold, sucked the heat right out of him, made his arms stiff. After a bit of a struggle he’d reached the thing, which turned out to be a lion. Sol had fought lions, in the pit, but nothing as big as this one. A shaggy great brute, with paws as big as Sol’s chest. Sol struggled to the surface and waved to Xerxes before plunging beneath the goo again. It was tiring work.

Xerxes, the flash git, had just appeared beside him – magic – and the two of them had pulled the big lion, which was pretty light. Until they tried to take it from the pool, that was. They just managed it. Even out of the green stuff, the lion stayed still. It looked pretty dead, unless you noticed the rise and fall as it breathed. Xerxes flipped out his book – a funny looking thing, all black leather and blue letters – and flipped to the exact page he was looking for. Uncanny, a word from a book, was how Sol thought of it. Xerxes always knew where to look in books. He said that it was only in the Book, with big letters, and that it was more to do with the Book than Xerxes.

*Dire Lion*
_Dire Lions are throwbacks its true
To a time long before you
They live and hunt in prides
The man chooses sides
Watch out for when they run
After you as their claws are no fun
Think you this rhyme silly?
Pay attention when there is grass and hilly_

Xerxes read aloud, shrugged and turned the book to Sol. There was a picture of a lion, much like the one on the floor. “I thought it might tell us something about this lion in particular but… well, I guess the book doesn’t go into specifics. Though…” Xerxes crouched down by the lion “This one seems a little overweight.” Sol shrugged. Not sure where a lion would get pies at in this place. Xerxes suggested they try taking the lion to the black ball, and so they dragged the heavy thing along the floor. Sol was relieved the lion was well out of it. It’d probably be real angry when it woke up.

They got the lion to the ball, but nothing happened. Sol tried raising the lions paw, a hard effort, what with the animal being so stiff, to touch the globe. Still nothing. He looked at the weird chunk of crystal, and shivered. All the little lions dancing around it set him on edge. Casually, he reached around his back to his axe, unbuckling it. The weight of it was good. A real thing, his axe. Not like magic, like this big ball that ate lions, or the stuff that was eating up Xerxes. Steel.

He swung, quick as anything, both hands on the haft, sharp edge plunging down, he could see it, the blow connecting, the black stone splitting, the magic breaking. There was a ringing crack, and the shock of impact shuddered up his arms. The orb looked much as it did, unharmed. No, wait, there, a crack. The tiniest scratch. It wasn’t unbreakable. Steel was stronger. He grinned, ignoring Xerxes horrified expression. The axe came up for another swing. The room went deathly cold. He turned, lowering the axe across his chest, a guard.

A thing lurched into the room. It was spindly, yellow and stank of rot, wrapped in bit of old dead lion. Where its eyes should have been were only two spots of fire. Sick, green fire. Was that what smelt of rot? It hissed words, and the stink got worse. “Intruders. Your dare trespass in my domain? Explain yourselves.” It came closer. Sol wanted to say something, but his tongue was too heavy.

“Oh venerable one,” Xerxes was a smooth talker “we have come in search of you. We hear you aim to wreak havoc on Elsir Vale to aid the Red Hand. We have come to tell you that you do not need to help them anymore.”

“Do not have to help them? Who speaks such? I do not have to do anything. I choose! This is my choice!” The dead thing’s face twisted, the green fires flickered, bony hands twisted into claws.

“Why? Why do you choose to help the Hand?” While Xerxes did the talking, Sol edged around the corpse. One clean stroke and he could lop of its head. Problem solved.

“Why? Why? Foolish, weak thing of flesh. I will lash you to my table, feed your flesh to my lions!”

“We cannot allow you to act as you please. This land flourishes, and we will not let you make it into a wasteland such as your demesne.”

“Allow? And who are you to oppose me? I do not see the heroes of brave Rhest reborn before me. No, no, only weak, stupid playthings of fate. Tell me, living ones, how do you intend to defeat me? With steel? With spell? I am eternal, I am undying. I have rejected false gods, spurned death, rebuilt life anew."

“This day your unlife is is revoked, what is left of your soul will go to its final resting place of oblivion that all creatures such as you deserve!” Xerxes yanked the phylactery from his neck, and made to smash it against the black stone ball. With his other hand, he expunged choking darkness onto the Ghostlord, tendrils such as had torn through the goblin zombies earlier, but the ancient undead shrugged off the assault.

“Enough of meddling flesh! I will have my charm and then I will cleanse all the Vale of life!” The fires of its eyes, blanketing Xerxes and Sol in rotten flames, incinerating the comatose lion. Xerxes was spared the worst of it, and Sol just grunted as he leaned in to attack the Lich.

There were secrets in stone. Secrets passed down from the gnomes to the hobgoblins who conquered them. Secrets taken into the arena. Secrets Sol knew. Steel was stone. Flesh could be made as stone. He shifted his feet, felt the power of this old place, rocks hewn by hand, not magic, stone old as the world. He swung forward, slamming his axe into the Ghostlord’s shoulder, shattering it.

The creature slumped, half-broken, but would not quit. Xerxes danced the phylactery in buffeting blue winds, trying to crack it open. The Ghostlord lashed out with its good arm, but was too weak.

The axe rose, the mountain fell, the Ghostlord was no more.


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## Pedestrian (Nov 22, 2007)

Xerxes leafed through the Book, comparing the entry on Elsir Vale with the map they had bought. Ruins of Drellin’s Ferry. Ruins of Nimon’s Gap. Mage’s Stand. Ruins of Talar. The Horde was not far from Brindol now. They’d been contacted by Sellyria, who had warned them of the Hand’s approach, and asked them to return home swiftly. Owls had been despatched to collect them.

In the meantime, they had looked around the Ghostlord’s lair, after destroying both the phylactery and the orb. The ghostly lions that had previously illuminated the lair were gone now, as were the hobgoblins emissaries of the Red Hand, fled at the death of the Ghost Lord. A previously secret door had been left open, offering more potential for exploration. They had found a vault of treasure, wealth equal to what the elves held in trust. Sol had claimed a finely honed sword and an elephant talisman, having little interest in wealth. Even now, the warrior practiced with the keen-edged blade, acclimatising himself to its weight and feel. More interesting, to Xerxes at least, had been the mural in one of the chambers, offering tantalising hints of what had led the Ghostlord down his dark path, though no concrete answers.

A gust of air, accompanied by an avian screech, ended Xerxes’s contemplation. The owls had arrived from Brindol. The bulk of their riches were now sealed in the vault of the Lion, to await their return in victory. The two of them mounted the pair of owls, and they were off.

Flying was an exhilarating experience, not at all like the unsettling sensation of being pulled between two worlds when he walked with the Shadow. While he was above the world, he was still part of it.

The sight of the Vale, and its state, served to provide unsettlement enough. The west of the Vale burned, clouds of smoke choking the air. Below, bands of goblins wolf-riders, hobgoblin looters, giant brigands dot the land. Farms in flames, trees torn up at the root, the earth blooded and scarred. The Shadow and the Other had long since left him but, though exhausted he could not sleep. For three hours they flew, the land beneath them a ruin. Then, ahead, Brindol. But closer, much closer, the teeming multitudes of the Red Hand. And circling above it, lazy, a vast red dragon, fire crackling around its maw. The owls banked hard, rose high, to avoid the beast.

They descended, landing in the common grounds of Brindol, where a large crimson tent had been erected. Around it, a crowd had gathered, their faces now upturned at the arrival of Xerxes and Sol. Soft music filtered to their ears from the tent. Above, a lonely penant flickered in the slight night-time breeze, torchlight illuminating the symbol of the Dead Empress.

A handsome man, dressed in red painted plate hurried over to them.

“Greetings, sirs, might I ask a moment of your time?” The man’s slight accent gave him away for an Embrean. A Knight of the Ruby Lady, mused Xerxes. Missionaries spreading the unusual teachings of the Dead Empress as a preserved of beauty eternal. “My name is Alexander, and I would-“

“Where’s the Lord of Brindol?” Interrupted Sol, brusque as ever.

“I would assume he is in his home, sir. My apologies, but I am not native to this city, and so can offer no further insight,” Alexander smiled, his white teeth contrasting with the smooth bronze skin of his face. “Please, I would ask you assistance, sirs. My fellows and I are trying to arrange for these people to be taken to Dennovar, and safety. They are scared, and need the reassurance of heroes.”

“We… will try our best, Brother Alexander.” Xerxes offered. Alexander bowed. Before departing, he placed his hands upon each of them, a ruby glow suffusing his touch, and relieved some of their wounds.

It actually proved easier then Xerxes had thought. No doubt aided by their arrival on owl-back, and exaggerated tales of the battle at Drellin’s Ferry, the awed populace responded quickly to Xerxes’ kind words and, when that didn’t work, Sol’s less subtle persuasions. As the last cart of people rumbled away, Xerxes noticed a woman with brilliant red hair, her arm in a sling. She was breathtakingly beautiful but there was something about her… She was gone.

“My thanks, sirs.” Alexander bowed to the pair of them. “An honour to meet you.”

“Allejandro!” called one of the Ruby Knights. The tall Embrean bowed once more and left them. Xerxes and Sol in turn headed into the centre of the city, to Lord Jarmaath’s hall.


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## Pedestrian (Nov 22, 2007)

Lord Jarmaath’s home was a massive building, the old original stone extended and augmented with wood additions. It sat at the top of the hill Brindol was built upon, and held a commanding view of the city, the walls, the lands beyond. Within, it was as grand as the exterior. Artwork celebrating martial prowess adorned the walls, images of the Heir of Heaven in all His glory, the Celestial Throne imbued the radiance of heaven. The Jarmaaths were a pious line, thought Xerxes. In the Empire, that would have meant a cleric behind the throne, Seraphim in every shadow.

The guards ushered them, past the assembled and impatient worthies of Brindol, into the dinner hall, now acting as a war room. Around a large table a group of people were in heated discussion. Xerxes recognised Speaker Wiston and Sellyria, but none of the other four. A well dressed man was arguing with a shrewd looking woman in equal finery, his finger jabbing at a map held down by several plates. A stern, heavy set man in the Brindol colours scowled at the whole thing. The last was a woman in silvery robes possessed of an otherworldly air, a Templar.

“Ah, hello, welcome,” the well dressed broke off from his argument with the woman, walking around the table to greet them. “I am Lord Jarmaath, ruler of this city. Norro and Sellyria you have met. The others at the table are Lady Kaal, Captain Ulverth of the Lions, and High Templar Tredora Goldenbrow.” Lord Jarmaath grasped both of their wrists in turn, smiling warmly “and you are Xerxes of the South, and Sol, defenders of Drellin’s Ferry. I’ve heard a great deal of your prowess.” As he spoke, he guided the two to the table.

“Greetings,” Xerxes raised his hand to his forehead, “Sol and I have just come from the Thornwaste, where we have vanquished the Ghostlord, an ally of the horde. He is returned to myth, nothing more than a tale to frighten children, and a further blow to the Hand. What progress against the Hand has been made here in the Vale in our absence?”

“The Ghostlord dead?” Jarmaath clapped his hands together excitedly, “by the Celestial Throne, that’s good news. Another thorn gone from our side.” He swept his hand to indicate the map. “The progress is as you see it before you. We make plans to hold off an assault. Thanks to your heroic efforts in the Fens and the larger Vale, we can count on the support of the good elves of the Kiri Titor” he bowed to Sellyria “and the Shining Axes. Captain Helmbreaker reported your names to me, as have many others. Your fame grows large!

“Your deeds are well known to we in Brindol, but only in the broadest strokes.” He clapped a hand against the firm muscle of Sol’s arm “Brave Sol, have you slain greater beasts than the two Chimera you vanquished at Drellin’s Ferry?” Sol scowled, thinking a jest had been made at his expense. Jarmaath seemed not to notice. “And you, cunning Xerxes, I have no doubt your eldritch arts played a role in the downfall of the Ghostlord. So, friends, tell us of your deeds, of what you know of the Hand and its plans, any weaknesses.” He waved to a servant “See to it that our brave heroes have anything they desire. Wine? Food? No doubt the quest has put a thirst into you. Come, tell us of the Blackfens, of the monsters you faced there.”

“Sol struck down an infernal Behir guarding the crypt of the Ghostlord,” Xerxes supplied uncertainly. This was not what he had had in mind for the war council. Jarmaath seemed more intent on showing them off to the dour council then in preparing for war “And destroyed the body of the Ghostlord while I banished its festering remnant of a soul.”

“A… behir? A fiendish behir?” Lady Kaal’s voice seemed to carry a sneer, though it may only have been her cultured Argyle accent. “Did this happen to be an ally of the Hand, or just some roving monster you despatched in Waste?”

“It was at the entrance to the lair… it could have been either, I suppose.” Lady Kaal seemed unimpressed with this answer, inclining her head toward Lord Jarmaath.

“Aye, aye, the Ghostlord done. That is good, knowing the Hand will not be able to call on the forces from beyond death.” Jarmaath moved some black pebbles from the tabletop, placing them in a small coffer. “What of Rhest? The ruins of the old kingdom? Sellyria tells me you aided her people, earning their allegiance, fought off dragons and worse… though I can scarce imagine what could be worse!”

“I received visions of Rhest,” Tredora’s voice was musical, almost verging on song. Xerxes was slightly unnerved by her presence. Could it be she carried the blood of the Heralds of the Sun? “Visions of a monstrous birth. Sellyria assures us that you mercenaries dealt with it?”

“Your visions are accurate, High Templar. The Red Hand were involved in some plan to breed a new creature, infused with the blood and power of forest dragons. I can only offer guesses, as I’ve never witnessed their like, and my studies only told me that little. They are fierce, and strong, but neither so much as their dragon forebears.”

The table erupted in clamour.

“Dragon men? Did they fly?-“ “surely if they are some new miscegentation-“ “- Sol, what of the battle with them?”

“So, what have you done to get ready for the fight then?” interrupted Sol, stretching the thick fingers of his hands, to encompass the maps, looking as if he thought to scoop up the whole city into that strong grasp.

“Indeed,” Xerxes stepped up to the map, scanning the coloured stones arrayed here and there “There are dragons at hand now. We saw a red, a massive beast, on our flight to Brindol. We should prepare for that.”

“Sol is right to call us to the matter at hand, of course,” Lord Jarmaath looked vaguely disappointed, but Xerxes didn’t feel overly worried. He and Sol were not here to entertain some bored noble. “I have a plan, a bold one, but if you hear me out, I think you’ll see the wisdom in it.” As Jarmaath spoke, he moved his hands about the city map, emphasising with jabbing fingers. “If we can gain the field outside Brindol, we can strike at the Horde using our superior skill at arms to break them, perhaps cause a rout. Audacious, I know, but the element of surprise will help us gain in the early stages, and perhaps even break the Hand.”

“My Lord!” cried Captain Ulverth, horror quickly hidden on his broad face “I beg your pardon lord but we should consider using the high walls of Brindol to defend our warriors as they battle the Horde.”

“I have considered that, Lars. I am concerned that placing our men on the walls only lines them up for dragonfire, and fighting in the streets will lead to a fiery death-trap. This way, seizing the initiative, we can cut into the Horde and perhaps spare Brindol from the torch.”

“I am not certain of this plan, Jarmaath,” Lady Kaal’s voice was acidic “it seems a risky gamble for glory.”

“There’ll be no glory here. Just fighting.”

“My point, Master Sol, is that I would prefer the fighting spared lives and relied on what we have, rather than throwing them into the mouth of the Horde.”

“Well, if we mass ranks out on the field, those on the wall can shoot, give a bit of cover.”

“Aye, that is true, but if one hundred of we Lions can make a difference on the wall, a thousand all up with crossbows will make that much more.”

“What of the Halflings? And the Six of Prosser?” Xerxes had almost forgotten about the small folk of Dauth, and the band they looked to for protection.

“We… Lord Jarmaath held audience with the Six three days past,” answered Tredora, “the folk of Prosser and Dauth have either joined the militia if they are able, or moved on to Dennovar if they are not.”

“I was just considering… we need a band of those mighty in arts eldritch and martial, to assist Sol and I an vanquishing the flame drake.”

“Yeah. What about magic too? Anyone any good at that in the city?”

Lady Kaal looked distinctly uncomfortable. Captain Ulverth spoke up. “There is Immerstal the Red. Lady Kaal and he have an… understanding. We’ll have to negotiate.”

“The Temple stands with Brindol, of course.” Tredora’s amber complexion darkened for a breath. “There are also the local cults and the newcomer, the Ruby Knights. And the… the Heretics. They have all declared for Brindol.”

“It don’t matter who someone prays to if they’ll save lives.”

"Discussions of theology are better suited for another day. Suffice to say, I accept the aid of these others, but I will not condone their beliefs."

Sol grunted noncommittally. “Anyway, a bunch of magic guys would be a big help in killing the dragon. Who can lend a hand?”

“In good time Sol. First let’s attend to the broader battle, eh?” Lord Jarmaath stood straight. “So, are we to follow my plan, and seize the day? Or hide behind the walls? I’m for meeting destiny with sword in hand, so I say aye.”

“Nay.” Lady Kaal’s tone brooked no argument.

My men are brave, well-trained and equipped. But the weight of numbers against them... Out on the field, they can be consumed easily by the dragon. I cannot, in good conscience, commit to the field. I say nay."

Lady Tredora’s face was a conflict of doubt. “Though I fear… no matter. I support Lord Jarmaath’s plan. Aye for the field.”

“Two votes either way. Lady Sellyria, yours is the deciding vote.”

"My people have long relied on mobility and superior skill to survive in what you know as the Blackfens. We also use the land to our advantage. To forsake the shelter of your high walls... no, you should not send your warriors into the field. Nay."

“The nays have it then,” sighed Jarmaath.

“Ok, so what about the dragon? Who’s going to help me and Xerx out with that?”

“Sol, my friend, I suspect wherever we fight, the dragon will not waste time in finding us all.”

“Even with these high walls,” Sellyria spoke up again, “The Horde is many. You, we should consider what to do should they fall.” The council members were silent, uncomfortable at the thought of the walls failing, the Hand running unchecked through the streets. Would mentioning the possibility weaken the stone?

“All I know is there is a dragon flying with the Hand, and it needs to be dealt with.”

“Yeah, can we get some volunteers and we’ll take care of the beasty.”

“Sol, Xerxes,” Ulverth heaved a tired sight. His eyes were red, sunk into his face like he suffered from a ravaging sickness “Aye, there’s a dragon that’s to be dealt with. And five thousand hobgoblins. And two thousand more goblins on wolf-back. Who knows how many giants? There are many threats. Perhaps more than Brindol can face. The dragon’s a big one, but I need to look to the city’s defence as a whole.”

Jarmaath placed a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Lars, you are wise in the ways of war.” He lifted his hand, encompassing Sol and Xerxes in a broad sweep, “but as are these heroes. The dragon needs to be planned for, and deeply, but first let us, as Lars suggests, look to the rest of the city. And then,” he clenched his hand, grinned fiercely, “we can talk of the role you will play in the coming battle.”

“We aren’t going to!” Sol had lost his temper “Xerx and I are going to get the dragon, whether you give us help or not!”

“Yes, see to whatever you wish, and Sol and I will face the peril over the city,” Xerxes heard his voice raising, and shook his fist at the council, “We will see who will stand with us or go it alone as we need. Our only concern is the dragon and preventing it from burning the city down around us all.”

“Very well,” Jarmaath’s earlier good humour was gone, icy formality settling in its place, “I see that you are determined. We will hold council, and provide you with whatever aid we can in your dragonslaying.”

Xerxes swallowed his anger, a hard act. “We did not wish to focus on the one thing, we understand that the dragon is not the only problem, but it seemed as though you dismissed our idea and moved on, we just wished some feedback. We have not come this far just to fight a dragon, we have done that and it is not so much fun. We are here for the city and wish to discuss plans further, for all we've done all we ask is that we be of service to you”

“Look, I know what it's like. I was young once, a wanderer" Jarmaath smiled, "but I must think of the whole of the city. Yes, the dragon is a huge threat - tremendous - and likely you two must deal with it. But we cannot very ignore that potential of hundreds of hobgoblins breaking through the gate, or giant bombarding us. Do you see what I am speaking of?” Jarmaath visibly softened. Here was not a hard man, a bold tyrant, realised Xerxes. He could be decisive, perhaps, but as a ruler, Lord Jarmaath sought only to be loved.

The pair settled themselves in for a long discussion but, apart from Jarmaath, the rest of the council seemed to only half entertain their ideas. The plans went back and forth, decisions were made. The healers of the Temple would be split up amongst the units of the army, to offer support in battle. A system of barricades would be used to block the roads. Finally, Xerxes would be linked in a telepathic bond with Lord Jarmaath, Immerstal and Lady Kaal. This last point was hotly argued, and only resolved with the concession that Kaal would support a field battle outside Brindol.


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## Pedestrian (Dec 7, 2007)

*Sessions 12&13: The Battle for Brindol*

The attack came with the night. The Hand had encamped outside Brindol two days again. There was some uncertainty whether they would settle into a siege. Lord Jarmaath did not intend to give them the opportunity. Wanting to take advantage of the brightness of the summer day, the troops had ridden out early morning.

Jarmaath had wanted them protecting the flank of the city while he engaged the enemy. From the battlements, even across the city, the sound of the battle being joined could be heard, and the battlecries, screams and explosions continued for hours. Xerxes and Sol had been given command of a small group – a handful of Brindol Lions under by Captain Soranna and Tiri Kitor rangers and Trellara Nightshadow – and stationed on the North wall, the other side of the fighting. As had been agreed upon, the healers of Brindol had been broken up amongst the unit. Their healer was the warped little man Xerxes had first encountered at the Jasite mound. Wolsey. He crept around the northerner, always observing him, furtively, from the corner of his eyes.

An image of ugly, misshapen humans with blood slicked feet filled Xerxes mind. Jarmaath was attempting to communicate through the link. The southerner concentrated on the image, and it resolved into words. Giantkin are moving forward to assail the walls. I have despatched the Six from the main force to face them in the south. We’re too pressed here to defend the north. Your group will have to bring them down.

The first stone struck the wall with a clap like thunder. Even flung this far, it made the battlement shake and Xerxes had to put out a hand to steady himself.

“Giants, bombarding the walls. We have to bring them down, or the Hand will have a doorway into Brindol,” he relayed. Trellara nodded, and she and the other elves leapt onto their owls and sped into the air. The rest were forced to exit out of a small wall gate, but soon enough were sprinting over open ground. Sol took a moment to gulp down a potion, commandeered from the merchants of the city. He instantly swelled up, his already large muscles bulking to ogrish grotesquery.

The giants, four of them, were easy enough to spot, hurling boulders at the walls ceaselessly. Who knew how long they could stand under that assault? Xerxes drew ahead of the others, only at the last moment summoning his blood-slicked armour from the nether. His eyes flashed a cold, otherworldy colour, and the giants faltered in their throwing.

Soon enough, the battle was joined. The owl-riding elves, bolstered by a screeching cry from Trellara, sent arrow after arrow into the giants. In response, one of the brutes aimed a rock at Trellara. With one mighty fling, she was silenced. Her owl banked off, hoping to find healing for its mistress. Sol slammed into the giants with force to match their rock throwing, and laid about them with the lion-blade captured from the Ghostlord. The lions, more cautious, linked shields and closed on the giants. That earnt one a sharp kick that rent her shield, staggering her. Xerxes looked to the horizon. The dim mass of the Red Hand was surging, coming closer. They had been noticed.

“Quickly!” he bellowed, and focused all the netherwordly cold surging through his being into one brilliant beam, freezing a giant solid. The elves continued to pepper the giant vanquisher of Trellara with arrows, driving the creature off, while the Lions battled on and Sol sparred with a giant, reckless abandon in his every move. Soon, all the giants were dead or driven off. “Back to the walls!” They ran, the Tiri Kitor acting as rear-guard, shooting arrows against any goblin taking the lead.

Xerxes, how fairs the north?

Well, Lord Jarmaath. There were some confused images, broken swords and smouldering ruins. Panic. All is well. The giants are driven off and –

The Six are dead. The walls on the south have been broken over. Captain Ulverth and I are holding the breach.

Overhead, a crimson form surged toward Brindol, wreathed in fire and smoke. A blossom of fire spread out underneath it as it passed over the city.

The dragon! They have set the dragon loose! Again, the images of cracked blades, shattered walls, a murk of blood. We’re too pressed here. Xerxes, you and Sol have to stop the dragon!

*

The dragon’s attack on Brindol would be remembered forever after. More than what had been done, more than what came after, it came to represent both the destructive abandon of the Red Hand, and the bravery of the heroes who would defend Elsir.

Sol plummeted from the heavens, a vengeful angel to oppose the fiery dragon. With a bone shattering thud, he collided with the beast. There was no chance to use his sword here, just try and grapple with the monster. No good. It was strong. Stronger than anything he’d ever encountered. The drake got him in its claws, rolled in the air and… dropped him.

He fell hard, no time to disappear into a cloud in the same way he had gotten up there. The impact with the ground blasted the air out of him. He was pretty sure something was broken. No time to worry about that, either. His sword was fine. No use fighting a dragon in the air. Xerxes was busy fighting fires with his ice magic, and couldn’t reach the dragon anyway.

Another blast of flame, and the building behind him disappeared in a dizzying wave of heat. Sol shielded his eyes with his hands. He needed to bring the dragon down. There! A bit of debris, still smoking from dragon flame. He grabbed the still smouldering rock, ignoring the sizzling of his skin and flung it as the dragon made another pass. It tore a gash along the lizard’s belly.

“COME ON!” The half-Orc screamed, blade already in hand. The wyrm dived at him, trailing flame as it did. He met it blade first, clashing against the hard, bony ridges over the eyes.

The impact sent him skidding backwards, but he kept his foot. The dragon exhaled a gout of smoke at him, then lunged. His strike flew off the beats armoured hide, leaving not a scratch. In return, he was subject to a dizzying assault of talon, fang and tail, forcing him to retreat.

Scornful, the dragon reared onto its haunches and let forth a sulphurous gout of flame, immolating a home. Sol attempted a lunge, but he couldn’t drive the blade through the creature’s belly. In return, the dragon snapped down on his arm, mangling it, and tried to toss him into the flames. Stubborn, the warrior resisted.

Stubborn, but weakened. He backed away, fumbling to find a potion. He couldn’t think, it was so damn hot. The red dragon darted toward him, mouth wide. He just managed to duck aside, warding it off with his now clumsy sword.

“Wolsey, tend Sol!” A burst of bright, cool light passed over his head, freezing the dragon. It roared, leaping over Sol to attack Xerxes, trying to drive the northerner into the flames. A clammy palm fell on Sol’s shoulder, and the smell of loam filled his nostrils. He took something into himself, and the pain of his many wounds lessened.

Grunting, he charged the dragon’s back, scoring a deep hit. The dragon rose into the air, immolating the ground beneath it as it did. Sol, Xerxes and Wolsey were all caught in the flames. The agony was maddening. Wolsey collapsed, a smoking ruin, barely alive.

The dragon roared, and plunged at Sol. Again, they collided. But this time, Sol was the stronger. His feet on the earth, he called up its power and struck the dragon down, splitting its skull.

Xerxes had a far away look in his eyes, so Sol saw to Wolsey. There was only so much the infused tincture of the potion could do, but to the strange priests credit, he never once cried out in pain.

“The Hand have broken through. We have to hold the Dawn Way.”

*

The first wave of attackers fell easily. Xerxes wiped most of them out with a glance, leaving only shaken commanders and blood-hungry manticores, and they had fallen under Sol’s blade.

The second wave, Bugbear berserkers that the Hand had dug up in some unknown pit, had taken a bit more effort. Still, Sol single-handedly despatched half of them, the others falling to a combination of Xerxes’ chill stare, arrows from the defenders and their squad, and a manticore zombie raised by Wolsey.

Wolsey had disappeared during the third wave of attackers, muttering about the dragon. A wise choice. The barricade, and all the defenders had fallen. Captain Soranna had held out to the last, battling alone against one of the five dragon monsters that had blasted the road block with lightning.

It had been a massacre, and at the end only Sol and Xerxes survived. But they held the road. Held it against the best the Red Hand had to send at them. Goblin, bugbear, manticore, dragon. All of them fell before the pairs combined might. Nothing got past them. Or so they thought.

Halfway through a message recalling them to the Cathedral square, Lord Jarmaath abruptly stopped. The Dawn Way, choked with bodies of the Hand and defender alike, would have to be abandoned.

*

An assassin who had somehow broken through the lines of defence had laid low Lord Jarmaath. Lady Kaal was on her way to take command, but in the meantime, the Autarch of the True Law had been trying to maintain order in the army. She was a powerful woman, pale-skinned and red haired. There was also something familiar about her. Half the cathedral square was filled with chattering, panicking soldier. The other half was empty. Except for the bodies. Seven people picked off trying to get Jarmaath to safety.

When Sol and Xerxes had arrived, the Autarch – she answered to no name, only this title – had apprised them of this, all but commanding them to slay the assassin and bring back his head. They had agreed to this, as the forces being in such disarray as the Red Hand assailed Brindol was a death sentence for all. “In Nomine” the Autarch called after them as they moved off.

Quickly, they moved into the empty stretch, Sol in the lead. An arrow flew towards him and he moved his sword in a defensive arc, knocking the poisoned projectile from the air. It was come from the second floor window of a coffin makers.

Xerxes disappeared, returning a second later beside the assassin. It was a hideous monster, some blasphemous crossbreed dragon-man. Unhesitating, Xerxes focused the void energies of the Bitter Angel, freezing the creature. The monster gasped in agony, but dropped its bow in favour of a cruel looking sword and pressed the offensive. Xerxes found himself unable to respond. The creature would fade from sight, only to reappear and land a telling blow. Even when Xerxes could see it, he could scarcely harm it with his spear.

Below, Sol had been confronted by two sorcerous Hobgoblins. Fortunately, Wolsey’s zombie manticore had taken the brunt of their lightning bolts. Sol didn’t take time to reflect on how they’d managed to get into the square. He just hacked them apart, and bolted up the stairs. He registered Xerxes’s wounded condition, and the flickering horned dragon-thing, and leapt into the fray. With one bone-splitting strike, he finished off that threat too.

Sol hacked off the head, and the two of them staggered into the square. The Autarch raised their arms, making a bold speech, but at this point the two of them were too tired to listen, or care.

Then, Alexander rode in at the head of his band of Ruby Knights. He was bloody and battered, but he and his almost-red charger still gleamed with fervour. “Captain Ulverth has fallen, and our lines broken. The general of the Red Hand marches now to sack the Cathedral and finish the city!”

*

Clouds choked the light of the moon and stars, the first all through this abominable summer. They had formed over five minutes, an impossible space of time. Magic. Torches had been lit, but the advantage was to the Hand in these conditions. Frightened Brindol defenders formed uneasy ranks. The cruel sneer of the Autarch stilled any murmurs from her black armoured followers, holding the left flank. The Ruby Knights, led by Alexander, arrayed in their battered finery, stood on the right. Sol and Xerxes held the centre ground, stood alone. They waited.

They did not have to wait long. A steady drumbeat, underscored by the thump of booted feet. Down the Dawn Way they came. Giantkin, goblins and monsters. Down the Dawn Way came the Red Hand. At the lead were the cruel mystic Koth, the vicious hunter Saarvith, the cunning storm-witch Ulwai. At the lead strode General Kharn, a towering, muscular hobgoblin, encased in blood red scales, a thick shield and cruel hooked pick coated in blood. Down the Dawn Way came doom.

“Slay the weaklings! Crush their bones!” roared Kharn, brandishing his pick at the huddled defenders, “but those are mine.” The barbed red tip of the pick focused on Sol and Xerxes. Battle was joined,

“So, pup,” spat the general as he engaged Sol, sending his Giants to batter Xerxes, “I have learnt you stole the sword arts of the Mighty. Face me. See what power a true master can wield!” Sol felt his resolve falter before the general’s fanatical stare. The half-Orc and the Hobgoblin span about one another, Sol keeping his sword out level, the general facing him shield out, side on, the pick hanging almost casually behind him. Then they crashed. Sol’s blade connected first, a solid blow.

“Whelp,” Kharn seemed unfazed “A true master knows how to call on stone.” The pick came forward, avalanche quick, and smacked into Sol’s shoulder. He felt his collarbone snap, worried for a moment his shoulder had gone with it. Kharn ripped his pick from Sol, the ferocity of the action nearly pulled the warrior over. Blood spurted from the wound.

A wail from the crowd diverted all attention for a moment, as Wolsey, riding the still gore-slicked skeleton of Abithriax, dived into the battle, savaging Kharn’s Ogre guard. Xerxes desperately shot ice at Kharn, forcing him to back off from Sol. It cost the northerner though, as a massive club slammed into his breastplate, sending him skidding backwards.

The storm-witch screamed, and the heavy clouds poured their tears. The cadence of the rain mixed with the beating of Sol’s heart. A flash, as lightning struck the stones nearby, incinerating some men. This was no time to be weak. He had to fight through, win this. He had to.

Sol surged forward, slamming aside the general’s shield with his foot, and slashed Kharn across the face and neck. Kharn was knocked backwards, his feet scrabbling on the wet floor. A scream of pain was drowned by thunder. “My mistress gives me strength!” He roared like a bloodied bull, coming at Sol head on. Another swing of the pick, this time crackling with profane energy.

But the half Orc had the advantage now. Skillfully, he deflected the barbed weapon, turning it aside. Then, with a duck and a lunge, he slashed alongside the torn Hobgoblin, coming up behind Kharn. The hobgoblin, choking on his own blood now, turned in a daze to Sol. His vision was already elsewhere.

“You think… this is victory?” Through his bloody lips, his teeth were stained orange red. “This… is not… over. The High Wyrmlord will… bring my mistress… and… with her… hell.” Before Kharn could collapse, Sol ran him through.


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## Pedestrian (Dec 7, 2007)

The speech given by Lord Jarmaath of Brindol on 23 High Summer RF 503.

Hail to thee,

The armies of the Red Hand are defeated, broken at the siege of Brindol. The surviving Wyrmlords have fallen to squabbling, the mass of the Horde dispersed across the Vale. This army will trouble the good peoples of Elsir no more! The battle was not without cost, many good men and women laid down their lives before the Throne. But none of this, none at all, could have been accomplished without the aid of bold Sol and cunning Xerxes!

Heroes from Drellin's Ferry first confronted the Horde. Though succesful in initial skirmishes, they laid down their lives at the Skull Gorge Bridge, leaving only one survivor, Marcus who bore the grim news back to the hamlet. It was here that Sol and Xerxes entered our lands, along with Kayan. Together with the survivor, they ensured that the refugees of the Ferry lived, and that Speaker Wiston and Captain Sorrana could warn we of Brindol, though death's shadow reached out to claim those brave two at the last.

From there, the brave pair, along with Kayan, travelled north, to the bogs of Blackfen, the lost Rhest. Here they thwarted a terrible breeding plan by the Red Hand, to create monsters of terrible draconic might. In doing so, they secured the allegiance of the noble Tiri Kitor, wild elf folk of the fen, and their champions Sellyria, Trellara and Killiar. Today we also remember the name of Trellara, lost in the fight against the giants.

Xerxes and Sol rode south, south to the Thornwaste. On their path, they destroyed Red Hand blockades, battled giantkin and ensured monies for the noble Hammerfist dwarves would reach our staunch allies. Captain Helmbreaker, long may his soul rest, marched to the defence of Brindol on the word of our heroes. They also brought the small folk of Dauth and the strong hearts of Prosser, home of the now lost Six Blades, to Brindol's defence.

In the Thornwaste, they confronted great evil, the evil of the unliving, never dying Ghostlord! This long fallen druid, now an ally of the Red Hand, planned to swell the Horde's ranks with merciless corpse soldiers. For this, the pair brought death to the dead, and laid waste to his lion fortress. And so, they came once more to Brindol.

The battle was against us from the start. The numbers of the Horde were limitless, the skies filled with their monstrous allies, the horizon blackened by chanting savages. In the initial engagement, the heart of our forces would be lost, Captain Ulverth's sacrifice in vain, the lives of the Hammerfists spent for nothing! But for Sol and Xerxes! With their steel and their magic, they saved the north wall from Giant artillery, slaying the beasts. Alone they battled the mighty red dragon, which wrought fiery ruin upon the city, and meted it death in price. Though all else fell before the onrushing horde, the pair held the Dawn way, granting time for we of Brindol to rally at the Temple. I owe them personal thanks, for slaying my would be assassin, killer of the good hearts of my guard and the old Speaker of the Ferry. Finally, they would face the General of the armies of the Red Hand. Hravek Kharn.

A vile brute, encased in Red Dragon armour. An acid spewing, curse throwing monstrosity in service of dark powers. Alone, Sol faced this cur. Alone, Xerxes held off the giants. Though the forces of Brindol, the Ruby Knights and the True Law battled the Horde and the lesser Wyrmlords around them, it was this battle that was to be the decisive one...

We stand here, today, in the square of Brindol, unbeaten. You all know the outcome of that fight. Sol slew the champion, the captain of the Horde! Or so we thought. In Kharn's dying words, he spelled out the doom that was yet to come. "My mistress comes..." he said "and with her comes Hell!"

The augurs of those blessed of the Temple who did not fall alongalongside their mistress High Priestess Goldenbrow of the Temple have unravelled a plot most foul. One more remains, the architect of this evil. The High Wyrmlord Azzar Kul. And he plans yet to open a gate, to the pit, and usher forth the armies of hell, with his fivefold mistress at the head!

I call out to you, good people of the Vale, and those good people who have flocked here from other lands to aid us in our struggle, I call out to you now, to stand beside us again, to walk with our champions into peril! Will you march with them, stand shoulder to shoulder against the darkness? Will you turn it back, close the door, send this shadow back whence it came?

The heroes, Sol and Xerxes, go forth boldly into the peril. But this, they cannot stand against alone. Will you stand with them?


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## Pedestrian (Dec 7, 2007)

*Another word from behind the curtain*

The Battle of Brindol was resolved in two six hour sessions, played on consecutive days. It was mostly monster bashing, with chances to show off two things. Firsty, how strong the characters and how versatile the players of Sol and Xerxes are. Secondly, to bring home how it was up to them to defeat the Red Hand menace. As you can see both from the events in the Story Hour, and the run-down given by Lord Jarmaath, the body count for NPCs was very, very high. It was also a good opportunity to see how the "per encounter" resources of the Warblade and and the Binder work. While they can do everything all day, some of their tricks were worn out very early. I also tinkered with the ability of Balam, allowing Xerxes to do a 5d8 ray of cold every 5 rounds (instead of 2d8 cold gaze every round, Fort DC, which was quite dull to actually play).

Mentioning that section, I compiled that precis of what had come before, and this most recent session, as our next game will be played in person when I return home for the Christmas holidays. I've invited some former players to join in, hence the call to arms.

During this session, Sol and Xerxes reached level 10, and are just over one thousand exeprience from level 11. Wolsey is the follower of Xerxes, a cleric of Wee Jas (in her Argylean Mother of Secrets and Deep Earth aspect) who is dabbling in Binding magic. Sol switched his focus and specialisation from great axe to Falchion, and has been picking up the feats to move into Master of the Nine, for extreme Kung Fu action. Xerxes continues to accrue a frightening number of meta-spell-like feats.

Where I usually play the sessions directly out of the book, this time I customised Wyrmlord Kharn. Instead of a Favoured Soul, I made him a Crusader/Talon of Tiamat. This made him a fair bit easier to run, cut down on the number of spell-casters in the leadership of the Hand, and dovetailed nicely with him being the general/champion of the Red Hand. I'm going to do something similar with Azarr Kul when he shows up - though more in terms of reducing DM load and increasing flavour than changing him from prophet of the Fivefold.

Thanks for reading.


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## Pedestrian (Feb 1, 2008)

*Session 14: The Fane of Tiamat*

Only two volunteered to join Sol and Xerxes.

The first was Andel Mor, one of the two surviving Blades of Prosser. A native of the Vale, he wielded a strange silver sword, and stranger still powers. Local gossips had whispered for many years of his fey air, that he could vanish from sight, walk with the storm and see in darkest night. He had been beaten unconscious during the battle at the wall, waking to find the battle won and all but one of his friends dead.

Ben Morris was the other. Brother to Tom, he had been sent from Bereg to see what had stopped Tom’s usually punctual letters home. A capable warrior, he was a Hillman from the Arglanic border, used to fighting hit and run in the mountainous region between his home and the aggressive human kingdom. He had arrived at Brindol in time to chase off goblin battle scavengers, probably saving Andel’s life. Though no-one he had met could recall Tom’s presence, Ben hoped he might find some sign of his brother.

So they were five: Xerxes, practically crackling with netherworldy potency, accompanied still by Wolsey, riding the skeleton of Abithriax, his mind drawn to Xerxes’ mysteries; Sol, now armoured in the red scales Kharn had worn to battle; Andel of the Six, withdrawn and grieving; and Ben Morris, eager for goblin blood on his axes, more eager still for sign of his brother.

It had been arranged that Immerstal the Red would transport the group to Drellin’s Ferry. It took until mid-day before the wizard was roused from his tower. The handsome, reclusive wizard had gained his title from the mane of deep red-brown hair he wore long, and mostly uncared for. Muttering all the while about reckless tomb robbers and the terrible disruption of his ongoing work charting movement of the spheres, Immerstal finally discharged his duty, transporting the group in two parties to their destination – a ‘dead end backwater’ that he had ‘hoped never to see again’. Ben Morris noted the tear in the man’s eye as he looked over the ruins of his childhood home, but decided it better to say nothing. Immerstal provided Andel Mor – who the magus termed an ‘amateur and a dilettante, likely to get himself killed with his imbecilic dabbling’ – with scrolls of teleport to transport themselves away from the Fane once the High Wyrmlord was thwarted. Without a goodbye, or further complaint, the wizard disappeared, back to his tower and his sphinx companion.

They spent the remainder of the day – wasted as it had been by procrastination on Immerstal’s part – searching the ruins of the village. No building had been spared fully from the looters and vandalism of the Horde. Fire blackened wood jutted from blackened ground, shattered glass crunched under foot, and the stink of burnt meat still clung to the air. The river was filled with filth that had yet to wash away, choked with debris from the shattered hamlet. After a slow and careful crossing – the Hand had wrecked all the ferries and the lines they used to cross – they searched out a relatively intact warehouse and made camp for the evening.


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## Pedestrian (Feb 1, 2008)

It was cold. So cold. His teeth chattered, flesh shivered against the bite of it. But every move sent a stab of agony across his many wounds. He could barely stand from the pain, the blood loss. He tried to focus on something else. Rumbling clouds laughed at him high above. No comfort there. There was a crash of thunder. Stone splitting. It opened up a world of sound. Screams of pain, of the dying crashed into his ears, double the agony of his crushed side. The ground sailed away from his feet as a piggish laugh fell about him, only to reach up and grab his rag-doll form. A shadow fell across him, a giant with stinking feet ready to kick and crush him. Weakly, he struggled to get up, to get his sword. Fingertips brushed on something cold. He couldn’t move. He was too cold. Exhausted. Weak. Another crushing blow folded him. Sardith, crushed deep into the dirt, looked at him with dead eyes. “Sorry” he tried to say, couldn’t even shape his lips.

His thoughts scattered away with the clattering of hooves. The death blow never came. Instead, a cool radiance bathed him. It was not warm. If anything, it was colder than the night air, worse than the bludgeoning giant. Yet he grasped it, held on. There was a rider. Man or woman, Andel could not tell, a moon-light figure, hair the eyeless dark between stars, clad in thorns, astride a steed of morning mist. The rider spoke, but the words fell about Andel’s ears more like raindrops than sound.

“I don’t understand” he reached out, his fingers grasping at the pregnant moon high above. Sol and Ben, illuminated by the dying embers of the fireplace, looked over at him. Andel feigned sleep and they went back to their discussion, leaving him to wait out the night. This was not the first time the Rider had visited him in dreams, and he had no desire to return to them.


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## Pedestrian (Feb 1, 2008)

They pressed on. The Witchwood was eerily silent. It was likely it had seemed been scoured clear by goblin hunters. The signs of the Hand’s passage through the area was clear, scarred trees, fire damage. Vraath Keep, which Andel assured them was haunted, they avoided, spending the night in a magical shelter wrenched up from the depths by Xerxes. The night passed safely, and they moved on. Further into the wood, they passed a pile of stripped, cracked bones, further signs of the Hand’s predations.

Xerxes and Wolsey walked together, Wolsey’s ‘pet’ just behind, the Jasite murmuring questions to the northerner, who responded only infrequently. Sol and Ben strode ahead, chatting happily about battles, weaponry and styles. Andel walked apart, partially out of a desire to be alone, partly because of the pull wild places always held for him.

The forest thinned, and was replaced with thorny bush and hardy, yellowed grass. Ahead was the Skull Gorge bridge. Ben gasped. Nailed directly to the stone of the two near towers were a pair of corpses. One had been tall, though nothing more could be said. The body had been blasted, charred and shrivelled. The other had faired a little better, though a month under Elsir’s burning sun had taken its toll. Still, scraggly strands of straw blonde hair stuck our from the skull.

Ben wept.


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## Pedestrian (Feb 1, 2008)

It was four days hard travel through the mountains to reach the Fane. The hard slog left them ill-prepared for what they faced. The mountain in which the Fane rested, nestled deep within the range, had been carved into a likeness of the Chromatic Queen. Wolsey’s pet was sent ahead, the skeletal red dragon skittering along the broad stone path. It reached the massive double doors, nestled under a smaller replica of the sculpture.

“Who dares challenge the might of the Fivefold?” boomed five voices from the heads of the dragon. Sol, Andel, Wolsey and Ben looked about, shocked and terrified.

“It’s a trick,” Xerxes’ mind was shielded by the powers of the nether-realm, and it prevented intrusive mind play, “Wolsey, keep your dragon forward.” The death priest nodded, and his dragon leapt at the gate. A flash of elemental fury scorched the creature.

Then, shadows fell across them as a massive blue dragon, and two smaller drakes, leapt out from the gargantuan statue. They strafed across the skyline, blasting the group with lightning and acid. Only Ben, frighteningly swift, avoided the painful assault. He grabbed Sol by the belt and, nodding reassuringly, hefted the half-Orc into the air, aiming him straight at the blue dragon, before charging off after the green. Wolsey’s monster bounded across the stone, intercepting the black dragon. It jumped at the smaller drake, wrapping itself around the black and plummeting to the canyon floor below.

The fight carried on, with Andel blasting green-gold fire at the dragons, Ben springing and slashing with twin axes. Sol and Xerxes worked as a team, the mystic carrying his friend in the Shadow’s embrace to fling himself bodily at the blue, struggling in mid-air and firing back and forth. During this, Xerxes spotted the lair of the wyrms, but could take no time to explore.

Bellowing mystic words, the dragon would blast them with bolts of lightning, then spilling fire from a wand clutched in one hooked claw, cursing the troublesome half-orc who time and again rose to fight him. The green, smaller and less sure, was driven off, half it’s tail chopped clean away by Ben’s axe.

Xerxes made a gambit to bring the dragon down before his reach into the Shadow faded. Aiming a freezing gust of wind at the serpent’s wings, he brought the beast to ground. Before it fell, the dragon managed one last blast of flame from its wand. Now, however, the battle became a brutal melee along the side of the mountain. Sol and Ben took the fore, with Andel hanging back, assaulting the monster with eldritch power.

A lucky blow from Sol slid through the dragon’s breast, ending the father of the Red Hand. From there, a quick climb revealed great treasure in the shared lairs of the dragons. A veritable fortune in relics and coin. A champion’s belt for Sol. Andel took possession of a charred staff that thrummed with power. Xerxes found a pair of heavy iron gauntlets, spiked and crackling with electricity. Ben grabbed trinkets from the hoard. Wolsey, meanwhile, replaced his pet with the dead blue dragon, calling up the power of She in the Vault of Ruby to give mockery of life to the monster.

Unable to overcome either the lock or the magical wards of the gate, Andel called up his fey  bred powers to batter at them. One hand was wreathed with a continuous beam of crackling gold-green, the other clutched the staff of fire. This assault would not go unnoticed.

It did not. As the mountain trembled and shook, the door split open to reveal a surging mass of onyx dragonmen. Yet Xerxes and Andel, levelling lightning and flame, swept them aside swiftly.

The mountain trembled beneath their feet. Andel’s assault had weakened structures already damaged by the profane rite of Azar Kull. Not hesitating, they surged into the collapsing temple. Inside was chaos, as monsters attempted to flee. They progressed unopposed. In one chamber, they found hooded acolytes chanting as part of the ritual. Wolsey’s new dragon was set on them.

Forward, and up, flying with aid of magical scrolls through to the Fane’s sanctum, where Azar Kull enacted black rituals. The hulking hobgoblin-dragon was limned all over in sparking red electricity, his voice raised in deafening roar with the wind that whipped about the room. The hot, stinking air flowed out from a rippling crimson crack, through which was visible the churning wasteland of the Hells. And there, glimpses of a many faced form.

Sol lead the charge, but the High Wyrmlord was not unaware. He disappeared in a choking flash of brimstone, appearing on the flank of the confused party, before erupting in a miasma of elemental fury. Wolsey was consumed in an eyeblink, and Xerxes collapsed.

Flawless, Sol altered his course, and collided with the High Wyrmlord, bringing his hard used blade down in a gleaming arc. Crimson lightning played along the edge, trying to ward off the blow, but to no avail, and the mighty warrior cleaved off the dark cleric’s arm at the shoulder.

The wind died down, and Azar Kull staggered backwards, shock on his horned, hideous face.

“She comes….She comes!” he choked out before collapsing, his thick dark blood coating the floor.

The sound of the wind erupted once more, louder than ever. The tiny red gate opened with an audible ripping sound, accompanied by a flash of light and heat. As their eye’s cleared, Sol, Andel and Ben beheld the terrible, true form of Tiamat.

A roiling black cloud spread across the pedestal. From it, a crackling arc emerged, resolving into a draconic head over the body of the High Wyrmlord, long enough to devour the corpse. Then, a thick trunk of magma erupted upwards, becoming another dragon head, this one gleaming red, existing long enough to blast through the Fane’s ceiling, further weakening the mountain. With a hateful roar, the monstrous devil-god spread ash wings, pushing herself into the sky, stained in revulsion at her touch.

The Fivefold Empress of Terror and Despair had come to Elsir.


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## Sol.Dragonheart (Feb 2, 2008)

Very well written and entertaining story hour.  By the way, what happened to Kayan?  Last I read of him he was set to join the PCs once more when the Elf Riders showed up at Brindol, yet Sol and Xerxes left without him, or mention of him.


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## Pedestrian (Feb 8, 2008)

*Session 15: Against Tiamat*

Sol, Xerxes over his shoulder, struggled up out through the roof of the ruined Fane, Andel and Ben just behind him. The miasmic body of the Dragon Queen was fading into the distance, but she left a trail easy to follow. The sky churned at her passing, bloody stained, and the ground below was cracked and scorched.

Angry wails echoed off of the mountainside, as Red Hand warriors began to stream up and out of the trembling mountain. Andel reached into his belt, producing a scroll. His troubled face looked about the group.

“Immerstal’s spell will only carry three of us.”

“Of you go then, boys. I’ll deal with these ‘ere goblins, don’t you worry.” Ben didn’t look at the others as he pulled his twin axes from his back, instead focusing his attention on the horde picking its way from the ruins. They weren’t making a move for them yet, but all of them were battered, Xexes near death. Easy pickings. Andel laid a hand on Sol’s shoulder as he began to chant the words on the scroll.

“Here, Ben, you might use these.” Sol unstrapped his old gauntlets, whose spirit uplifting might had borne him through many a battle. The dwarf smiled up at the half-Orc as he accepted the gift. Then they were gone.

“Well now lads, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” Ben smiled as he pulled on the chunky gauntlets, tightening them a little. Then, with a Bereg whoop, he ran headlong at the nearest gang.

*

The three appeared in the Jarmaath’s hall. The assembled council looked aghast at the bloodied and burnt trio. The Lord of Brindol hurried forward, calling for Templars to attend them.

“Jarmaath, there is little time,” Xerxes began, his consciousness briefly returned to him. He did not have opportunity to speak further, as the great ashwood doors of the chamber swung open, an irate Immerstal hurrying forward.

“What have you done? What have you dabblers done?” The wizard looked furiously from one haggard face to the other. “My calculations thrown out, the speculum splintered. You’ve forced open a doorway, and neglected to close it!”

“Master Immerstal, calm yourself” commanded Jarmaath. “What do you mean?”

“During the battle with the High Wyrmlord, a gateway to the hells opened and the Dragon Queen forced herself through, Brindol her destination” Xerxes supplied wearily, continuing despite gasps of shock and horror “I think it was probably the result of Kull’s rite, which we interrupted.”

“You have the right of it.” Immerstal nodded, smoothing his long hair with shaking hands. “Fortunate that you interrupted the ritual, then, as likely this is but a fragment of the goddess’ potency, a talon in our world if you will. But she will be able to exert more influence and might if she gains a supply of souls. No doubt why she has cast her hateful gaze on Brindol.”

“Can anything be done Immerstal? Magic to banish the fiend?” The Lord of Brindol looked tired, worn down by the past month. His once black hair was now shot through with grey and white, and his leg had not healed well.

“With the help of the other powers of the city I might  be able to raise some warding around the city… the Autarch of this migrant cult might help, perhaps. I suspect she is the only one left with strength sufficient. Presently, this aspect of the goddess is a ravenous thing, hungry for souls, an elemental creature, easily prodded along a course, though not easily contained” The young wizard regarded the three warriors “Ridding us of this infernal wyrm would fall to you three.”

*

The next day, having been healed by the Templars at Brindol, Sol, Xexes and Andel waited at the great gate of Brindol, linked through the wards to Immerstal and one another through a telepatchic bond. The walls had suffered a heavy beating during the siege, and repairs had only been started. Ballista still lined the walls, and a pair of defensive trebuchets had been built within the ground. Finally, massive fail-safe props had been put in place during the siege to offer emergency support to the wall. Rigged to fall at the swing of a sword, the props might damage the wall, but also would support crumbling structures.

The plan was simple. Immerstal and the Autarch would use the powerfulold Tiamat at the gate for as long as they could, battering away at the infernal energy that shielded her. Those protections prevented harm from reaching her body, but also acted as a ravenous extension of her will, tearing and rending any who tried to close.

The scarring sky heralded her arrival. The movement of her choking, smouldering wings snapped across the still dawn with a thunderclap. The vile vapours clinging to her buzzed and hissed, sweeping the ground beneath, polluting land and water beneath her shadow. At moments, a coil of energy might extend from the centre of her, gaining coherent form and draconic semblance for a moment before retreating into the rotten-wound coloured mists that sheltered her.

A whirling chunk of masonry flew up in greeting to the queen, but flew too high. Xexes and Sol rushed to the battlement to fire bolts at the Fivefold, as Andel hurried to set props into readiness to support the damaged wall.

Choking flame, a vortex of heat and ash, washed over the wall, blackening the gate and filling the air. Xerxes tried a bolt of lightning, only to see it absorbed in a flash of lightning. Sol ran to another ballista, sending a bolt into the poisonous mist. Silver sword slashed taut rope, and Andel sent a prop to support the weakened wall.

More of Tiamat’s elemental fury was unleashed, but Sol and Xerxes did not relent in their assault. Every bolt fired seemed to reduce the clawing mists, and soon the deeper darkness, the god herself, was revealed. Andel kept at the props, dropping them when needed, keeping well back of the tearing, terrible darkness.

Not a moment too soon, as a massive crack of lightning split the doors wide open. Tiamat swept through, into the city. Through the link, they could hear a wail of pain from Immerstal as the strength of the wards was tested fiercely. The devil queen surged ahead, unerring in her pursuit of mortal flesh. Any poor soul that was devoured by her would be utterly consumed to bolster her might.

A running battle through the streets. Xerxes teleported ahead, Sol at his side. Together, they hacked and slashed at the swift, low-flying dragon queen. Andel tarried, unsure, bolstering himself with invocation and enchantment. Meanwhile, the many headed monster darted those maws not ravaging the flesh of her assailants into windows and doors, vainly trying to sniff out humans who had fled. Still, the slow and the fearful fed her terrible hunger.

Now she rose, up and up into the sky, spreading her wings broad to darken the sky over all Brindol. Sol and Xerxes, badly hurt, cursed vainly. Andel attempted to strike the monster with bolts of viridian fire, but she was now out of reach. The coiling, crackling, elemental faces of the queen stretched forth from the tenebrous center, raining ruin down on the city.

The warding is rent Immerstal’s voice echoed through their minds but the strains of magic remains. I may be able to help you. The three felt their feet lift off of the ground ever so slightly.

Sol wasted no time, racing up into the heavens in pursuit of the dragon-queen. His sword, gleaming in the rising rays of the sun, slashed thrice across Tiamat. There was an explosion of fire and ice, ashes and water rained down across Brindol as the heads Terror and Savagery were rent from the dragon queen. Tyranny, Cunning and Cruelty remained, and sank their fangs deep into the half-orc, ripping his flesh and flinging him through the sky. Xerxes teleported into the air beside Sol, channelling the healing energy of his relic belt to bolster his old friend’s faltering might, returning him to consciousness. Andel distracted Tiamat, blasting her with his eldritch born might, keeping her from the others as he zipped around.

Sol and Xerxes flew in together, flanking the dragon. Sol’s armband flashed red, warding off a brutal snapping bite from the black Queen, Cruelty. Xerxes attempted to slam his spiked fist into the acid visage of Cunning, but the crackling form of Tyranny bellowed an intercession, sending him spinning through the air.

More sword strokes from, and the acidic heads were cut into oily smoke and slime, falling away from the dragon queen. Tyranny roared in defiance, but the Dragon Queen was overmatched, defeated. A laden silence filled the air, and then a massive explosion roared out from the failing god. Crimson electricity rippled through all three of them, out through the sky. Andel and Xerxes, each in their own way attuned to the dance of worlds, felt something pulse behind unseen doorways. Sol, iron and blood, endured the worst of the searing pain and confused images.

The poisoned light faded, and the three hung over Brindol, finally victorious.


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## Pedestrian (Feb 8, 2008)

*Epilogue: Snowflakes and Spiderswebs*

In the months that followed, changes would come. Lord Jarmaath, a noble lord, took it upon himself to reward each hero individually.

Andel he guided into the depths of the Jasite shrine, wherein were kept many relics. In a stone coffin that predated the artistry of the Empire, leaves in autumn colours lay. The lord bid young Andel to command the leaves with the word Kinori. As Andel did thus, the leaves swirled up, clothing him in fey armour made of thorns and the old powers dancing in the morning mist.

To Sol, he presented a crown, obtained from the north. The threat to Elsir gone, Jarmaath met the warrior as he prepared a horse to ride out across Elsir and all Crucis, to see the world. Jarmaath’s gift to Sol was Clarity. An iron band set with three sparkling diamonds. When Sol set the pretty thing across his brow, he understood.

Finally, to Xerxes, the old Lord arranged to meet for private council. He explained to the northerner that he was to renounce his place as Lord of the city but he could not, in good conscience, leave the city bereft of protectors. As his last act, he would appoint Xerxes Steward of the Dawn Way, stationed at Vraath Keep. To keep the mystic occupied during his time there, he presented a small trinket, the puzzles of which he left for Xerxes to discover.

Jarmaath stepped down, Lady Kaal took his place. The Temple would be led by High Templar Cohen, and the True Law under the Autarch began construction of the Citadel in Brindol. Dragons – mercenaries bought from Dennovar – took the place of Lions. A statue was erected at Nimon Gap, now known as Mage’s Stand for the heroic last stand of the mage Marcus. Drellin’s Ferry was rebuilt.

Months passed, the snows fell. Soon, the Thunder Son festival would be upon Elsir.

Green eyes, looking out from thick bushes overlooking Starsong Hill, narrowed. Slim fingers, gloved in silk uncannily like a spiders, clenched around thorns.

“We will be avenged.”


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## Pedestrian (Feb 8, 2008)

So that's it, the Red Hand of Doom finished. Only took half a year, and two and a half parties worth of characters. It's been a lot of fun, though some things were a pain - particular as half of the game involved only a half party!

The high point, I think, was probably the raid of the Ghostlord's lair, followed closely by the endurance fight on the Dawn Way. The first showed how resourceful the then group were, the second how potent they had become. Also, battling the whole Red Hand detachment in the ruins of Rhest was a bit mad.

I started off intending to follow the adventure as written loyally, but changed it to include more bits of interest to my players. I also spruced up the NPCs to match my home setting.

Hope you've enjoyed walking beside the heroes on their quests, even though for now we must part.



			
				Sol.Dragonheart said:
			
		

> Very well written and entertaining story hour.  By the way, what happened to Kayan?  Last I read of him he was set to join the PCs once more when the Elf Riders showed up at Brindol, yet Sol and Xerxes left without him, or mention of him.




Thanks Sol. Glad you've enjoyed the story.

Kayan was played by the same person who played initially as Sir Tarnus, and finally as Andel Mor. The game switched over from in-person play to over MSN, at the same point as Kayan left the party. He rejoined for christmas, when I and my partner (Sol's player) were visiting home, and asked to play as a warlock. We've now returned to play over MSN, and Andel's player has decided to withdraw from the game again.

In the context of the story, Kayan returned to Brindol with the emissaries from the Starsong elves. His fate isn't explored, but he is presumed to have died during the Battle for Brindol, alongside most of the Templars of Brindol.

All the best to all!


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## aur0k (Feb 12, 2008)

Well, I have to say that that was one fun game(I was the player for Xerxes), and an amazing story to read. If anyone else out there enjoyed our escapades I thought I would let you all know we're actually playing a new campaign now and the story times are gonna be done by me to give good old loup a break. So if you enjoyed the adventures of Sol and Xerxes then hopefully you wont have long to wait.


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