# [Midnight] Though The Mirror, Darkly



## Dirigible (Sep 2, 2003)

Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, and miscellanious goblinoids. 

Now, this is my first story hour, so I'll be trying to figure out a style that works for it. In future updates, I may post full character write-ups, so chime if you'd like to see this, of if you have any questions at all.

     -     -     -    

Coel walked easily through the Caraheen undergrowth, here stepping around a thorny bush, there swinging over an ankle-breaking gully from an overhanging branch. Mere hours ago, his normal routine of searching for orc-spoor had been interrupted by a soldier from the camp, sent to find him. "Report to commander Banedren" was about the only useful thing the man had said.

The thick, light-speckled canopy suddenly gave way to sky, overcast and grey-dim even as it neared noon. The refugee camp lay in a very shallow, wide depression in the forest bisected by a small stream whoch trickled muddily out east, laden with the effluent of the settlement. It was a roughly oval collection of dismal hovels, thatch, sod and wooden buildings that crouched along the banks of the stream that served as water source, laundry, toilet and major obstacle along the 'road' that ran through the camp. Smoke curled up from a handful of fires where the refugees, mostly Erenlanders who fled the occupation of their homeland to come and eke out a living under the aegis of the Caransil, cooked their meals together.

Coel stalked down form the wood's edge towards the nearest gate in the wooden palisade. Gate may have been too strong a term. 'Bale of branches, leaves and hay strung with rope between two wooden stakes' might have been more appropriate. At this particular gate, a lone guard stood. A young man, sandy haired, dressed in tattered, muddy wool and leaning against the sharpened pole that served as a makeshift spear, stared off into space, day dreaming.

Coel stoped a few feet in front of the man, waiting. The other didn't even seem to notice him; the woefully inadequate guard continued to stare unfocusedly up at the trees. After a few moments, Coel's gossamer patience ran thin.

"Planning to move ?" He growled, glowering at the dopey guard.

With a start, the young man almost lept off the ground, his grip on the wooden spear slipping so that it almost fell out of his hands. Stumblng and fumbling, he managed to catch it before giving Coel a wide eyed stare.

"Huh-uh? AHHHRGH ! ORCS ! TO ARMS !"


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## Dirigible (Sep 2, 2003)

Coel took half a step back, frowning at the pannicking guard. He, Coel, was _damn_ sure no orcs were within ten miles of the camp, of course, and the thought passed though his mind that this boy might be a lunatic.

The guard lunged forwards, a clumsy stab which Coel easily parried, his iron longsword grinding from its sheath to turn aside the wooden point. The blade was halfway up towards the other mans head when the guards face changed.

The look of startled, agressive idiocy melted to surprised, scared idiocy. The guard lowered the point of the spear hastily, eyeing Coel's sword as it hovered a few inches from his neck.

"Oh! I'm sorry, and... hey, arent you _Coel_? The _ranger _?" He breathed, giving Coel a slightly awestruck look.

"What of it?" Coel snarled, sheathing his sword and gesturing to the gate, impatiently.

"Oh, gosh... they say you've killed two hundred orcs..._unnnhh_...and you... _gnnnnng_...I'm Daenil," the guard grunted as he put his burly shoulders to the barracade, rolling it aside.

Coel snorted. Nowhere near two hundred, he thought to himself. Not _yet_.

Just as Daenil pushed the gate aside, Coel's ears caught a sound.

*Snap* *Crunch* *Muffled words* *Crunch*

He turned, at saw five men emerging from the woods. All wore scraps of leather, wool and even a few drabs of mail, the makeshift armour of the refgee camp's defenders. They carried sturdy branches or roots, some studded with nails or knots of leather. The man at their head was harder and meaner looking, his hair roughly cut short, a leather patch riveted over one eye socket, an angry scowl on his face.

"Daenil!" the leader snarled "You illegitimate spawn of an orc-sow! This is the -last- time your bastard mouth sets everyone to alarm!". Daenil twisted around to stare, slack jawed and looking terrified as the guard sergeant stalked closer.

"B-but Gornrig..." Daenil sniveled

Coel eyed the man briefly. They were of a height, but the newcomer was leaner, harder, made of leathery skin and whipcord muscle. Gornrig spared Coel barely a glance from his good eye, before turning to Daenil, his knotwood cudgel raised.

"I'm gonna beat some wits into you, dungheap..." Gornrig sneered, his arm tensing...

Quick as lightning, Coel pulled the magnificent bow from his back, slid an arrow from his quiver, pulled, and fired....


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## Dirigible (Sep 2, 2003)

Gornrig _screamed _ in agony as Coel's arrow tore cleanly through the string-wrapped sack he, used as a shoe, through his foot and ino the dirt below, sliding in up to the fletchings in a mouse's heartbeat.

_[Aside] The chap who plays Coel and I have been RPG'ing together for about ten years, in more systems than I can name. In that time, we've got to know each other's PC and GM styles pretty well. Then he does something like this   *Bam*  In one action, a minor, disposable, nuisance NPC becomes a lifelong nemisis with a damn good grudge to hold. Sometimes, I love this game   [/aside]_

"MY - FAAAARGHHHH !" Gornrig gasped, droping to his knees, scrabbling at the arrow buried deep in his flesh.

Coel turned icily to the four guards who now moved forward, clubs raised warily to take down the attacker.

"Leave. Him. Alone" he drawled, another arrow resting in his bow, half drawn, ready.

The four guards, as one, swallowed, glanced at each other, then backed away, endeavouring to look harmless.

Coel turned his back on them, ignoring Gornrig's howls and Daenil's admiring gaze. He _hated _doing favours for fools who couldn't repay them. He relaxed the bowstring, then slung his prized weapon back over his shoulder.

Coel sauntered his way through the camp, determined not to help anyone else today. He cast barely a glance at the scrawny old man in a filthy grey tunic who struggled to drag a hefty black pig across the street, while it tried to burrow its snout after some morsel in the mud. A brace of malnourished children laughed and threw pebbles at the old codger, who in turn promised to feed them to the witch-queen of the elves.

Passing a woman who struggled to pull her much-patched sheets from the ground to the clothes line, Coel arrived at the large, octagonal pavillion that served as commander Banedren's headquarters. In front of the tent, a set of weapon racks stood almost empty, save for a few clubs and crude spears.

Banedren's deep, lordly voice sounded from inside. "...as you can imagine, the problems are worse now that we're spread over a hundred-mile front. Even food and water is damnably hard to distribute over that kind of range, so I can't see how..."

Coel ducked under the tent flap, and stepped into the tent. Commander Banedren stooped over the table in the middle of the pavillion, looking up from the assorted maps and charts apread acoss the table. He was a tall, imposing man in his later years (as such things were reckoned in the Last Age), with a beard braided in the Dornish style, and one gauntleted hand resting on the pommel of his sword. 

To one side of the table, leaning back slightly in her chair, was a woman. Surely an _elven _woman, Coel thought. She wore a night-dark cloak of some soft material that seemed to lie as soft as velvet shadows, trimmed with silver. The smooth planes of her face seeming to be chiseled from alabaster, youthful yet ageless. A wisp of silvery-blond hair curled out from under her hood, while her crystal blue eys glinted at Coel. She eyed him for a moment, studying, weighing, then her eyes turned back to gaze into space. One hand rested on her sword belt, while the other held a pipe to her elegant lips. The pipe itself was unusual: the long, thin stem ended in a wooden bowl the size of a man's fist, carved into the visage of a bizarre monster, with one great eyes, a wide, toothy maw and several small tentacles spaced around it's circular body. Pale smoke curled out of the bowl.

"Ahh... Coel," Banedren nodded, straightening. "I heard... trouble outside...?"

Coel shook his head. "One of the guards decided to start a fight. I ended it."

Banedren scowled, but then nodded resignedly "Aye. Well." He motioned Coel closer, and gestured to one of the maps...


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## Dirigible (Sep 2, 2003)

"As you can see, " Banedren intoned, glancing at the empty weapons racks outside "we're desperatly short on arms and armour. Even in the worst of seasons, we can usually find enough food in the woods to keep half our bellies full, and the elves allow us to take wood for shafts and spears. Now, at least," He said with a wry glance at the elven woman who sat, still staring into the diastance, to all appearences deep in thought.

"Even so, most of my men are forced to fight with sub-par weapons." He scowled "If you've ever fought a vardatch-wielding orc with a wooden stake, you'll know what I mean. What steel and iron weapons we have break and wear down until they're barely metal clubs. With the war in the north going as it is, our hosts haven't been able to spare any Veradeen arms or any smiths capable of helping us".

"General Ilasus," the refugee commander continued, and Coel realsied this was the elf's name, "has relayed to me a tale from her informants out in the Westlands." Banedren pointed to a map on the table.

It depicted an area of the Caraheen and Erenland, stretching from the refugee camp, over 100 miles inland from Althorin, to Baden's Bluff, to the shores of the Ardune, to the elven village of Irenara in the midst of the Erethor forest. It showed the locations of the handful of known, permanent Shadow camps, and a particular ruin was marked in the middle of the Westlands.

"This is the castle Knightswatch" Banedren explained "and according to the tales, it may hold our best chance to claim a stockpile of battle gear.

"Once, it was the seat of some Erenlander lord who fought the Shadow in the Last Battle, but, like all that was ours, it fell." Banedren looked grimmer than usual. "The stories say that even as the orcs stormed the last bastion of Knightswatch, the garrison sealed off the armoury, to prevent their foes from using their weapons against them. Ilasus has reason to think that even to this day, that armoury remains undistrubed".

Banedren sat back heavily in his chair, and for a moment all was quiet, apart form a light tap-tap-tap as Ilasus tamped her pipe. Then, Banedren spoke again "I want you to go out to Knightswatch, and find the old armoury, and break the seal. Beware, for they may have woven dangerous spells in their extremity, and I wouldn't discount the presense of the Fell."

"From there, arrangments will be made to get the arms and armour back here, to Erethor and my warriors. Coel, you're the swiftest- and surest-footed wayfarer I have, and I know you can avoid the legions of the Shadow once you leave the welcoming boughs of Erethor."

"Nevertheless, I've called on two trustworthy companions to join you. You'll find them waiting at Lansin's cider cask..." Baendren smiled slightly. "They... uhhh... shouldn't be hard to find."


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## Dirigible (Sep 2, 2003)

As Coel moved to the tent flap, Banedren called him back for a moment.

"You do this, lad, and you'll give us a fighting chance against the Shadow. For now, at least."

Coel turned back to the door, and started. In the moment his back had been turned to her, Ilasus had disappeared. Not a sound had betrayed her. Shaking his head, Coel continued out to the street.

Coel made his way to the set of tables and chairs scattered beside the ditch, where Lansin served the watered piss he called cider. Less than halfway there, he caught sight of what could only be one of his companions.

The man sitting at the cider shop was _huge_. Easily 12 feet tall, the man's Dornish ancstry was clear in his blond beard and braided hair. The giant wore clothing that seemed to be made of bear, stag and wolf skins, crudely stitched and riveted together, cured to form a kind of armour. Of course, no normal clothing could have fitted the man. A wooden maul, the head clearly a tree trunk, at least the size of Coel's torso, bound with iron leaned against the giant's side. He sat on a pair of barrels, and his brimming mug was a bucket. He was talking in a booming voice to someone beside him.

As Coel came closer, he saw the second person. Utterly dwarfed by her companion, a petite Erenlander woman sat, trying to avaoid he giant's elbows as they flailed around. She wore a simple woolen dress, and nursed a small wooden mug of... water, apparently. Her light brown hair was left unbound, and flowed over her neck.

"Ho!" Boomed the giant, turning as Coel sat down at their table. "Here be our wildlander!" He held out a hand the size of a small shield, the fingers thick and calloused, studded with splinters from the wooden haft of his hammer "Urlandt be my name, Erenlander."

Coel winced as Urlandt crushed his wrist in a warrior's handshake, and told them his name.

"I'm Ellionwy, a... healer" the woman murmured, her voice soft. 

     -     -     -     

Old Lansin smiled to himself as he brought another round of drinks and another tallow candle to the three odd folk at his table. It was well past nightfall, and yet the three spoke, discussing something about a journey east, through the woods and back to Erenland, the home that he, Lansin, had fled so many years ago. A fool quest, as far as he was concerned. Still, the big one looked dangerous, as did Coel, who, frankly, scared Lansin. Yes, they might prove worth mentioning. Lansin smiled again as he mentally compiled a report for his Master...


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## Dirigible (Sep 2, 2003)

*Daenil *(Male Erenlander commoner 1 / warrior 1, 17 years old): Boy, what a shmuck. I was originally going to use a basic 2nd level warrior as the gate guard, but for variety I decided to roll his stats.

Wisdom. Triple One. That's a three, for those playing at home.

So suddenly, Daenil becomes more interesting. He has his head so far up in the clouds he can see the hole where the Gods used to be, couldn't spot an Oruk door-to-door salesmen in a pink trenchcoat (hence didn't even come close to seeing the stealthy Coel), and has a tendency to think he's in the land of faery tales. As a matter of fact, he was day dreaming about orcs when Coel disturbed him, hence his reaction.

*Gornrig *(Male Erenlander warrior 3, 24 years old) : Sergeant of the refugee camp guards. Mean, ornerny, viscious, now hobbling   Sadly, he will never play Tarzan again.

*Guards *(Assorted human warrior 2) : Meh, nothing relevant about these mooks.

*Commander Banedren *(Male Erenlander warrior 2, fighter 6, 40 years old) : Banedren is second generation refugee. His father was a ranking soldier in the armies of an Erenlander traitor prince, who grew tired of the relentless brutality of life under the Shadow. His heart captivated by elven beauty, he fled with his wife and a group of soldiers loyal to him and commoners seeking asylum from the Shadow. 
Banedren is an expert tactitian and veteran campaigner, and has thus far served well in keeping the orcs encamped near Althorin from penetrating into Erethor and the heartlands of the elves.

*General Ilasus *(Female Caransil fighter 10, hermetic channeler 1, warmaster 1, age 180) : I haven't entirely figured out what I want to do with this character yet; I figure I'll keep her all enigmatic-like.
Oh, the creature on her pipe is, of course, a beholder. I included it as a little foreshadowing if I use Judd Hariis' idea of a beholder acting as a living repository for the Lore of Highwall.


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## Dirigible (Sep 2, 2003)

Here are the stats for two of the PC's. As this is a one-on-one game, traditionalists might consider these to be NPC's, but I prefer to term Auxilliary PC's.

*Urlandt*
Male Dorn.
Chaotic Good.
Heroic Path : Giantblooded.
Fighter 1 / Barbarian 1.

Str 20, Dex 7, Con 16, Int 8, Wis 10, Chr 11.
Fort +10, Ref -2, Will +0. Speed 40'
HP 26.

_Skills_ (only those with ranks or special modifiers listed)
Craft - Woodwork +2, Craft - Leatherwork +2, Hide -6, Intimidate +7 (using Str), Knowledge - Northlands +0, Knowledge - Erethor +0, Listen +1, Spot +1, Survival +2. Speaks Norther and Erenlander.

_Feat_
Great Fortitude, Endurance, Large And In Charge.

_Equipment_
Misc adventuring and travel gear (also carries Ellionwy's packs). 
In battle, wields an ogre-sized maul he made himself (Attack +6, 2d8+7 damage), and carries a bundle of hefty orcish spears that serve as javelins for him (Attack -1, d8+4 damage). Hide armour, AC 10.

At 12'6" tall and nearing 2000 lbs, Urlandt is a titan of a man. He is uncertain of his exact age; an orphan, he was found in a (rather large) basket on the edge of a human refugee camp north of the current setting. Although most of the people he grew up (and up and up) with were scared of his size, his gigantic strength proved useful, allowing him to singlehandedly dig trenches or erect palisades. He soon earned a reputation amongst the human soldiers that helped defend Erethor, as he could wade through battalions of orcs that barely came up to his belly, and goblins that he could crush underfoot without effort. Eventually, he was called on by Commander Banedren for a special task, and there he met his companions Coel and Ellionwy.


*Ellionwy*
Female Erenlander.
Neautral Good.
Heroic Path : Seer.
Spiritual Channeler 2.

Str 5, Dex 12, Con 7, Int 13, Wis 18, Chr 12.
Fort -2, Ref +1, Will +7. Speed 30'.
HP 6.

_Skills_ (only those with ranks or special modifiers listed)
Concentration +3, Handle Animal +4, Heal +12, Knowledge - Arcana +6, Knowledge - Nature +6, Knowledge - Erenland +3, Knowledge - Erethor +3, Listen +6, Profession - Herbalist +9, Ride +5, Spellcraft +6, Spot +6, Survival +8. Speaks (and reads) Erenlander, and speaks a pidgin of High Elven.

_Feat_
Skill Focus : Heal, Magecraft, Spellcasting : Abjuration and Enchantment

_Equipment_
Misc adventuring and travel gear. Also carries a few quills, ink, and a parchment book, all fairly rare items in the Last Age. Carries a dagger (Attack -2, damage d4-3), but more commonly uses a sling (Attack +1, damage d3-3). No armour, AC 11. Ellionwy is singularly unsuited for combat of any kind.

_Magic_
Access : Universal, Transmutation, Lesser Conjuration,Abjuration, Enchantment.
Free Orisons : 7. Spell Energy : 6.
Orisons : Cure Minor Wounds, Mending, Create Water, Foraging Charm, Purify Food and Drink.
1st Level : Cure Light Wounds, Goodberry, Shield, Sleep, Magic Weapon.

Plus, _Aurgury_ and _Clairvoyance_ once per day each.

At 21 years old, 5'1" and little more than 100 lbs, Ellionwy is not well suited for battle. However, she possesses a skill far more rare and valuable than mre warcraft: the arts of healing. She has spent most of her life waging a war against the diseases that run rife amongst the human refugees, and the even more common battle wounds. Her knowledge of sorcery and talents as a healer and caretaker will prove well useful in the journey into the Shadow.


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## Dirigible (Sep 3, 2003)

Session 2

   -   -   -   

Shortly before dawn, Coel stalked back into town from his bivouac out in the woods, and met his companions near the gate. Ellionwy had her hair tied back, appropriate to keep it from falling over her face as she walked, and carried a flexible stick as a walking cane. Urlandt's beard and hair were unruly and tangled, and he was bleary-eyed, every now and then he stiffled a yawn against the back of a hairy fist, clearly suffering the effects of the last evening's drinking. He carried both his own and Ellionwy's packs, hers looking rather small next to his.

As the three of them made their way towards the gate, Coel's preternaturally keen vision caught sight of Ilasus, leaning casually against the wall. She tapped the stem of her pipe against her lips, studying the three humans as they approached. When Ellionwy and Urlandt drew close enough to finally notice the Caransil, their reactions were different. The giantblooded Dorn looked distinctly unsettled, and it showed blatantly given his size, as he shuffled his boots and avoided looking at her. Ellionwy, on the other hand, stared at Ilasus with a mixture of admiration and awe.

"Be swift on your journey," general Ilasus spoke in a low, musical tone. "My informants have warned me that the orcs of Nouk-Gamar, a hundred miles to the east, have begun to mobilise. They can force a hard pace, when pressed by their Legate masters, and can be here in three days. Perhaps less." She frowned for a moment, the expression lining her flawless features. "The Shadow's black-winged eyes dare not come this deep into the homewoods. I fear our spies are of the two-legged breed." With a curt nod, Ilasus turned on her heel and strode off, her cloak swirling like the night sky behind her, making her seem to fade into the morning-dim forest beyond.

The group had barely left the oval of wooden stakes that made the refugee camp's pallisade when another figure blocked their path, leaning on a staff that served as a crutch. Gornrig scowled so deeply it seemed his eyepatch would tear, his malevolence focused on Coel. His foot and leg were heavily bandaged, and he clearly avoided putting any weight on it. As the three travellers moved by him, Gornrig snarled in a low voice to Coel, "I'll see you bleed for this, wildlander".

Coel didn't spare a single word on the sergeant of the guard. Instead, he lashed his boot out with deadly precision, knocking the crutch out from under Gornrig's arm, sending him sprawling to the ground to a breakfast of mud. 

[Aside] I swear, if he doesn't stop doing things like this, I'm gonna change his alignment to Chaotic Evil...[/Aside]

He continued to stride on, ignoring the sounds from behind him; Gornrig's stream of vile, ear-curdling invective; Urlandt's earth-rumbling chuckle; and Ellionwy's pointed _tsks_. He set himself a fast pace, using his practised long-gait to speed ahead of the others, more to get away from them than to scout out the land, though he did use the opportunity to get a headstart on the day's foraging and hunting.

After an hour or so, Coel made his way back to the others, silently lamenting their lack of progress. "If we are to outdistance the orcs before they arrive, we must set a faster pace. We travel for ten hours, and I will set a firm speed. He paused, eyeing Ellionwy's legs. "And you ride on the Dorn's shoulders. His stride is far longer".

Disregarding Ellionwy's scandalised protests, Coel turned back to face the endless, verdent expance of the Caraheen forest, and vanished into the trees, relived to be properly alone at last.


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## Dirigible (Sep 4, 2003)

They travelled for several more hours, Coel searching for elven trailsign a good distance ahead until the beams of dim light lancing down from the canopy announced highsun. Behind him, Urlandt's powerful stride ate up ground at a speed that almost equaled Coel's, much faster than a normal mans. Ellionwy perched awkwardly on his shoulders, murmuring a spell to guide her to edible plants, fruits and nuts in a continuous undertone.

As noon arrived, Coel began to hear the sounds of shouting voices in High Elven, Erenlander and Black Speech, along with the sounds of clashing blades and crashing undergrowth. _No doubt an orcish scout party_ he thought to himself, and set about scaling the largest tree within reach.

When he ascended above the canopy, Coel saw the source of much of the battle sounds; a wide, clay banked gully lay about 500' ahead, it's sides erroded into a sloping clearing. Goblins of all breeds swarmed though the gap, at least a score  of them, clashing with a band of human soldiers, who were fighting a defensive stand on the nearer side of the clearing. Towering above the goblins, though, was a massive, fierce oruk, clad in blackened scale mail and wielding a wickedly jagged, oruk-sized vardatch.

With his legs wrapped tight around he trunk, Coel leaned back a little and eased an arrow out of its quiver and drew it back. He fired...and the arrow fell far short of the target. _Too far_ Coel thought to himself. _Need a closer position..._

Dropping back to the ground, Coel wove through the trees making his way towards the source of the battle clamour. Moments later, he flinched as he felt the rush of air beside him, and the stinging touch of a goblin arrow as it nicked his flank. Spinning and falling into a firing crouch, Coel saw a lesser goblin, flap-eared and squash-faced, squatting on top of a boulder, loading another arrow. Coel raised, pulled, aimed and fired in one smooth action, and his arrow flew deadly-true, catching the goblin in the head and flinging it back with such force that it was pinned to the tree behind it, transfixed through the skull.

Quickly, Coel crossed the remaining distance, and found a suitable tree from which to overspy the skirmish. Ascending, he found that the oruk had led a brutal charge against the human line, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake, the goblins on his flanks clearing up and holding off adversaries.

Coel took a moment to line up a shot... this time, at closer range, it flew true, cutting a gash in the oruk's cheek. The ten foot tall beast barely flinched, but turned to scan the tree line, with a growl. Suddenly, it barked a command, and several goblins bunched around it, using the varying height of the ground, and holding their shields high to provide cover.

Coel fired again... sending one of the guards cartwheeling against it's commander. As he drew another arrow, patient as Death itself, Coel heard a deep-voiced bellow form behind the human band... and the sound of boots approaching.


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## Ithian (Sep 7, 2003)

Great stuff, Dirigible!  Can't wait to read more...

-Ithian


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## Derulbaskul (Sep 26, 2003)

Once again, I am amazed how the Midnight campaign setting has inspired uniformly excellent story hours. Thanks, Dirigible; great work!

Cheers
D


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## Derulbaskul (Oct 1, 2003)

Bump... 'coz I really like Midnight.


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## Dirigible (Oct 29, 2003)

Urlandt burst from the treeline, his war-maul held low and ready to swing up, ready to take bone and metal with it. The human soldiers rallied almost magically as the giantblooded man arrived, halting their flight and turning to face the goblins that pursued them. The oruk pointed it's vardatch at the approaching man and snarled a challange.

Coel sized up the remaining forces. The humans were still outnumbered and outflanked, but at least now they had someone of equal size to the enemy commander. The wildlander saw that, should his charge continue, Urlandt would be cut to pieces before even reached the oruk. Quickly, he drew another arrow, flexed his fingers, and set to his bloody craft.

*THWANG*
One of the goblins holding the line fell.
*THWANG*
Another.
*THWANG*
Another.

Urlandt met the the oruk face to face, the mountain striking the earth.

With deadly precision, the backwards-facing spike of the vardatch swung around, the air, time itself seeming to slow. The spike gouged a line across Urlandt's chest, tearing his armour. The giant man slowed, his charge almost halted, but the momentum of his maul was unstoppable, arcing up to splinter the oruk commander like stone beneath the hammer - 

The backslash of the oruk's swing shredded his throat. The hammer did not slow, and Urlandt's final blow landed home even as he was cast down.

Urlandt fell, fountaining blood and gurgling his death rattle. Coel's next shaft left the string within a half-heartbeat, and buried itself fletching deep in the oruk's ribs. Still reeling from the Dorn's blow, the Shadow soldier raised one meaty paw to the fresh wound, puzzled, and crumpled to the earth.

By the time Coel reached the battlefield, the only sounds were the buzzing of flies and the creak of old branches in the cold wind. The few remaining refugee humans had quit the field as soon as they were able. Ellionwy was kneeling by Urlandt's slumped corpse, her face slightly bowed and hair falling in a pale curtain around her.

"He... was too far beyond my skill." she said softly, gently closing his fiercly defiant eyes with her fingers.

Coel said nothing, but held a hand out to help her to her feet. Urlandt had been a fool and paid the price, as far as Coel was concerned, but he did not put voice to those words. He had trusted to much in his own size and strength, and had not had proper fear and respect for his foes. He had commited the sin of bravery; synonymous with death in the Last Age.

Coel cast his eye over the carnage. Too many bodies to administer the proper precautions. Speed-kissed boots would be their only hope here.

"We must move" her said flatly, scooping the diminutive woman up over his shoulder, ignoring her shrieks. He broke into a run.

 - - - 

Long after the echoes of Coel's swiftness had faded into the laughter of uncaring leaves, there was the sound of bone and flesh being ground into oblivion by heavy, slow strokes.

 - - - 

They set the smallest fire they could, many hours later. Coel had carried the healer as far as he could manage, then they had run on foot until darkness was deep. Ellionwy sat, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring into the fire with a melancholy expression. Coel methodically groomed the fletchings of his arrows, keeping one eye on the forest.

The sound he had been, not dreading, but expecting with grim certainty. Heavy, dragging footsteps. Coel glided to his feet like a big cat, squeezing his bowstring taut. Ellionwy looked up sharply, her eyes glittering in the dim firelight. Coel took aim, and the branches parted at head height.

Stepping into the circle of illumination, his face pale and bloodless, bruised and caked with dirt, Urlandt stared down with dead eyes.


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## Dirigible (Oct 29, 2003)

Gosh. This is the last update for Session 2 of the game; took me a frelling long time to get around to typing it up.

So, the giantblooded meatshield is dead. Well, that'll learn me.

I badly, badly underestimated the power of an oruk wielding a Large vardatch. One readied action later, one dead Dorn. Very dead. -25 hp dead.

I rolled a '1' on Urlandt's Will save after he died, causing him to instantly return as a Fell, rather than the usual waiting period of up to a week.


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## ledded (Nov 17, 2003)

Niiiiiice.

Well written and quite interesting.  Keep it up!


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## Dirigible (Nov 23, 2003)

Session 3

 - - - 

A deep, bestial rumble welled up in the ungrael's throat, and Cael's former companion stepped forward, his giant wooden mallet surging up in his hand. The wildlander loosed his arrow, and it bit deep into Urlandt's thigh, tearing a strip of dead flesh away. The huge figure stumbled just a little, tearing leaves from the branches as he twisted. Coel's fingers found the fletchings of the next shaft by instinct, and he barely heard Ellionwy's gasp of fright.

"Wait..." the word spat like gravel from Urlandt's cracked and bloody lips, his tone low and drawn out, as if in great pain. He took a step foward, his maul digging a shallow furrow in the forst floor. "I can... control the... hunger". He shuddered, a look of misery and anguish etched on his face. "It gnaws at my belly like a starving wolf... but I can endure it."

Ellionwy's eyes were as wide and dark as the sky itself, and she clamped her hands over her mouth as if holding in a scream or holding down her gorge by main force. Coel tensed, and sidled backwards into the shadows of the canopy. Something felt wrong... wronger than the fact a former ally in battle had returned as one of the deathless. Urlandt's filmed eyes roamed over the clearing, and suddenly alighted on the iron pot that simmered over the hot ashes of the cooking fire. He lunged forwards with a sorrowful howl, flinging himself to his knees in front of it. Reaching down, he cupped the pot like a tiny bowl between his massive hands, and raised it to his lips. Coel could hear the sound of dead flesh sizzling as the giantblooded ungrael slurped down the soup, his lips pressed to the too-hot metal heedless of pain. Or more likely, unfeeling.

The hairs on the back of Coel's neck stood up, and he drew his bow, aiming into the night sky. Ellionwy stepped forward, hand out to touch Urlandt's shoulder, a look of pain and sympathy etched on her features. _There_. The silent swoop of a feathered form stooping form the sky, talons extended towards the woman's head, eyes red with malign intelligence. Coel let his shaft fly... but not fast enough. The hawk screeched as it slashed Ellionwy's face, and she stumbled and screamed. Blood splashed down her cheek and over her shoulder form the gash, matting her hair, and strange motes of golden light seemed to flicker out of the wound, coallesing on the hawk's talons.

Then it met the arrow.

The bird twitched faintly as the shot pinned it to the trunk of a tree, a tangle of it's own limbs pierced through wing, breast and head. Pale smoke seemed to ooze out of the creature's beak, and for just a moment it hung in the air, an image of a repellent, malevolent spectre, before fading into the night.

It was all over in a fraction of a second. The bowl dropped from the fell giant's fingers, and he started to rise, his warrior instincts active even in death. Ellionwy gasped, reaching up to gingerly probe the wound, looking dazed form the suddenness. Coel steeped past them both and wrenched the arrow from the wood, scraping the dead animal off against a branch.

"A demon-sniffer," he growled. "Which means..."

Not far away, a war-horn sounded.


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## Dirigible (Nov 25, 2003)

Trallok lowered the horn from his lips, and listened. A few beats later, another sounded nearby, shaking the trees. The orc turned and looked up at the mounted woman, givng her a grim nod. "Wargrak's bloodtrackers have their scent too, Legate. They are ahead of us, down the gully. Not far," Trallok reported in orcish. He adjusted the set of his throwing axes, feeling the comforting weight against his chest.

Soldier-Legate Sharain unlimbered her shield, and began straping it to her forearm. As she did so, she replied down to Trallok "Let the horn's pannick them. Shethryn will return soon, and by then they will be on the run. Fleeing prey doesn't guard it's back." Although her pronounciation was terrible, the fact she could speak orcish at all had always impressed Trallok; most humans could never master the subtlities and inflections of his native tongue, and their own came to him as easily as childs play.

That was why he had followed her into this elf-haunted killing ground; true, he had come on raids into the Caraheen before, but always at the point of an oruk's spear or a Legate's whip. Sharain was the only shadow-priest he would follow into the woods willingly. Strong was his wish to be back in the foothills of the Lia Rudh Emyn, home, though; the cold, open slopes were much more to his liking than the overly warm, dreadfully cramped eaves of the woods. His female would be entering heat by now, he thought mournfully.

Sharain turned in the saddle, idly running a gauntlet down the mane of her stallion as she did so. Gallimar was massive, of Dornish warhorse stock, bred by the Temple horsewranglers for size and ferocity. The horse whickered under her touch, stamping a blade-shod hoof impatiently, hungry for battle. The Legate ran her gaze over the twenty of so orcs crouched behind her; Trallok could not help but notice those she looked at straightened and - he could think of no other word - _preened_, wiping dirt off the blades of their battleaxes, puffing out their black-scale armoured chests and trying to look especially fierce for their commander. Cleary, Trallok was not the only orc here who held the human woman in great esteem.

Another thirty or so blooded warriors, led by Wargrak, Braator, Hungark and others, were spread out through the woods around them, moving wide to cut off potential escape routes from the humans they sought. Trallok would be the first to admit he was an orc of little intelligence (well, second; Hungark thought himself the warband's resident wit), but why his band had been sent to find some _sword_ was far beyond him. Worse, he wasn't sure of Sharain herself knew why; when a Greater Legate said "Do it!" a wise follower of the Shadow did not stop to enquire his reasons. The fact that a platoon of goblins had been dispatched to provide cover told him that whoever had ordered it considered this important; that, or they were incompetant and cared little for Odrendor lives. Both were distinct possibilities.

A rustling in the brush close at hand brought Trallok out of his thoughts. From behind him, he could hear the creaking of bowstaves being drawn back as several of his men took aim. Moments later, one of the small, striped forest bears that inhabited this accursed woodland emerged and cast a contemptous glare at the orcish bowmen. A slight motion from him would have had the beast pincushioned and ready to be served for evening rations, but he had learned to be cautious when it came to animals. Often, they were more than they seemed.

Sharain kneed her steed a few paces closer. "Shethryn..." she studied the bear carefully. What passed between them then was beyond the orc's ken.

_"Missstresss. I have sssseen them, not far to the easssst. Three in number, though one issss a deathwalker. The otherssss are both Wielderssss; one hasss felt my ssssting, though lightly."_ The asterix reported. The bear sat on it's haunches, licking it's snout, as if tasting the blood from it's previous host.

Sharain nodded, her thin lips showing the ghost of a satisfied smile, and glanced over her shoulder at the assembled orcs. "We move! By pairs, bloodtrackers to the fore, and stay wide! The accursed wood-fey may have yet more snares to waylay us!" She drew her mace from the saddle, and spoke to Trallok. "Spread the word."

Baring his tusks in a feral grin, Trallok raised the horn to his lips.

 - - - 

Coel sprang to his feet as the horn cried out, a curse on his tongue. He grabbed Ellionwy by the arm and shook her. "Pack. Hurry." She stared at him for just a moment, then began quickly gathering her belongings. Urlandt rose as well, flakes of dried blood and dirt cracking off his pallid skin. Coel scowled, and prepared to tell the dead, giant fool that there was not a chance in the Dark he would be comming with them...

"I will stay behind" the Dorn sighed, his thick voice resigned and regretful. Coel stared, then nodded. _Good. He'll hold them up for a few minutes..._ The wildlander stooped and picked up his pack and quiver, and saw that the girl had likewise finnished her packing.

"Urlandt...I..." she sounded on the edge of tears. _No bloody time for this,_ Coel snarled to himself.

"Don't spend your words or tears on one already dead, child," the ungrael replied softly, picking up his war maul. He glanced across at Coel. "Run like the bloody wind, you swift bastard".

Coel snorted, and pulled Ellionwy after him into the forest. Behind them, Urlandt turned to face the oncomming foe, his stiff, cold fingers tightening on the haft of his weapon. His boot came down on the fire, extinguishing the last embers.

He smiled in anticipation.


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## Dirigible (Nov 27, 2003)

The treeline broke suddenly, letting sunlight, unusually bright today spill down on the two fleeing Erenlanders. Coel was having to drag the healer, to all intents and purposes; they been travelling hard for nearly thirteen hours (NB: Aryth, the world of Midnight, has a 26-hour day), and Ellionwy's shallow reserves of energy were utterly spent. She was panting, and stumbled constantly, slowing them even further. He kept casting glances behind them; the orcs were close on their heels, he knew. The horns had stopped sounding, meaning they felt the prey was within sight.

The reason the forest thinned here became apparent; the ground rose swiftly and sharply, comming up to a spire of rock that thrust like a spearpoint into the sky. A rough spiral pathway seemed to run around the peak, the foot of which they were on already.

Ellionwy jerked free of his grip, and stood stock still for a moment, seeming to concentrate, or listen to a distant sound. When she looked up, her eyes had turned entirely black, and she pointed upwards dramatically, gesturing to the pinnacle of the spire.

_*"That is where we must go..."*_, she intoned, her voice a whisper that resonated with the wind all around, the rustle of the trees a surrussal chorus to her words. Coel supressesed a shiver. It was the second time the young channeller had been taken by these visions; he was certain such powerful divinations were beyond her skill to invoke naturally; perhaps she had the blood of the Old Prophets in her veins. In any case, if they remained standing here any longer, that blood would not be in her veins much longer, nor his either.

"Then we'd best move," he growled gruffly. Her predictions unnerved him more than he'd like to admit. Ellionwy shook her head, a hand pressed to her temple, seeming confused. Coel sighed and grabed her by the elbow, pulling her after him.

They hurried up the curling pathway, qucikly gaining enough height to look down at the Erethor canopy. Though gaps in the leaves, Coel thought he could see a band of orcs creeping towards the spire, glimpses of black metal and green-grey skin metting his eyes. He breathed a curse.

It was not long afterwards that he began to hear the sounds of pursuit; orcish voices barking orders (though only a few, mercifully, by the sound of it), the whinying of a horse and the sound of beasts moving. Coel pushed Ellionwy to the side of the path, gestured to a large boulder and snarled, "Take cover!", then he ran back a few paces and dropped into a firing crouch, sliding an arrow into pace. He might not be able to defend Ellionwy if it came down to a melee, but he might be able to draw their pursuers away.

After a few heartbeats, the enemy came into view. Urlandt grinned a savage grin, his maul up and ready to smash the wildlander. Any trace of control was gone; he had apparently given completly into the inhumanity of his Fell state. A few paces behind him pawed a small, wiry bear, blood stained maw open and growling. Still rounding the corner, Coel could see a tall, armoured, hard-faced woman mounted on a great warhorse, her hair tied back in a tight braid, a mace and shield readied. At her back a small group of orcish warriors scrambled up the slope, a tracker with a longbow at their head.

Urlandt let out a gutteral laugh, and broke into a charge, the stone of the pathway trembling under his inexorable bulk. Coel swallowed and began to back pedal, looking for an opening to fire an arrow. He leapt back just in time to avoid a stroke from the giantblooded's war-maul, splinters of rock spraying up all around. Urlandt laughed, and turned towards Ellionwy's hiding place.

Undeterred, the channeler stood up behind the boulder, and began chanting a spell. Runes of silver and yellow light flickered on her fingertips, and she completed the spell with a sharp gesture towards the Legate. The air around where she pointed semed to ripple, and a burst of dim, greyish light washed over the area. As one, the orcs began to yawn, and within two paces they began to fall, tumbling over each other to the ground as they fell asleep, snoring loudly. The Legate, wheeled her horse and stared incredulously at her minions as they dropped under the influence of Ellionwy's spell. She spun back, glowering angrily, and began to incant a spell of her own.

In the mean time, the giantblooded had reached Ellionwy's cover, and swung his maul in a mighty but clumsy arc that struck the boulder, sending splinters of stone scything through the air all around. The asterix-possessed bear crept along the cliffline, edging closer to Coel.

The wildlander decided he needed more ground to continue the fight, and began retreating up the slope. As he did so, the Legate completed her spell, and Coel felt iron bands close around his mind, trying to force him to submit, to be still. He struggled against it, and, gathering his will, managed to break free of the sorcery. Hurrying up the slope, looking for a better firing position, Coel saw his path blocked; an elegant, golden-furred dog watched him with orange eyes, head tilted to one side. The ranger reflexivly drew his bow to his shoulder and loosed an arrow... but it never found its mark. The dog gave a "Yip!" as he fired, and then it just... _disappeared_. The arrow clattered against the stone where it had been a mouses heart beat ago.

Startled, Coel almost forgot to turn back to the enemies behind him. When he did, he saw his foes being harried by a number more of the curly-haired, yellow hounds - somewhere between half a dozen and a score, it was impossible to tell as they appeared and vannished on all sides of their enemies, as if they moved without crossing the intervening distance. Their teeth tore savagely at the bear, snapping at it's flanks and drawing blood, while several more pranced and barked all around Urlandt, drawing his attention. The giantblooded ungrael cursed voluably, swinging and stamping oafishly all around, trying to hammer his elusive tormentors. More still snapped at the hamstring of the Legate's warhorse, while the rider grimly cast waves of reddish black unlight into their midst, attempting to maledict them.

_Never look a gift hound in the mouth..._ he thought to himself wryly, and sent an arrow into the throat of the bear, laying it low. Urlandt continued to stumble around the path, drawing perilously close to the presipice, but the Legate was holding their own, her mace and the bladed hooves of her warhorse keeping the hounds at bay. Two of the hounds detatched themselves from the bear, while another remained behind, worrying at it. They loped over to the boulder from where Ellionwy stared in astonishment at the rapid events of the battle, and placed their forepaws up against it, tongues lolling. Coel got the odd impression they were _enjoying_ themselves.

The two dogs, and the boulder, disappeared... but a moment later, they were in the air above the Legate. The hounds yapped at each other, rolling and falling through the air for a moment, before shifting their positions back to the ground. The slab of rock, on the other hand, plummeted downwards... the Legate looked up, her eyes widening in alarm... she wheeled her horse away, trying to leap clear...

Dust and earth exploded up from the path as the boulder smashed down.

Urlandt stumbled at the impact so close at hand, teetering on the edge of the cliff... his maul tumbled from his grip as he flung out his arms, striving to find something to hold on too...and then he fell.

The giantblooded's roar still echoed against the mountain side as the dust cleared, and Coel could see the warhorse struggling to get back to it's feet, the woman clutching at her left arm which hung broken and useless at her side, its armour shredded. He fired an arrow at her, but the dust was in his eyes and the arrow deflected off her breastplate. She spat a loud curse at him, and pulled her warhorse upright by the reins before scrambling up into the saddle, going white-faced from pain. She dug in the spurrs, and her mount galloped away down the path, leaving sight a moment later.

Coel grunted and stood upright, struggling to catch his breath. One of the golden hounds trotted up to his side and st, lookng up at him quizzically. Cautiously, he reached down and ruffled the furr of it's head. It gave a bark of pleasure... and, with a burst of disorientation, Coel found himself elsewhere...


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## darkbard (Nov 27, 2003)

howdy dirigible dm!  just stumbled across this today when i saw your name attached to the story hour.  quite excellent.  though you know i'm enamored of the iron kingdoms, i'll have to give this midnight deal a look.  cheers and keep it up.


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## Dirigible (Nov 27, 2003)

Ahh, another convert to the cause. Izrador be praised!

Check out www.againsttheshadow.org; it's Midnight's true lair.


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