# Anka Seth - The Rise of the Hydra (New Update April 19, 2007)



## Fiasco (Nov 18, 2005)

When the followers of the god of justice condemned sinners to living death in catacombs deep in the earth, the followers of the earth spirit rebelled. The chaos that ensued tore apart the world, releasing generations of undead murderers, vandals and thieves onto the world. The convocation of clerics are slaughtered overnight and the great society fragments. Some turn to war, some to vice to delay their impending doom as the wave of undead and mutated creatures spread indefatigably.

This is a story hour based on this home brewed 3.5 D&D campaign world. It has been running for one and a half years.



*Prologue*

There were few tears in Vronburg; they had all been shed decades ago. Fear, too, was difficult to find. The soul could become numbed to even the most wrenching tragedies. Determination, fatalism, a terrible pride, and yes, always, steadfastness; these bound the fortress city together. The people and the city had closed in on themselves as the setbacks, and the betrayals, and the disappointments heaped upon them.

Vronburg clung mightily to the surrounding land, as though forged directly from the elements themselves. The fortress had been built for one purpose, to endure. It was encircled on three sides by a moat whose deeps froze those with blood to chill and burned the unliving with its holy fire. Each night the prayers of the priests and the faithful charged the waters anew with this divine wrath. The walls were mighty, densely built and cunningly contrived. From a distance the city appeared an invulnerable bastion, even closer scrutiny revealed little to make one think otherwise. Unfortunately, the hungry eyes of the Dominion could look close indeed, and they saw the truth that lay beyond walls and water. While the dead stones of the fortress endured, the living inhabitants were being bled from it, slowly, remorselessly and irrevocably. Behind the unbowed walls, many times rebuilt with the lives of its defenders, the life beat of the city diminished. More buildings were empty than full and children were scarce. The women had long ago joined their men on the walls, and few remained fruitful while defending those barren expanses of stone.

The Dominion saw this and rejoiced. It crashed its abominations, both living and dead against the steadfast towers, heedless of loss. Each attack sapped a little more vitality from the people within. The Fastendians in their barren city knew this and the knowledge was crushing. They were a heroic people who lived without hope. Time and again they repelled the ravening hordes, each time diminished just a little more, and at night their dreams were stillborn, washed out by the blood and the slaughter and the numbing loss.

*****​
Jehurre was tapping a rock gently against the parapet when he noticed the loathsome mists seep up to the wall. He coughed in anticipation of calling out a warning when he was pre-empted by others around the walls. Shouts of “Mist coming!” and “Dead Walking!", echoed flatly around thick stones and still waters, the claustrophobic fog making the direction of sound indistinct. An evil by product of the presence of the undead, the deathly vapours masked their approach and baffled defenders. Sammus raced passed Jehurre’s position, bundles of arrows clattering against his back as he ran his errand. A lean boy of ten, he was already a two year veteran of the defence works. Nimbly he skipped across the cobbles in the shadowy light, mind focussed solely on his appointed task.

Jehurre loosened his blade in its scabbard, reached into a pouch and rubbed a bit of lime rind into his palms. He bent down and retrieved his bow from where it leaned against the wall nearby. With a grunt, he braced one end against his instep and straining, stretched a string between the ends. He briefly massaged his aching back and then tested the pull of the bow, taking care not to let go of the taught string. With equal care, he checked the arrows in the compartmented sections of his quiver, straightening bent fletching and arranging the arrows just so. With his fingers, he ran through the oft practiced routine of assuring himself that he could discern the various types of arrows by touch alone. Firstly the ordinaries, well made, but with some minor imperfections. Good enough when loosing into a horde of foes or into the concealing mists. Then the quality arrows, those which were particularly straight and whose fletching was finely formed. These were best used when the target was sure. Finally, the three ‘specials’. These were of exemplary workmanship, silver tipped and engraved with magic sigils to make them strike true and deep. There were those amongst the attacking armies who scorned the bite of honest wood or steel, and these precious shafts were intended for them. 

The mists thickened and visibility dropped to the point where he could barely make out the shape of Graffen, some fifteen paces to his right. He nodded to his companion despite the unlikelihood it being seen, satisfied that he too stood ready. A soft scrape was the only indication that Edita had taken up her position some distance to his left. Jehurre rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders. When he looked around again, his companions were gone, swallowed by the fog that covered the approach of the nightmare armies. The minutes passed and lengthened into hours. Jehurre felt profoundly alone as he strained his ears for any hint of enemy movement near his position. All the while, the sounds of battle dinned from some distant part of the fortress. They were catching hell, wherever it was. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, he realised that his section would be unmolested. Vronburg might be doomed to fall but not this night. Jehurre did not have the strength or courage to think beyond that.


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## Fiasco (Nov 19, 2005)

*Chapter 1*



Many hundreds of miles South and West of Vronburg, the sun rose over the sweat damped brows of peasants as they trundled their produce along the final miles to Halfast. The port city had a ravenous appetite, daily consuming the bounty that was brought to its markets from the surrounding lands. Accompanying the farmers on their trek were hundreds of pilgrims, eager to celebrate All Summers Eve within Halfast's walls. Throughout the city, carousers made their weary way home or collapsed where they were. Taverns kicked out the last of the revelers, welcoming the few hours of peace allowed them before fresh drinkers came pounding on their doors. Near the docks, sailors staggered green faced towards their berths, memories of the previous night blazed away in a frenzy of drinking and whoring that left their emotions and purses deflated. For residents and visitors alike, Halfast was a city of excess, a place beloved of Laster, god of vice. The numerous alehouses, whorehouses, drug havens and gambling dens were as living prayers to the licentious divinity, working day and night to bring temporary surcease to the worries of the world. 

It was to this city that Bastien of Yorath came looking for recruits in early low summer. The sprawling city saw visitors from all that remained of the old Convocation; natives of Guerney rubbed shoulders with gaunt faced visitors from the Fastness, who in turn bartered furiously with merchants, infrequently seen elves and whoever else might have what they sought on behalf of their beleaguered homeland. Halfast was rife with mercenaries and bravos, penniless nobles and sly dweomercrafters. Bastien's visit was timed to coincide with All Summers Eve, Laster’s most holy day. The city's populace was swelled by a great pilgrimage of the god's faithful, who yearly swarmed to the lusty port to partake in its fevered revels. This diversity of people had ensured an excellent selection of applicants for Bastien in previous years, during which he had recruited two very successful gladiatorial companies for his liege Baron Yorath. He hoped that by day's end he would find the seeds of a third.

Bastien carefully negotiated his way through the filthy streets. Accompanying him was Kurul, a massive hound sent to accompany him at the whim of his lord. Seemingly indifferent to its surroundings, the beast was at his heels as they made their wending way to the Green Arms. This worthy establishment was a popular tavern famous for the pair of massive scrag arms displayed above its doorway. The knotted green limbs exuded power, their awesome girth inspired a feeling of frailty in even seasoned warriors. Magically preserved from decay, they were a decades old legacy of a brutal sea troll raid. Despite his fatigue, Bastien paused to admire the primitive majesty of the display before passing beneath them. To his travel worn spirits, the rough but honest hospitality and hearty provender of the inn was a welcome destination. Kurul followed, sniffing disdainfully at the threshold before shambling within. Baron Yorath had been generous with his coin, and Bastien didn't stint in availing himself of refreshment before setting to his important task.

Midday had passed by the time Bastien arrived in Cassavary Square and was overwhelmed once more by the power of the stench that invaded his nostrils. Halfast's largest market thronged with near a thousand ill washed people as they sweated about their business. Adding to the miasma were livestock of every type, combining unpleasantly with the sharp scents of spices and herbs and the deep stink of ordure of uncertain origin. The catch of the day also added its ripe blend to the mix, as did, more noxiously, the catch of last week. Bastien dropped a copper common into the grasping hands of an avaricious stall holder and stepped up onto an empty wooden platform. Sweeping his calculating eyes across the crowd, he straightened his clothing and cleared his throat. He must work hard to make himself heard above the clamouring throng.

"I TELL A TALE SO BEND YOUR EAR, THE TALE I TELL YOU MUST NEEDS HEAR!” Bastien bellowed the ancient formula for opening a public address. Several heads turned his way, giving him encouragement to continue. "I require STOUT men of COURAGE and ENTERPRISE. Training and upkeep for the successful applicants, as well as the chance to take part in the GLORY of the gladiatorial games. I seek the best, so only the STRONG and the BRAVE need apply. Who seeks ADVENTURE? Who seeks WEALTH and FAME? Join with me for the chance to realise your DREAMS!"

Passers by paused to listen to Bastien's missive before moving on. The market had upwards of a dozen such podiums and most were in use. Speakers recruited men for mercantile or mercenary causes, advertised goods or sought converts for various gods. One grizzled and spit flecked old man pleaded for volunteers to another Gerechian crusade. A long standing denizen of the markets, the holy fool was largely ignored, miraculously spared the persecution that others of that despised faith might have meted out to them. 

Bastien racked his voice in competition with the ruckus of the rival speakers and the madding crowds. Gradually his proclamations began to bear fruit. Amongst the merchants, peasants and riff raff who paused to hear his words, people of greater potential also gave ear to his broadcast. By the time his voice gave out, more than a dozen had registered interest, including a brace of petty nobles, some burly woodsmen and rarest of rare creatures, a gnome. These worthies were joined by less desirable elements such as beggars, ne'er' do wells and those types of mysteriously cloaked strangers who always seemed to haunt the formation of a new company. Each was given the same instruction; to report to the Green Arms that evening to listen to the terms in detail.


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## Fiasco (Nov 21, 2005)

******​
Bastien sat at a large table in the centre of the common room of the Green Arms and gestured for the six strangers to do likewise. The recruits regarded each other and their host with guarded interest. They saw a moderately handsome man with a straightforward demeanour. Green eyes sparkled keenly as he looked them over. His brown hair, so dark it was nearly black was swept back to reveal a high forehead, and he affected a dark beard, cut fashionably short. He appeared to be in his middle thirties, a man favoured with both the wisdom of experience and a vigorous body. With an assured gesture he signalled for drinks to be poured for the assembled men. At his feet crouched Kurul, the muscular hound massive in its ugliness. The jug headed beast seemed asleep, blissfully ignorant of the raucous banter of the crowded tavern. Bastien frowned inwardly as he watched his guests being served. His first impression was not favourable, the best that could be said was that they were a diverse group. 

Over a hearty meal of Irudesh stew and braised lamb shanks, Bastien outlined the terms of service offered by his liege. Questions were posed and answers given, eventually to the satisfaction of all involved. Eyebrows were raised when he stipulated that Kurul would be part of their company but no objections were raised. With a clasp of hands, the deal was struck and moneys paid over. Each man accepted the Baron's silver to make a ten day journey to his lands. There they would submit to sundry tests to assess their suitability to form a gladiatorial company for the Halfast Games. Success would see them form such a company, failure would see them given ten silver sickles for their efforts and hearty wishes for a safe journey back to Halfast. Assuming they survived. As he passed out the freshly stamped coins, Bastien greatly doubted that all six would finish the journey let alone be accepted for training as gladiators. 

Each man gave his name when he received his pay; Gerard de Mowbray, a minor scion of a noble lord; the gnome Mortec (a creature almost unheard of this far south); Morgan, a young warrior from the Fastness; the woodsman Argonne, who wore a broad brimmed hat low over his face; the heavily cloaked yet strangely compelling Stravarius; and lastly Moxadder, a tattooed and bald headed beggar. They were a motley collection of highborn and low, human, barely human and non human. Only time and the wisdom of his baron would determine the mettle of these ambitious youths.

Once the young men had accepted the commission, the talk became strained. Mostly unskilled in conversation or uncomfortable in their surroundings, they toyed with the remains of the meal with downcast eyes. Fearing a dreary night ahead, Bastien proposed a carouse at the Baron's expense. Hopefully drink and women would loosen tongues and lower inhibitions, and what more fitting occasion than All Summers Eve? The proposal was readily accepted, and they left the easy hospitality of the Green Arms, stepping forth into the hurly burly of the city. 

Bastien thought to slake the youths lust with an early visit to whores of Nightingale street before the opportunity to do so was lost to the fevered masses of hot blooded revellers. The choice proved unfortunate. Gerard's refined manners and fastidious nature forbade contact with common street walkers while the gnome Mortec was repulsed by the very thought of making such an intimate acquaintance of a human. The others seemed to be shy of expressing their desires in front of their peers. Only Moxadder accepted a coin and without a qualm, slipped down an alley way, rejoining the others a few minutes later.  Recognising his error, Bastien dryly suggested that perhaps they should make a survey of the dockside taverns. He barely troubled to conceal his smile at the mixture of relief and enthusiasm which greeted his proposal. 

The light was descending into gloom when the party emerged from Arrel Way to see the raucous docks spread before them. Fellow revellers rambled through the streets while on the pier, longshoremen, cheeks glowing with drink, strove to finish unloading a coaster before the light failed completely. Several wooden cranes arched against skyline, raising and lowering their cargo. Mortec, only half the height of his companions, struggled to maintain sight of his comrades. So focussed was he on his efforts that failed to notice the approach of a noble cavalcade as it made its promenade along the dock. 

"The Duchess Servessa", Bastien informed his charges as they craned to see the procession. Proceeded by four richly attired guards, the Duchess cut an impeccably regal figure on her splendid black stallion. Her escorts were somewhat less orderly as they struggled to keep the crowd at a suitable distance. Excessive drink and high spirits had made some of the subjects careless of the proprieties that were expected between subject and ruler. In contrast to this rowdy press, the crowds of people on the opposite side of the dock began to leave the walkway with unnerving haste. Marching slowly to the dolorous clank of bells was a procession of eight black robed figures. Dressed in the universal clothing of the leprous and diseased, the walkers inspired the horror of sickness in the drunken and sober alike. Almost as one they fled in terror from this fearsome portent of their mortality. 

From the safety of Arrel Way, Gerard watched with idle curiosity as the lepers neared the Duchess’ guards. The intervening crowds blew away as dust and an unnerved silence replaced the clatter of the docks. Even the hardy dock workers backed away to their storehouses, unwilling to risk the dreaded taint of leprosy. As the two parties moved towards each other, the guards slowed their steps and tightened fingers on the hafts of their pikes. The contradictory impulses of fear and duty warred on their faces as they held grimly to their march, compelled by their responsibility to uphold the Duchess' dignity. 

In ominous contrast to the guards, the lepers' pace increased, transforming Gerard’s curiosity into deep unease. An awful tension gripped the docks as both parties remorselessly approached each other, neither showing any sign of turning aside. A chill gripped him as he realised that the lepers’ movements were too smooth for people debilitated by disease. “Duchess! Ware the lepers” he shouted as the pariahs drew clubs and knives from the concealment of their black robes. Their lethal intent was unmistakable.


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## Fiasco (Nov 22, 2005)

Chaos spilled across the stenching stones of the wharf. The lepers swung at the guards with wild vicious blows, forcing them to jerk and evade frantically, fending all the while with their unwieldy weapons. The Duchess’ horse took fright and added to the confusion, nudging a guard off balance as it reared and screamed in equine fear. A distance away, Gerard forced his leaden feet to action and ran to give assistance to the noblewoman.

Morgan’s mouth gaped in surprise at what he saw. An instant later he was running towards the battle, the brawling melee compelling him towards its vortex. In contrast, Moxadder’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. His dreams of an easy living faded as the group’s intention to intervene made itself clear. Unarmed and weak with a decades worth of bad living and worse luck, Moxadder determined not to sell his life for the bowl of soup consumed earlier. He’d fought the heartless charity of the priests of Thuus for too long to give up so easily. Perhaps sensing Moxadder’s reluctance, Bastien called on the group to aid the Duchess as he sprinted forwards. On nearing the battle he angled his run so that he might pass to the left of the action. A relieved Moxadder was at his heels, hoping that he might escape the confrontation unscathed while not showing himself an utter craven.

Gerard was the first to reach the conflict. Thinking swiftly, he shouted and slapped at the horse, seeking to drive it (and the Duchess) clear of danger. Unfortunately, he missed the panicked beast and barely avoided getting clipped over the ear by a flailing hoof. Seeing Gerard out of the corner of her eye, the Duchess cried “Unhand my horse, peasant!” and lashed her whip wildly at the young nobleman. Gerard was furious. Here he was trying gallantly to save the lady and she had the poor manners to mistake him for a common brigand; or worse yet, a crazed leper! Setting his jaw in frustration, he persisted with his attempts.

Slower in their response to the crisis, Stravarius and Argonne ran at their best speed to join the fray. Mortec thought the better of chasing his comrades as the human’s superior speed left him behind. Instead, he unslung his crossbow and hastily began to crank it back. Heart pumping painfully from the tension, he strained the drawstring into its catch and fumbled a bolt into place. As he raised the weapon and tried to sight around running companions, his finger jerked nervously and the bolt was loosed skirling into the glooming sky. Hissing in frustration, Mortec began maneuvering for a better vantage while attempting to reload the crossbow.

The lepers had not been idle and quite indifferent to the unexpected reinforcements, they pressed their attack. Not all of their stabbing thrusts and clubbing blows were effective, but their numbers were telling. A guard fell to the slimy cobbles, head staved in and life cut short. His comrades fought back desperately and a leper fell twitching to a pike thrust deep in his guts. The stallion reared again, pawing with its hooves and menacing guard and leper alike. The Duchess, her face a rictus of concentration fought to bend the crazed steed to her will. The noise of battle was eerie on the deserted wharf, the hoarse shouts of the guards and the shrill whinnying of the horse carried on the still waters of the dock and were reflected back as distorted echoes. More unsettling was the noise the lepers made, or rather its lack. Apart from a small grunt of effort when giving or receiving blows, the only sound they made was the shuffle of their bandaged feet. With their black robes hiding face and body, it was almost as if the guards strove to quell a pack of ghosts, who danced and gimbled away from their probing pikes.

Morgan joined the ranks of the sorely pressed guards and clutched desperately to free dagger from sheath. Gulping great breaths of air, he fought to steady himself amongst a blur of bodies, robes, pikes and clubs. Cooler headed, Bastien stood clear of the melee and waited patiently for an opening. A dagger appeared in his hand and his arm snapped forward with an assured motion. Crouching nearby, Moxadder followed the flight of the blade until it terminated in the throat of a leper. A dark shape above the melee then caught his attention. Looking up, he saw a large packing crate suspended from a crane. His eyes followed the taught supporting line down the arm of the crane to where it was secured at its base and inspiration seethed through his mind. Here was a way that he could prove himself to Bastian without risking his neck. Ignoring his companions in the thick of the fighting, he ran to where the rope was tied off.

The battle around the Duchess reached a fever pitch as Stravarius joined the combatants. He rasped his rapier clear of its scabbard and held the blade in the approximation of a guard position, awaiting an opportunity to strike. A loud twang heralded the passage of a bolt from Mortec's position, and sparks slithered across the cobbles some twenty feet from where the lepers fought. High-pitched curses issued sulphurously from the gnome as he readied his weapon for another attempt. 

With a firm plan in mind, Argonne approached the battle from the opposite side to Stravarius. He had witnessed Gerard’s persistent attempts to clap the horse on its behind and shook his head at the ineptitude of the young fop. Moving nimbly around a dagger armed leper who menaced a guard; Argonne approached the head of the horse and attempted to grab it by the bridle. The duchess still wrestled for control of her mount and one of its wild gyrations intersected her head with the path of a club. The crack of wood and bone sounded clearly above the clash of weapons as the lady slewed violently in her saddle. This final impropriety was too much for the horse, who skittered sideways and bolted for freedom, its blundering path dashing both Argonne and a guard to the cobbles. Avoiding a clubbing attack from a leper, Morgan stepped back into the space vacated by the steed. He spotted the Duchess swaying mazily atop her steed and set off in pursuit, hoping to forestall any further mishap.

Observing the frenetic pace of the battle, Bastien cursed his lack of a backup weapon. Glancing to his side he noticed a half opened crate filled with bottles of brandy. It was but a moments thought to stoop towards the box and wing a bottle of booze at the head of a high leaping leper. The bottle missed narrowly but his oath of disappointment changed to a shout of delight as a massive crate fell out of the dusking sky to crush the head of his intended victim. Two other lepers were sent violently sprawling as the force of the impact blasted them from their feet. Bastien sought the cause of this providential stroke and was amazed to observe the raggedly Moxadder as its architect. Shaking his head in surprise, he fumbled for another bottle as he scanned eagerly for another target.


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## Fiasco (Nov 23, 2005)

Gerard gave a triumphant shout when the horse finally quit the field. Fixing his eye on a capering leper, he reached for his sword only to clutch at empty air. His stomach lurched sickeningly as he remembered having left his rapier at his lodgings. Noticing Gerard’s predicament, the leper skipped forward, club raised to deliver a devastating blow. The lumbering crash of the crate delivered the young nobleman from the strike as the shock thundered his opponent to its knees. Gerard leapt back from the impact and nearly tripped over a discarded pike. The abandoned weapon very nearly proved his undoing as it prompted him to improvise an unlikely attack. The inexperienced warrior attempted to retrieve the weapon, avoid the attacks of his recovering opponent, stab said opponent with the pike all the while voicing a quick prayer of thanks to Laster for the fortuitous intervention. The outcome was a haphazard flailing of limbs as Gerard tried to pull his body in three directions at once. It was all he could do to avoid spilling himself to the cobbles. Through some miracle, or perhaps the boundless exuberance of youth, he managed to fumble the pike to hand and assay a moderately successful thrust at his foe. He barely had time to collect himself before a narrow length of steel skewered past the edge of his vision, causing him to flinch reflexively away from Stravarius’ ill directed thrust. His anger at the careless stroke turned to surprise when he noted that the rapier’s blade emitted a pale blue glow.

From his position far removed from the conflict, Mortec felt somewhat impotent in exerting an influence. Trying to control his frustration, he drew a bead on one of the lepers. The poor light and chaotic whirl of the battle daunted him, the many hours spent shooting at motionless target butts had in no way prepared him for this. Mortec tried to follow the motion of his target and then jerked excitedly at the trigger as his victim leapt forward to crash a blow at Gerard. The crossbow kicked at his touch, propelling the bolt whirring above the heads of friend and foe alike. The gnome ground his teeth in fury as he doggedly began to crank his instrument again. 

The destruction caused by the falling crate had proved to be a turning point. The confusion it wrought gave Argonne the time to regain his feet and ready his staff. Whirling his weapon with practised familiarity, he crashed its tip into the nose of one of his opponents. A slight shift of position and a dagger thrusting at his belly was turned aside. The hardy woodsman fought in stark contrast to his companions, whose inept strikes betrayed their unfamiliarity with their weapons. Perhaps inspired by Argonne’s cool conduct, the remaining guards renewed their exertions and each slew an opponent. The Duchess’ protectors had gained the ascendancy. 

Argonne, Stravarius, Gerard and two guards faced three lepers, two of whom had only just regained their feet. Even as the combatants momentarily paused to collect themselves, another brandy bottle arched in and caught a leper in the ribs. A second bottle spun in on a different trajectory, smashing another assassin in the face and blinding him with brandy and shards of glass. Moxadder had joined Bastien in flinging the volatile spirits. 

The lepers wavered, whatever the force that united them so resolutely in their purpose was broken. With ghastly cries they each ran their own way. Gerard and Stravarius lunged eagerly at the fleeing bodies but their excitement ill served their aim and the skins of their foes went unpierced. Argonne proved more able, smashing his staff into a foe and hurling him to the ground. 

The guards used this opportunity to disengage from the melee and run towards their liege, who leaned insensible in her saddle some distance away. One of the lepers also ran in that direction while the another weaved blindly towards Moxadder and the water, clawing at its bleeding face all the while. A crossbow bolt passed just over its shoulder as Mortec finally started to find the range of his opponents. Seeing the helpless state of the oncoming leper, Moxadder kept his calm as the distance between them rapidly closed. A judicious nudge sent the fugitive flying on a flat trajectory that ended in the scummy water of the harbour. The cold, black water swallowed its sudden gift and the leper passed from both sight and life.

While the battle had been raging, Morgan had tried his best to succour the duchess. The task proved difficult for the mount was intractable, and even after it was soothed, the Lady’s concussion proved equally vexing. What the Duchess herself felt about a commoner pawing at her was difficult to ascertain and in any case, she was unable form a coherent response. The booted steps of the guards and the slapping of feet on stone intruded upon Morgan’s concentration and he turned just in time to block the path of an onrushing leper. With a strangled shout Morgan lunged with his dagger and succeeded in pinking the assassin’s shoulder and forcing him back. The leper then lurched unexpectedly forwards as a fast running Gerard scored the point of his pike across its ribs. 

In the distance, Mortec crouched on one knee as he deliberately raised his crossbow for another try. Embarrassment was his foremost emotion as he gripped the stock of his weapon. Certain that the others thought him a useless coward, he hoped to make amends with his final shot. With a sighing prayer to his deity, he took careful aim. The din and drang of battle receded and for a brief moment he saw his target silhouetted against the dying rays of the sun. Almost of its own volition, his finger squeezed the trigger and the bolt leapt powerfully forward. One heartbeat, two, the complex tableau froze in his perception, then the shaft of the bolt and the leper’s head became one, joining in a gruesome kiss that transfixed the body and then stretched it out on the ground.


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## Fiasco (Nov 24, 2005)

Moments later the guards belatedly arrived at the Duchess’ side, chests heaving and hands trembling from nerves and battle fatigue. With dull eyes they gazed upon the companions as the last of the light guttered gently into the night.

The clatter of hooves intruded upon them before any words could be exchanged. Steel rasped harshly in the darkness as mounted men moved forwards and bared their weapons at Bastien's charges. Somewhat separate from the others, Moxadder and Argonne remained concealed in the poor light as they rifled through the possessions of the lepers. The new arrivals consisted of well armed and armoured men bearing the livery of Prince Brand, royal scion of the King of Guerney. It was this worthy himself who addressed himself to the young saviours. 

"Who are you people that dare molest the Duchess?" His tone of voice was soft and contemptuous, stinging Gerard to the quick with it's arrogance. "You churls had best explain yourselves quickly". 

"We have just defended her Grace from an assassination attempt... your Highness". Gerard's pause in delivering the honorific stopped just short of insolence. "Perhaps instead of accusing us of base acts, you might listen to our account of the events. I am Gerard de Mowbray, son of Sir Absquith de Mowbray.

"Mowbray...", mused Prince Brand, turning to one of his companions. Pitching his voice so that it might clearly heard by all, he continued. "That does bring to mind some clod hopping low nobles of little account, still... any dog may jump to the call of its master's name. Show me your signet ring, if you truly are what you claim." The last was drawled as the prince turned once again to face the subject of his musings. 

Gerard’s ingratiating smile cost him dearly as he approached the nobleman and proffered his ring with a flourish. The affront to his dignity was profound, and he was grateful that the poor light hid his shame. One of Brand's courtiers reached forward and plucked the ring from Gerard's palm and then passed it disdainfully to his master. Brand barely glanced at the ring before negligently tossing the item back in Gerard's direction. "Hmm, it seems the lordling speaks truth, indeed why would one falsely seek to claim such ancestry.” His expression softened fractionally, “well now, it seems you may have done some good work after all, explain what happened". 

With a belated glance to Bastien for approval, Gerard succinctly related the details of the attack. With the Duchess' surviving guards corroborating his tale, the truth of his words were clear to all. Gerard's concluding phrases were punctuated by the blaring of horns of the city watch. Bellowed orders and the stamp of booted feet could be heard approaching from the heart of the city.

"It seems you are to be commended", Brand reluctantly concluded. "It is best, however if I see to the comfort of Her Grace Servessa. You are no longer needed". With that, the prince placed his arm familiarly around the duchess who was only just now shaking off the bewilderment of her head wound. With polished speed, the prince's men turned smartly and formed an escort around the pair. As he rode off, the prince negligently plucked a small purse from his waist and flung it at Gerard’s feet. "Some coin, to reward you for your work" he said over as his shoulder as he rode off into the early night. Gerard did not even look at the fallen object, focussed as he was on his offended sensibilities. To be addressed so slightingly was a new experience for him, and the fact that Brand was socially within his rights to do so made it cut particularly deep. 

"He shouldn't speak to me like that, the bastard!" he muttered to himself. Unfortunately, the moment for a clever retort had passed, and all that was left was to look to his companions. He stepped back to join Bastien and those of the others who had born silent witness to the interrogation. 

The noise of the approaching watch impinged on their attention again, and Bastien signalled for the party to form into a group and await orders. Moxadder, who had been looting the corpses all the while, had no complaints with seeking anonymity amongst his companions. To his disappointment, the assassins had carried little in coin, but the two daggers he had lifted were a great comfort to him. At least now he was armed. 

Apart from these items, they'd had little of value or out of ordinary, barring a strange demonic head tattooed on the back of their necks. To Moxadder’s professional eye there was something disquieting about the work. It looked as if the dye had been driven deep into the flesh with no regard for the pain the subject would have endured. Nowhere in his vagabond journeys had Moxadder seen such work, and the meaning of the design was lost on him. Defeated, he dismissed their disturbing image from consciousness and rejoined the others.

His company now gathered together, Bastien signalled them to remain behind him as he turned to face the approaching guards. Noting that the crate of brandy was still unattended, he quickly slipped a couple of flasks into a belt pouch and took a third to hand. The others watched as their recruiter explained matters to the newly arrived watch captain, pointing first to the corpses and then at them as he explained the events. A few commiserated oaths about the daring of the attack, the passing over of first one, then two brandy bottles, and the companions were free to go. By unspoken agreement, they turned their steps towards the comforting familiarity of the Green Arms.

*******​


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## Fiasco (Nov 25, 2005)

The tavern was deep in raucous celebration by the time they arrived. Seeing the futility of trying to secure a table, Bastien led the party to his chambers, pausing only to shout an order for drink at a harassed looking pot boy.

The recruits looked around their host's rooms as Bastien set about arranging things to his taste. The bed chamber was generously proportioned, and well furnished with chairs, foot stools, bed and sturdy table. A collection of wines and ales arrived just as Bastien was satisfied with the arrangements and he bade them all sit as he poured generous libations of drink. Before anyone could speak, Kurul thrust his great fore legs onto table and plunked a heavy purse before them with a thunk.

Seven pairs of eyes regarded the leather pouch for a brief moment before a swarm of hands grabbed at it. Stravarius proved the quickest, and with a grand motion he untied the cord and upended the contents. Dozens of silver sickles clattered heavily onto the table, dazzling the lamplight back into the faces of the observers. Gerard spotted a speck of more valuable material in the pile and leaning forwards, he deftly scooped up a gold ring before one of the others, a glare at Moxadder here, could take the chance to pocket it. A low whistle blew from Gerard's lips when he appraised the item.

"Do you recognise this?" he asked, passing the ring to their leader.

"By the Sisters of the Veil!" swore Bastien, "This is looks very much like Prince Brand's signet ring!". He turned to face the rest of the group, whose faces were a mixture of confusion and understanding. "You can rest assured that whatever reward the prince intended for us, it did not include his ring." Bastien leaned back in his chair with a serious expression and regarded the party. 

"Well, detestable as he is, it is clearly our duty to return the ring to his highness as soon as possible", Gerard opinioned. 

"It is not!”, objected Stravarius even as Moxadder directed a horrified stare at the fool who suggested giving away their hard won riches. "Intended or not, he gave it to us and it is ours to dispose with as we choose" Stravarius continued. "Here, let me examine that" he said, stretching a gloved hand towards the disputed adornment. Seeing support for this suggestion amongst the faces of most of his companions, Gerard reluctantly passed on the ring. 

"That's roight", Argonne said in satisfaction, "ah allus said those that does wrong has nowt to complain if they IS done wrong." 

Gerard sighed at the crudity of the dialect and looked to Bastien for support. "Surely you would agree that we should return the prince his property?" 

Bastien shook his head in negation, "I find Brand to be an arrogant and unpleasant man.  He has insulted my lord, our company, and your family name. I say Geduld take him and his overweening pride". Before Gerard could make a retort to this, a hissed intake of breath from within Stravarius' concealing hood caught everyone's attention. 

"The device on the ring just changed!", he cried. The companions mobbed around the ring, obscuring each others view in their eagerness to see. Bastien took the ring and held it up to the light. 

"It looks the same to me, three hills with crown rampant".

"I tell you the device changed to that of a broken dagger", Stravarius countered.

Mortec stood up on his chair and demanded the item. "Let me see, we Gnomes have a facility with things that don’t appear as they should." He examined the ring in his small hand and then held it up to eye level, squinting at it. Next he gripped the item tightly in his hand while pointing the ring’s face towards the others. His brow furrowed with effort, making his head appear to shrivel to half its size. To the wonderment of the others, prince Brands device of three hills abruptly transformed into that of dagger sundered into three pieces.

"I told you!" Stravarius exclaimed, his observation vindicated.

“Yes, but what does this mean?" asked Morgan suspiciously.

"It means trouble, is what" Moxadder interjected harshly, "He didn’t want for us to get this ring. Powerful man. People like that who get unhappy, it goes bad for people like us.

"We are leaving in the morning in any case" interjected Bastien before Moxadder could infect the others with his concerns. "We will be long gone before the prince realises his error. In the mean time, All Summers Eve lies before us! You may each go wherever you please, I for one intend to visit of the Convent of the Doves, you are most welcome to join me. Divide the money amongst yourselves and enjoy this night. Our road ahead will be difficult, so take your pleasures whilst you can." The prospective company did not need telling twice. The money was swiftly divided and plans made. Argonne, Mortec and Gerard would accompany their guide to convent, in reality Laster's holy brothel. Stravarius, Morgan and Moxadder would go their own way, meeting the others at dawn.

********​


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## Palskane (Nov 25, 2005)

Fabulous! I just found this SH, and enjoy it greatly thus far! Keep up the good work!


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## Fiasco (Nov 26, 2005)

Palskane said:
			
		

> Fabulous! I just found this SH, and enjoy it greatly thus far! Keep up the good work!




I'm glad you like it. Feedback like this makes all the hard work well worth while!

Hopefully I'll have the next update ready on Monday.


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## Fiasco (Nov 28, 2005)

Stravarius sighed as he shut and bolted the door to his room. The ever present tension when in the company of others slowly began to ease. He tugged off his sweat damped gloves and threw them across the room. Next, the heavy and restrictive cloak was discarded and his rapier unbuckled and dropped to the floor. A huff of breath and the candle left burning by the landlord was extinguished. He took two long steps to the window and parted the leather covering, allowing the night breeze to ruffle his damp hair. Despite the stink it carried, Stravarius enjoyed the gentle wind on his face. His lambent eyes easily pierced the night's secrets, and he watched the fevered doings of the celebrants in the street below. 

Despite his fatigue, he remained leaning on the ledge for hours, fighting sleep. Sleep might bring dreams of the frightful barrow again. And in there, the centre of his terror, the Transmuter would be waiting, and with it the memories of his centuries long torment. In his mind he would never be free of that awful place, or of the horrid transformation that had been worked on his body. Eventually, he forced himself abed and closed eyes burning with weariness. Mercifully, his sleep was peaceful, undisturbed by either his past or the inferno of lust that coursed through the fevered city. 
********​The Convent of Doves was a sumptuous structure located just outside the walls of Halfast. Built in defiance of a city edict that had lapsed centuries ago, the buildings had evolved into a rabbit warren of rooms, halls, galleries and courtyards. Amongst its rug covered floors, silken doorways and scented warmth, the Sisters of the Veil entertained visitors of every stripe and nationality. They were the concubines of Laster, the earthly incarnation of his lust. To be taken by the hand by one of the sisters and led silently into her room was to know ecstasy.

Many came to the convent seeking such a blessed union, but only the fortunate were chosen. For those whom the sisters overlooked, courtesan's and their less refined kin attended the holy bordello in their dozens, providing (for a price) some consolation. It was often said that no-one with coin ever left the convent unsated.

Bastien arrived with his young charges to find a riot of dancing and music as hundreds of revellers sought the holy pinnacle to All Summers Eve. Seeing the crowd that confronted them, the companions immediately abandoned any hope of staying together and went their separate ways. 

Gerard wandered delicately through the throngs, seeking a dalliance with one of the famed sisters. His heart thumped painfully in his chest but he somehow managed to look assured and confident. Passing through a kitchen, he appropriated a bottle of wine and two goblets and thus armed, continued with his quest. His wanderings took him far into the building and the lewd acts he saw openly performed by other celebrators fired his blood. 

In one chamber, an exquisitely proportioned dancer moved languidly to a sinuous tune piped by boy of startling beauty. He watched entranced as her movements artfully told the tale of a dangerous seduction. The veils covering her head and body were of such delicacy that they barely concealed anything of the splendid form beneath, being just enough to allow the viewer to use their imagination to complete the picture. The dance ended with a trilling crescendo and the crowd erupted in appreciation. As the dancer stepped out amongst the applause, Gerard moved before her and proffered a goblet.

The dancer reached for the goblet and smiled, "I am Adrianne", she said, looking deeply into his eyes. Gerard watched her lift the goblet to her mouth, holding his gaze all the while. Her throat pulsed steadily as she slowly drained the goblet in one long draught. Not daring to speak, Gerard offered his hand and allowed himself to be led away. Magic. Truly he was beloved of Laster this night.

In another part of the convent, Mortec amused himself by watching the lewd religious antics performed by passionate worshippers. Their lustral rites were something completely removed from the mysterious ceremonies performed to honour his goddess. Mortec took care to not stay in any one place too long, as his exotic origin received much interest from both revellers and attendants. He smilingly declined several offers made by those whom the night emboldened to seek out such a bizarre union as a tryst with a gnome.

Elsewhere, Argonne was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. The people, the noise and the architecture were completely foreign to his experiences as a woodsman from rural Brellac. His simple clothing, crude manners and coarse features jarred with the well dressed sophisticates who drank, loved and laughed as if in defiance of the very world.

Pulling his broad brimmed hat low over his face, he quietly made his way along the walls of the bordello, seeking a quiet corner where he might pass unnoticed. Spying a darkened alcove, Argonne backed into it with relief. Just as he began to relax, a hot breath caressed the back of his neck.

"Hmm, what is this tender young morsel that Laster has brought to me for comfort," a husky voice murmured in his ear. Argonne let out a startled oath and spun around to find himself facing a veiled priestess. The veil and robes concealed much of her features, but he could see enough to determine that she was short and full figured, much like the women of his village. "I thought it was only the sisters who wore the veil", she teased, reaching up to remove his hat. "Now come here, my sweet young thing and let Giselle teach you some holy truths." For Argonne, not blessed with pleasing features or the amorous attention of women, the night would blaze long in his memory.
*****​


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## Fiasco (Nov 30, 2005)

Within Halfast's walls Morgan sat in the Sly Dog tavern, drinking and celebrating with his brothers Pechevary and Kerim. Morgan was in high spirits, the commission from Baron Yorath would set him along the same road as his two brothers; that of being part of a gladiatorial company and fighting in the Halfast Games.

The games were an annual event that attracted competitors from even the most far flung parts of the inhabited world. The tournament pitted teams of gladiators against each other for wealth and glory. The potential rewards were great, and even Fastendians, normally so obsessed with their hopeless war with the Dominion, contested strongly in these events.

Morgan drank deep from his mug and looked with affection at his brothers. Both were significantly older and carried their years and battle scars with dignity. So far away from their homeland, the tension and battle fatigue was not etched so deeply into their faces. The prospect of bloody fighting in the contest next month was nothing compared to what they faced back in Avinal. Though normally irritated by their teasing banter and endless advice, he forced himself to listen intently to what they had to say. On the morrow, they would part ways, and only Thuus knew when they would meet again.

******​
On the other side of the city, Moxadder crouched in a filthy alley. He waited for Largus the Lamprey. The knife gripped in his hand was reassuringly warm, and the hot breeze of All Summers Eve put him in the mood for murder.

He marvelled again at the dramatic turn his fortunes had taken. This morning he had woken to the prospect of starvation and degradation, just as he had every day for ten years. Now, there was food in his belly, the guarantee of more for the foreseeable future and even a pouch full of Devil Weed to make life worth living. Best of all, the dagger he pocketed earlier gave him the chance to settle a score.

Moxadder shivered as the effects of the Devil Weed, taken to bolster his resolve, began to take effect. Holding his skinny arms to his ribs, he clenched his teeth and tried to ride through the Big Fear. Through an effort of will he maintained his silence despite the horror and tension that washed through his limbs. He crested the terrible wave of emotion and was rewarded with a feeling of strength and purpose radiating through his being. Eyes dilated, he scanned the darkness, trying to penetrate it to his target.

At last! Footsteps; the familiar, dreadful tread of the Lamprey about his unpleasant business. Moxadder shrank backwards, lest he be seen and his ambush undone. His caution proved unnecessary. Supreme in his confidence, Largus trod heavily through the noisome alley, mind fixed on his vile plans for celebrating the night.

The dagger ripped downwards like a fallen star biting deep into the Lamprey’s fleshy neck. Somehow, Largus managed to turn and grab Moxadder's rotten tunic but it tore in his grasp. He tried to recover his balance but was driven back by a slash to his face. He tried to yell, either in rage or desperation, but his wounds overcame him and he fell to the ground. Moxadder stepped forward and kicked the body viciously. A soundless gasp heralded the end of Largus, dead and unmourned in a filthy alley.

Moxadder listened intently for any sound of alarm. Reassured by the unbroken sounds of revelry in the distance, he reached forwards and liberated the Lamprey of his possessions. They did not amount to much; a knife, some coins and a good pair of boots. Next, his questing fingers found a fine leather pouch concealed under a broad girdle. He swiftly jerked it clear and fumbled it open.

Even in the moonlight, Moxadder could make out the precious wonders it contained; Mordayn Vapour, Baccaran, Sannish and Vodaire. Oh sweet, sweet ecstasy, oh joyous dreamful ambrosia! Moxadder trembled to taste of their dark nectar immediately, but despite the urgings of the Big Fear that twangled recklessly in his mind, he chose restraint. This night marked a new beginning, the pleasures of his beguiling cornucopia must wait for at dawn he would leave Halfast with the others.


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## Fiasco (Dec 1, 2005)

...


And so ends the first chapter of this sorry saga.

The Book of Vile Darkness (BoVD) proved invaluable when it came to Moxadder.  The DM made each player roll for a bane (some sort of flaw or disadvantage) and Moxadder's was addiction to a substance. Just as we were wondering how to handle this in game, we remembered that not only did the BoVD have a list of really cool drugs, it also had detailed rules on how to handle the effects of addiction. This proved a much more interesting prospect than the standard fall back of alcoholism.

Ultimately, we had to tone the rules down a little, as if played BTB, having an addiction is VERY debilitative!


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## Shadow at the Edge (Dec 1, 2005)

So, are we all ready to commit to a new story hour? The long nights waiting for the next post...the suspence as the blasted author leaves the heroes hanging from a clifftop by one arm covered in 'dust of itching'....

Maybe you would like to know more about the story you have been plunged into by Fiasco.

Let me introduce myself. I am the creator of Anka-Seth, and run the game. I have some amazing players, and some chaotic ones. Without them the story I seek to build wouldn't be possible. 

The world and story was built from the beginning to take the players and plot right from being young, snotty-nosed kids all the way through to epic levels.

The world began with about 20 detailed cities, weather systems, over 40 religious orders, 6 countries, and more plot lines and layers than I can remember, even with 3D charts and post it notes to help me.

This is both good and bad. The good is that hopefully the world feels more realistic (if an imaginary world can be realistic), and it offers the players many plots to follow, at their whim. I didn't want to railroad the characters into any particular sequence of events. The history of the world would progress irrespective of whether the players interfere or not. The bad side of a complex world is the characters (and readers?) sometimes don't remember which way is up!

Two players were motivated enough to write their version of events as a story, which impresses me greatly. 

The world is politically fractured, each country having it's own solution to the impending doom reaching towards it. This gave the characters huge scope for how they wanted to play. Did they want to be Evil, and help the oncoming hoards? Did they want to shine light in dark places and lead the forces of good against near certain doom? 

Nope! dead neutral is what they wanted to be as a group...none gave a flying toss about the fate of the world, either way.

This was the greatest headache i have ever had as a GM. What plots and motivation can i provide for a group who simply doesn't care? 

I think in chapter one you can see some strong indications of what i came up with. Fame, and possibly fortune.

Certainly in a world where great events are all around you, and everyone has an opinion, the characters were going to be influenced to take a side in the political scheme of things eventually, but I really left all the choices to the players (at least i attempted to). 

What really baffled them when initially exploring my world is that most groups and religions they met defied easy categorisation.

Let me ask you about one issue that has come up in furious debate over some time.

In the ancient past, one faith (Gerech) overcame all others. (I will post the saga of how this occured some time). Gerech is the God of Justice and Retribution. Gerechians consider themselves to be lawful and good.

They organised a theocracy, which spanned the world. They ran it flawlessly. Roads were maintained, wild beasts were controlled, disease was cured in all...Nirvana?

Depends.

If you fell on the wrong side of the clergy, by blaspheming, worshipping other gods, using arcane magic, or commiting any typical crime, the punishment was somewhat 'harsh'.

'Criminals' were granted the 'gift' of being able to contemplate their crimes for eternity. The Clergy effectively made the criminal into an undead version of themselves then locked them underground in huge barrows with thousands of their fellow criminals, without light, food or water (not that they needed food or water, but they did crave it). When a barrow filled, they sealed it and began on another.

Is this good? Is it the ultimate evil?

I consider this faith can still be called 'good' in that the punishment is harsh, but is only imposed for serious breaches of what are quite fair and just laws.

My various players don't necessarily agree....

Sometimes this 'good' god is hated more by the players than some of the evil ones   

What do you think?


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## Fiasco (Dec 3, 2005)

*Chapter 2*


Morgan straightened his back in an attempt to ease the pain of the straps cutting into his shoulders. The road before him rose dishearteningly up a long incline, promising more grief for his aching calves. Behind him Argonne’s irritating chatter, unabated by two days of hard travel, continued to nag at his nerves.

“And then t’lass told me, that ah could take mah boots off afore we ‘ad at it again! Aye twas a grand night.”
Morgan’s temper flared, along with feelings of envy. While he had endured the good natured baiting of his brothers, the young woodsman had been cavorting in a brothel! On comparing the two alternatives for spending their last evening in Halfast, he saw much to recommend the second course of action. To make matters worse, the march seemed to have no effect on Argonne at all. Late in the afternoon, while the others struggled painfully, his stride was still as enthusiastic as at the break of day. Were it not for Morgan’s stoicism, a characteristic bred into most Fastendians, he would surely have snarled his tormentor to silence; instead, he endured. 

A glance to the side afforded him his only consolation. As hard as he found the going, there were others who suffered more. Gerard was marching with the fixed expression of one whose misery had completely imposed itself on his awareness. Fastidious to the point of mania, the nobleman had found it impossible to come to terms with the dirt and hardship of the trail. He had tied an expensive silk kerchief about his face in an attempt to keep it free of dust but this had only temporarily alleviated his suffering. The material was now heavily impregnated with material and black grimed rings had formed on the silk where nose and mouth exhaled moistly. The affect was quite comical, but the amusement of the others did not deter the young nobleman from his futile attempts to alleviate his discomfort.

Trailing along at the back of the party, Moxadder’s condition was even worse. The Irudeshian’s bare scalp streamed with sweat as his near skeletal body struggled to keep pace with the others. His guts roiled painfully and with a groan he dropped his pack and squatted to the side of the road, rags hiked up to his hips. As welcome as regular food was, it was playing hell with his long neglected digestion. 

Mortec and Stravarius averted their eyes from the unpleasant sight as they passed but made no move to offer assistance. Bastien had made it clear that no allowances would be made for anyone seeking a place in the Baron’s service. Besides, none of them truly believed that the vagrant could possibly be accepted. The sooner he abandoned his crazed fantasy of becoming a gladiator, the less he would suffer.

Another toilsome hour passed before Bastien finally signaled a halt. The road had finally attained the hill’s summit and this vantage afforded them a view of a village lying a half mile away. Thornwood, for so it was called, was a small community which boasted some thirty dwellings. The simple huts were clustered in a rough circle with partitioned fields all around. Around the perimeter of this arrangement was a thick barrier of hedges, grown to offer some shelter from the elements and marauders. The locale had once been situated inside the surrounding forest, but generations of tree felling had cleared a sizeable tract of land around the encircling wall of greenery. 

If there were truth to the rumours of plague they had heard in Halfast on the morning of their departure, Bastien suspected the verdant fortification would have been little help against the calamity that had reportedly stricken the village.

The young travellers stood next to their leader and contemplated the hamlet below. It was silent, giving no indication of what it might harbour. The odious rasp of Moxadder’s breath announced his arrival, bringing the company to it’s full complement.

“We have two choices”, Bastien announced. “We can risk passing through the village, hoping that there is no substance to the stories of plague, or we can skirt Thornwood and regain the road on the other side”. Bastien looked to his charges for their opinions, all the while assessing their reactions and weighing their worth. Although the aspirants ostensibly travelled to Yorath in order to be tested for suitability, in actuality their trial had begun the moment they accepted the Baron’s coin.

“Ah think summat’s wrong with yonder village”, Argonne offered. “Tis ower quiet to mah mind”. The others nodded or grunted in agreement. No-one was keen on the idea of risking contact with the invisible threat. “Ah can scout ahead for t’best trail, if tha pleases”, Argonne continued, “tis nobbut a short way round”.

Bastien nodded his assent and everyone but Argonne settled themselves gratefully by the side of the road. With a touch of finger to broad brimmed hat by way of salute, the young woodsman made his way a little further down the trail before selecting a route through the scrub that paralleled it. 

Gerard found himself seated next to Morgan and Mortec. The three of them leaned against an ancient tree stump that had passed the young fop’s fussy inspection. Almost involuntarily, they found their gaze drawn to the hunched figure of Stravarius resting some distance away. Mortec caught the other’s gaze and quirked an eyebrow. “He’s a strange one isn’t he” confided the gnome in a whisper. “Three days we’ve known him and we don’t know any more about him than when we first met! 

“He certainly is mysterious, the way he creeps around and covers himself from head to toe in those robes; I haven’t seen so much as the tip of his nose. Why, he even sh*ts in secret!” Morgan exclaimed. Gerard snickered despite himself. “No! Its true!” Morgan insisted. “This morning I saw him slip off into the woods, I was suspicious, so I followed him.”

“What, he just…” the gnome began.

“Aye” Morgan affirmed in a piercing whisper, “While he was going about his business, the cloak stayed on the whole time! I don’t trust him”, he concluded.

Mortec stroked his goatee, entwining the darker and lighter hairs. “He was staunch when we fought the lepers wasn’t he?”

“To stand with someone in a trial of arms is no trivial thing”, Gerard agreed. “Certainly I cannot blame him for covering his body from this damnable trail dust!” Having said his piece, he dispelled Stravarius from his mind and concentrated instead on the pleasing feel of the sun on his aching limbs. Let the others puzzle the enigma’s secrets, Time enough for that once they reached more civilised areas. His companions also subsided after a few minutes of desultory speculation, content to worry at the matter when they were less tired.

Some ten minutes later, a faint rustle of undergrowth announced Argonne’s return. The woodsman knelt next to Bastien and made his report.

“Ah found a trail we can foller and ah also ‘ad a brief sniff around t’ edge of village. I heard nowt but ah did find some tracks, troeel tracks.”

“Trolls…”, Bastien mused, translating Argonne’s dialect for the others. “That decides it. Argonne, you will lead us to this trail you found and we’ll try and skirt Thornwood. Plague and trolls are perils that bring us no closer to our destination, and we still have a long way to go.”


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## Fiasco (Dec 6, 2005)

Reluctantly, the party rose and shouldered their burdens once more. Bastien’s gesture to move silently was largely unnecessary. Everyone knew the terrible danger that trolls represented. Any snap of twig or slap of branch made the offender wince. Hands strayed near to sheathed weapons and ears strained to detect any threat hidden in the ordinary calling of birds and rustle of foliage. 

Glancing back, Argonne was amused by the carryings on of his companions. Several of them were clearly ill suited for stealthy travel, their overly tentative movements reminding him of the actors in a travelling bawd show he had once seen. Despite their clumsiness, the company successfully skirted Thornwood without mishap and gained the relative safety of the road on the other side. Bastien immediately increased the pace of the march, determined to put a good many miles between them and the doom struck village.

That night they made camp in the ruins of a temple. The heavily weathered remnants dated over a thousand years, or so the gnome reckoned. Mortec ran his small hands over the milky white stones, sinking into a reverie. The roughness of the rock against his palm felt heavy with history. What tumultuous times these walls must have witnessed, also countless moments of simple routine; events great and small, one after the other, flowing in an unbroken stream through the centuries. Here he stood, the last element in the sequence, but only for a moment, for time would move him onwards yet the stones would remain. 

Mortec felt very small as he contemplated this, but paradoxically, he felt that part of him was very great too. Though he was only a tiny spec of being adrift the awesome expanse of time, yet he was a part of it, rooted in it, his thoughts and deeds were delicate tendrils that enmeshed themselves in the past, and moving further back grew ever in stature as the events that formed them took on greater significance. The end of the Convocation, the rise of the Druids, the persecution of the faithful, the God trapped in Stone, the rise of Gerach, other more ancient deeds only glimpsed even further back, all these great events had shaped him, made him what he was, and he in turn was part of them. Todesmagie taught that the world had begun with a single act; if he could but look back far enough, Mortec knew he would be able to see his own small presence in that genesis.

The moment of communion passed and the gnome was once more aware of his surroundings. He looked about the ruins with a more practical eye and tried to determine their provenance. The shape of a half collapsed arch and the general layout of the foundations indicated a strong likelihood that this had once been a temple to Srcan. Likely it had perished during the Convocation’s first great expansion. Driven by their imprisoned God, the Gerechians had shown a fierce intolerance for all other beliefs and governments. The crusading armies had been zealous in their destruction of all rivals to their faith. The ruination of this poor temple, once a symbol of bright enterprise and new beginnings had been but one small gasp of outrage in the centuries long agony of fanatical oppression. 

His heart weighed down by his thoughts, Mortec looked to the others, wondering if he might share the poignance of the shelter they had chosen. Moxadder lay in a crumpled heap, a position he had assumed on the moment of their arrival. Stravarius was lost in the shadows while Argonne tramped noisily about as he saw to the making of a fire. Bastien wasn’t in sight and Gerard was fussing over the state of his once fine boots. Mortec’s lips tightened. These humans had settled in a place steeped in history yet they were content to root about as ignorant as a herd of swine. Mortec felt as far removed from his companions as he was from his homeland.

As full darkness covered the land with its concealing mantle, the travelers were drawn towards the fire on the tendrils of its comforting warmth. Steam rose slowly off clothes dampened by a late afternoon squall. Morgan leaned next to Kurul, man and dog taking comfort from the warmth of the other. The hounds ugliness did not concern the Fastendian. In Avinal, hounds of similar bestiality were often kept as an additional defence against the night horrors. So far from home and family, it was comforting to share a companionable silence with something that was almost familiar. 

He shifted his rump to ease away from a sharp stone and leaning back, looked up at the night sky. A small blot of darkness on one of the temple walls caught his notice. Straining his eyes, he could just make out the shape of a bat hanging off a small projection of rock. Morgan felt a nagging suspicion grow. He had noticed a bat the previous evening too, and during the day he had thought to see one fluttering in the distance. Argonne had seen it as well and had made the offhand remark that they weren’t native to the area. 

As Morgan intensified his attention, the small, shriveled head swiveled around as if it too had suddenly become aware of him. Somewhat unnerved by this unnatural scrutiny, he reached for his bow, thinking a well flighted arrow might rid him of this disturbing omen. 

A deep growl raised the hairs on the back of his neck as he set arrow to string. Kurul, who had been the very embodiment of peaceful rest only moments before now regarded him with baleful eyes. They glowed an unpleasant yellow in the firelight as the growl intensified. 

Confused, Morgan backed away from the hound as others in the camp were roused to alertness. Thinking that his swift movement in taking up the bow had somehow startled the beast, he let the weapon fall to the ground. In an instant, the tension left the chill night air. Kurul gave a soft grunt and uncharacteristically, his stumpy tail began to wag. 

The hound nudged its great head against Morgan’s thigh as if in conciliation and than collapsed with a whuff at his feet. More puzzled than frightened by the incident, Morgan gave a foolish grin to his companions. Gerard sniffed dismissively, while Stravarius gave no indication of having paid any attention at all. The others shared in his mirth and the bat was quickly forgotten. 

An easy mood settled on the camp and for several hours the talk rambled on inconsequential topics. It was accompanied by the rhythmic rasp of steel against rock as Moxadder carefully worked a dagger against a whet stone he had scrounged. The lethal edge he brought to the blade was every bit as comforting to him as the hum of companionable chatter around him. 

The following three days passed without incident. The region they travelled through was sparsely populated, making encounters with travellers or villages rare. Fortunately, the lands were not fully wild either, and if dangerous beasts laired in the area, they didn’t make their presence known. The companions had settled themselves into the simple routines of travel and even the weakest members became hardened to the toil.

*******​


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## Fiasco (Dec 8, 2005)

During midmorning of their sixth day’s travel, Bastien, signaled a halt from the head of the company. The road had taken them through a well wooded valley and the tall trees blocked much of the warmth of the mild summers day. Bastien knew that close ahead lay the village of Ortherton, but of more immediate concern to him was the thin tongue of smoke that poked out from the woods to the side of the trail. The sickly sweet smell of burning flesh wafted over them as they stood on the road.

“I think that’s man flesh” Morgan murmured, trepidation writ across his countenance.

“Is it the plague?” Gerard asked in a fit of coughing, a white knuckled fist held hard against his nose.

“I see no plague markers”, Bastien said. “I suggest a few of us have a look and see what there is to see.”

“Ah’ll go” the woodsman volunteered and to the surprise of all, Moxadder also stepped forwards. Bastien nodded.

“That should do. You others wait here and be ready to come if we call”. Kurul lay down with a grunt, as if in complete agreement with this instruction.

The trio carefully picked their way through the densely packed vegetation. Argonne, who had assumed the lead felt once again the thrill of the unknown as he carefully probed forwards. Here, surrounded by the natural world he lost those feelings of awkwardness and ignorance that more social environments inflicted on him. Here there was a sense to things, a feeling of fitness, that everything was as it should be, indeed as it had been since time immemorial. 

Although the wild places were dangerous, the tense alertness that was second nature to him in these environs was strangely comforting. Focussing his attention on the forest ahead of him, he felt his senses expand to embrace the entirety of his surroundings. The forest floor felt soft under his feet, almost as if his thick travelling boots were the softest of moccasins. 

His eyes picked out the nervous scuttle of a hedgehog as it moved from one piece of shadowed safety to another, his ears thrilled to the sound of birds chirruping their mindless twittings amongst the high swaying eaves. The sun glowed a distant green gold through the trees, its burning touch much diffused by the verdant shield above. Wodensense he called it, a name he’d invented to describe the trance like state whereby he achieved a state of complete knowing that brought them in complete harmony with the wild. 

In the thrall of his communion, the unpleasant goal of their search was easily discerned. Argonne’s lips tightened in distaste as the odour wound its insidious way up his nostrils. Despite this, he moved with confidence towards its source. Whatever the cause of the fire was it had ceased to bother the wildlife, making him confidant that there was no intrinsic danger. Following behind, Moxadder moved nearly as silently as the woodsman while further back, less stealthy in his progress came Bastien.

After some minutes of easing around massive trunks and forcing through stubborn undergrowth, the forest yielded up its sinister secret. They had come to a small glade some seventy yards from the road and in it, what had once been a great bonfire smoldered under the weight of the human corpses thrown halfheartedly upon it. 

Elsewhere, other bodies lay where they had been struck down amongst the moss and leaves, sad punctuation to fleeting life. Bastien’s sympathy for the slaughtered lessened when he noted the simple white cassocks worn by each ruined body. 

“Gerechians” he muttered with contempt, “Damned fools” he added more softly when he noticed the youth of one of the victims. Argonne’s throat bobbled convulsively and then he was bent over the bushes, clutched by heaving paroxysms as his stomach squeezed out it’s contents. The combination of the miasma of burning flesh and the visceral evidence of the battlefield was far beyond his wildest experiences. The woodsman coughed and choked, struck by successive waves of nausea. 

Moxadder was more composed, the charnel reek and stark ugliness of the killings were nothing new to one who had been mired deep in Halfast’s filthiest dregs, though even he did not feel inclined to search the bodies for loot. 

Argonne stepped back from the filth bespattered bushes and tripped over. His startled cry brought the others to his side and it was Bastien who found the cause of the mishap. Argonne had fallen over a broken handle, such as might belong to a farmer’s hoe. Examining the wood, he could clearly see the marks where the iron head had recently been removed. Looking around the clearing he noted the wounds on the corpses; the evidence was clear. The band of crusading fanatics, aggressively recruiting anyone they could to their doomed cause had run afoul of angered villagers. This was not the first such incident he had heard of. 

Over a century had passed since Gerech’s mighty Convocation had it’s iron grip catastrophically removed from the world, and still the followers were blamed for either their fiercely oppressive rule or for the horrors let loose as the awful consequence of their fall. Often it was for both. Remarkably, there were those who still adhered to the discredited religion, despite their god being cut off from even their most fervent prayers. Somehow, like a persistent stain they remained to taint the world and their hardships had done nothing to lessen their infamous fanaticism. 

Seeing no point in wasting more time on the slaughter, Bastien turned back to the road, beckoning the other two to follow him. The woodsman was still coughing and retching as he stumbled after his leader, his recently attained state of Wodensense completely lost. Uncharacteristically, Moxadder laid a comforting hand on Argonne’s shoulder. At that moment the tattooed Irudeshian felt a hundred years older than his companion, who was still young and innocent to the world’s old, wicked ways. He thought to find some platitude, some suggestion that it was all for the best somehow, but the lie stuck in his throat. Instead, he grimaced and hustled forwards after their recruiter. 

Once the road was regained, Bastien curtly related their findings and then resumed the journey to Yorath. They would pass swiftly through Ortherton, making no mention whatever of the savage doom brought down on the youthful crusade. In their turn, the villagers were unwelcoming and sullen. Whether this was the essential character of their community or a byproduct of their gruesome deeds was impossible to determine. It was to be the last habitation the prospective gladiatorial company would pass for some time.

*****​


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Dec 8, 2005)

Fiasco,

Just looked at your storyhour for the first time today, and have read up the end of Chapter One. I'm a bit surprised that you haven't had more comments, 'cos I'm enjoying it immensely.

Shadow at the Edge seems to have done a good job in creating a living world, and your account of the party's adventures so far is very good indeed.

I'm looking forward to reading Chapter Two and hopefully many more chapters to come.

Keep up the good work ...


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## Fiasco (Dec 9, 2005)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Fiasco,
> 
> Just looked at your storyhour for the first time today, and have read up the end of Chapter One. I'm a bit surprised that you haven't had more comments, 'cos I'm enjoying it immensely.
> 
> ...




Thanks!

Shadow at the Edge always keeps us on our toes and there are always things going on in the background that we are barely aware of.  As we follow the adventures of the party he will hopefully chip in from time to time and point out some of the things that we missed, forgot to follow up or just plain got wrong!


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## Fiasco (Dec 11, 2005)

The tenth day of Low Summer began inauspiciously with the fevered dreams of Moxadder interrupting the travellers’ sleep. His precious cache of Devil Weed had been exhausted for two days and both his body and psyche were painfully feeling its lack. Argonne had noted the Irudeshians deterioration with concern but there was nothing that anyone could do. 

The companions broke camp and marched hard through the cool of days dawning. A thick mist held stubbornly to the grassland they traversed and in the distance, they could hear the deep inrush and outrush of the ocean’s breaths as its waves sawed back and forth over rocky shores. 

Gerard shivered in his light traveler’s clothing, the damp chill of the mists robbing him of the warmth of his exertions. Morgan, marching beside the young nobleman was uncomfortable for a different reason. The fog that covered them in its pearly white folds reminded him of grim nights in Avinal when the dead, cloaked in deathly quiet and white vaporous robes, marched against the fortress walls. Every instinct told him to be alert for imminent attack, though reason told him it was unlikely in this distant backwater.

The party crested a steep hill as the fog finally began to disperse. The view was remarkable. They looked down upon a natural harbour with a small village nestled close to shore. The roofs of fishermen’s huts emerged from the mist to greet the sun as though from beneath a white blanket. Dew dazzled brilliantly from the thatched roofs as they caught and refracted the morning light into a thousand scintillas. To either side of the village, proud cliffs thrust up from the ocean, glorious bookends to the peaceful domesticity of the small fishing community. 

The Eastern side of the village backed onto the beginnings of a forest, fog still clinging to the trunks of its ancient trees, while to the West, a stone abbey surmounted a small hill. Even from a distance the graceful lines of the architecture gave cheerful life to what would otherwise be dull grey stone. Seemingly directly behind the structure, though in actuality a distance away, there glittered the whitewashed walls of a lighthouse anchored to the top of a cliff on the South-Western most tip of the bay. 

As the companions gazed upon this idyllic scene, their appreciation of it was marred by the smouldering remains of two huts standing out like blackened teeth in an otherwise radiantly white smile. Disturbingly, no-one was attempting to quell the flames, nor were there villagers on the commons or fishermen on their boats. Indeed, on closer inspection, the three boats that were tied at the pier appeared to have been scuttled, their bows wallowing just below the surface of the crystal clear waters. 

The companions looked at each other in dismay. Had another village been struck down by plague? Unconsciously they clustering closer together as they descended the hill and approached the deserted community. Ravenswood was part of Baron Yorath’s fief and Bastien was determined to find the cause of its distress. 

As they made their approach they heard no sound save the gentle crackle of the fires that consumed the last remnants of the burning huts. A sense of mystery and unease rooted itself in the young aspirants as the discordant portents of the ruined cottages and peaceful surrounds assailed their senses. Gerard hailed a greeting as they entered the village proper but received no reply. Fanning out, they looked in various huts as they made their way into the centre of the village. Each told a similar story of a hasty ransacking; pots and utensils up-ended, bedding strewn about and implements ripped off the walls. 

“This doesn’t look like plague”, said Morgan when they had gathered together some minutes later. By now their investigation had taken them to the docks and they looked down on the stove in hulls of the boats.

“Pirates done this”, said Moxadder with grim certainty as he exhaled a thin plume of smoke from between broken and discoloured teeth. He was shivering violently and the tendons in his neck stood out as he tried to ride out the wild emotions that coursed through him. His left hand clenched the smoking remains of a stick of devil weed, part of a small cache Argonne had found for him in one of the huts. “They sail in, loot what they can, take people for slaves and then wreck the boats so’s they can’t be chased. I thi…”. A fit of coughing interrupted his theorising, the hacking spasms reverberating harshly amongst the abandoned dwellings. 

The stricken fishing vessels lay bogged in their watery mire, unmoving witnesses to the Fastendian’s words. Mortec gazed at the wrecks and felt his anger slowly build. Their craftsmanship could clearly be perceived even through the refracting surface of the water. So much time and skill had been poured into these wooden contrivances, the livelihood of the entire village had rested on them and they had been crudely undone with a few strokes of a hatchet. What other travesties had these invaders wrought? His eyes strayed in the direction of the abbey they had seen. Even from this distance it exuded the same lack of animus as their overturned hamlet. He shook his head sadly, it appeared that humans had precious little regard for each other.

“Ah can see caves in t’ cliffs yonder” 

Bastien turned in the direction Argonne indicated and squinting, just made out some faint shadows against the rock face. The decision to search there for survivors was infinitely preferable to staying where they were. They left Ravenswood behind them and began the trek towards the caves. Periodically, one of the companions would look furtively back over their shoulders, as if to convince themselves that the village had really been as they found it. The only thing out of the ordinary was the sight of Kurul shambling along behind them, his head hanging low to the ground as though the effort to lift is was too great.

The caves were set low in the Southern headland a half mile away and a small trail snaked it’s way up from the village in that direction. As they ascended the bluff they came across a cozy looking cottage that stood to one side of the path. Its sturdy mud brick walls were almost completely hidden under a verdant tangle of grape vines, while the window sills were lined with narrow beds of colourful flowers. The grounds around the domicile were well kept with precisely ordered ranks of herbs and vegetables growing in long lines, seeming to luxuriate in their beds of rich loam. A bee hive droned soothingly in the background and Bastien’s charges found it hard to credit this glorious morning with the mysterious violence they had uncovered. 

Gerard savoured the sweet scent that hung thick in the air as he rapped on the cottage door. There was no response to his summons but the door swung open under his clenched fist. Though the interior of the building was a good deal more cluttered than the order of the garden outside there was no signs of the violent pillage that had swept through Ravenswood. A quick glance satisfied the young nobleman that no-one was concealed. 

The room was filled with the pleasant scent of lavender. Gerard took a sprig of the aromatic herb from where it lay on a work table and rejoined his companions. Travel was barbarous, and every opportunity had to be taken to achieve a little comfort. Kurul seemed much of the same mind, for he stretched out in the sunlight and began to snore. His participation in the investigation was clearly over.


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## Fiasco (Dec 13, 2005)

Past the cottage the path led directly to the edge of cliffs. When they looked down from  this vantage they perceived a steep trail that led down to a secluded patch of beach some fifty yards below. As they carefully negotiated the rocky stairway, Gerard began calling on survivors to come forward, citing the name of Baron Yorath as a guarantee of safety. 

At last his cries elicited a response. As the companions reached the sands at the base of the trail, an old man and woman and two young children emerged from a small cave set far back against rocks. All four blinked in the bright sunlight, clearly shaken and bewildered by whatever had befallen them. Frightened tears had left silver trails on the dirt blacked cheeks of the children. 

The old man wrung knobbed and weather beaten fingers together in complex patterns as he proved incapable of answering Bastien’s urgent questions on what had befallen Ravenswood. The woman composed herself by smoothing her long white hair into place and brushing the dirt from her simple but durable clothes. Though slight of frame there was a strength to her. It was evident in her bearing, still upright despite her years. 

She identified herself as Alice Copthorpe, who along with her husband Perry and their grandchildren Nevin and Anna had fled to the caves at the first sounds of the violent disturbance the previous night. It transpired that the Copthorpes lived in the house the companions had recently explored. Alice was a healer of some skill and the well ordered herb garden they had seen was a vital adjunct to her profession. Now that the threat of physical harm had passed, she proved herself to be remarkably self possessed. Her old eyes had lost none of their sparkle and she showed little sign of unease in the presence of the group of armed strangers who had come to Ravenswood. 

As they accompanied her back to her home she explained that they had heard shouts and screams in the early hours before dawn. Convinced that some awful catastrophe was befalling the village, they had not hesitated in fleeing. On hearing that the small community had been completely devoid of inhabitants, Alice suggested that the survivors must have fled into the safety of the woods. There they would have stood an excellent chance of evading capture amongst the trees in the dark of night.

When they reached the top of the bluff they saw a tall weathered man in his late forties approaching them from Ravenswood. The old couple identified him as Ger’Maron Devlis, a woodsman who lived some six miles east of Ravenswood. He was something of a wanderer by nature and was often to be seen rambling about. 

The party reached the Copthorpe’s home at the same time as the newcomer. Greetings and questions were exchanged. Maron Devlis was a man without ostentation save for affecting the archaic practice, dating back to convocation times, of not allowing his first name to be used in idle conversation. Hence, the prefix ‘Ger’ stood for the name he chose not to reveal. Despite his mature years he appeared quite hale, with sun browned features and strong sinewy limbs. Once satisfied with the party’s credentials he relayed his findings with complete candour. 

He had arrived in the village not long after them and had found things much the same as they had. Being an experienced tracker, he had picked up the signs of many booted feet leaving and entering the woods and also signs that the villagers had fled into the forest. Everything appeared to indicate bandits as being responsible for the raid. The tracks left by Ravenswood’s inhabitants gave hope that at least some had escaped the pillage. 

While Maron talked with the party, Alice and Perry served day old bread, fruit and a deliciously spiced tea. With the exception of Moxadder, who was too enmeshed in his battle with the Big Fear to appreciate it, those who drank of the tea felt their spirits lift and their fatigue dissipate. Even Gerard, who had initially regarded the offering with disdain made a surprised moue of appreciation. 

All the while, the small children stared goggle eyed at Mortec, small mouths hanging open in unashamed wonder. Despite being of a stature close to them, the gnome’s pronounced nose and vaguely fey features were irresistibly fascinating to the young ones.

As the companions were finishing their improvised repast they noticed some villagers returning in a disorganised straggle from within the woods. With a hasty farewell to the Copthorpes they jogged back towards the little community. Maron accompanied them, the grim set of his features somewhat alleviated by the relief he felt in seeing survivors. 

The villagers were disheveled and wild eyed from the terrors they had endured, but appeared otherwise unharmed. Bastien took charge and organised a head count while the others questioned various individuals, trying to find some sense from the hysterical hubbub of each villager relating their personal travails at the top of their voices. The sun had begun its long descent into the West before some semblance of coherence was achieved. By now, the agitated chatter had changed to wails of bereavement at lost relatives or cries of dismay at the sack or destruction of their homes. Not troubling to move out of earshot of the victims, Bastien had his young charges gather around and listen to his summation of the testimony. 

“From what I can gather, bandits attacked in the early hours before dawn, firing huts and capturing villagers while the rest fled into the woods.” Bastien paced back and forth, counting each fact off on his fingers. “Six people are unaccounted for: Senjik the Hetman, Olvan the boatwright, old mother Wilima and three young women; Kareena, Leesha and Nadine. Most likely they were captured as there is no sign of bloodshed and they would have returned here by now if they were able. There does seem to be some confusion over Senjik as a couple of them swear that he made it into the woods with them. What is still unclear is why brigands would have attacked here, and of what use an old boatwright or crippled crone would be to them.”

“Pirates, not Brigands”, Moxadder interjected, his eyes blazing with the zeal of his certainty. “It is very clear to me that pirates come here and take what they want. They sink the boats so no one thinks to chase them and they take the old boatwright so make no one can fix ‘em”. He turned to face the tearful villagers. “You are right to be crying as those bastard pirates are raping your women even as I am standing here and talking to you”. Tears of grief and outrage greeted this announcement as Moxadder warmed to his vision, no doubt encouraged by the rare attention he was receiving. “Yes, they’re sailing and raping and pillaging and stealing, and no-one is stopping them because no-one has a boat! It’s a terrible thing” he added as the cries of the villagers built to a new crescendo. “Maybe they turn up in some dirty portside side stew five years from now and maybe not.” 

As Moxadder paused to gather the inspiration for more ghoulish insights to offer, Bastien took the opportunity to steer the conversation to more productive ends. With an appeasing glance towards the distraught fisherfolk, he pointed out that pirates would have been unlikely to kidnap an old woman. He suspected that there was more to the calamity than a simple raid, and the obvious next step would be to investigate the nearby abbey. It was worrying that no word had been heard from it despite the upheavals of the night before. 

With the daylight hours rapidly fading, Bastian decided to divide his forces in order to get as much done as possible. He directed Argonne to join Ger’Maron Devlis in trying to track the attackers to wherever they had gone. He sent Moxadder with them as well, more to get him away from the villagers than because he would be useful. The rest of the party he proposed to take to Leith’s Abbey, one of the centres of learning for the Lasterian faith. 

*****​


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## Fiasco (Dec 15, 2005)

The walk to the abbey was a pleasant one. The weather remained clear and the gentling sea breeze was a pleasing balm to the mild sweat raised while ascending to the holy retreat. Gerard set an uncharacteristically brisk pace in his eagerness to assail the buildings secrets. Leith’s Abbey was renowned as a great repository of religious and secular knowledge and as a keen student of history, he could not wait to taste of its esoteric richness. Poor Mortec was forced to adopt a skipping half run just to keep up. His cheeks flushed rosy red from the exertion as he strove to stay close to the young nobleman’s heels. He too had heard about the monastery and was no less keen to explore it.

The stone walls surrounding the abbey leant it an imposing air, though the building itself was artistically rendered. Many statues twined in erotic elegance and deep carved bass reliefs depicting religious acts pleasing to Laster. The ancient wooden gates barring entry to the abbey’s grounds looked to have been recently sundered. Fresh splinters littering the path leading to the monastery’s doors, which had also suffered the same violent fate. 

Gerard’s hailed greeting emerged half choked from his throat when he noticed the bloodshed in the courtyard. Whatever forbearance had been shown the villagers during the raid had most graphically not been exercised here. The bodies of three men, dressed in the brownish red robes of monks of Laster, lay on the ground. What should have been pristine grass was churned into a bloody mire by the death-throws of the clergymen, their hands still outstretched in vain supplication to their killers. 

From within the abbey, a feeble cry emerged in response to Gerard’s call. Bastien repeated the scion’s greeting in a stronger voice and managed to coax forth an enfeebled, middle aged monk. He had barely registered the party when he saw the pathetic remains of his colleagues and collapsed weeping to the ground. His thin shoulders shook in spasms of grief as he tried to encompass the dreadful loss of his brothers in faith. Bastien and Morgan attempted to succour the bereaved monk while the others moved grimly past and entered the abbey. 

As they moved through the silent rooms, it quickly became apparent that the attack on the monastery had not been guided by a more sinister purpose than mere pillage. Those chambers which served the everyday life of the monks were completely untouched, while the rooms which housed the ancient religious art of Laster seemed to have been only cursorily examined. The focus of the desecration lay in the heart of the abbey, a magnificent library. This ancient chamber had been the focus of the monastery for centuries. The stone floor was carpeted in silken rugs of exquisite design and the walls were completely concealed by massive shelves of ancient oak. These furnishings might almost have remained as trees for they climbed all the way to the top of the ceiling some twelve feet above their heads. In the centre of the room a narrow stone stairway wound its way downwards, a dark chasm in the heart of the library. The entire chamber was illuminated by eight gilt sconces mounted symmetrically around the room, each contained a flickering torch that cast forth its light without any smell, nor smoking accompaniment. 

These items and the large stone work tables were largely intact, but those works which gave the room its purpose had been rudely treated. To Mortec, the sight of the ripped scrolls and broken tomes strewn carelessly about was even more upsetting than the slaughter outside. The abbey’s carefully maintained and catalogued lore had been cast down into awful chaos. As he struggled to take in the scope of the loss he was filled with awe at the thought that centuries of care could be so comprehensively undone in the space of a few brutal minutes. Such an act as he now witnessed was complete anathema to both he and the goddess he venerated. 

He stumbled weak kneed to the stairway and allowed the weight of his spirits to drag him down to the next level. Dimly he registered Gerard’s furious curses in the background. A horrified glance was sufficient to show that the library on this floor had been violated as well, but he barely paused to examine it for the stairwell continued downward and he must follow. 

The next level had also suffered the same hurt, as had the next, and the next. Five rooms in all, each mercilessly plundered. The sixth level down was a cellar which appeared unharmed. Mortec looked back upwards at the sundered tiers of the library above and shook in fury. His world view could not accept that such wilful damage could be done at random so it fell to him to fathom the purpose behind this affront. Carefully he began to search through the wreckage. If he could determine what had been taken, he would be a good deal closer to knowing why. Perhaps Gerard, who had appeared surprisingly moved by the destruction would could help him.

Once the monk’s initial wave of grief receded, Bastien and Morgan tried to coax what had happened from him. With his senses recovered, thanks in no small part to the brandy Bastien plied him with, the small fellow attempted to answer their questions. He introduced himself as Brother Jessop and with trembling fingers brushed repeatedly through his thinning grey brown hair, he related the incidents of the attack on the abbey. 

He had been awake when the raiders came, struggling on one of the lower levels with the translation of an ancient Gerechian book detailing the punishment of perversions. The raiders had taken the upper floors of the abbey without any resistance from his elderly and unarmed brethren who had been easily overcome as they struggled sleep mazed from their beds. 

Warned by their screams, Jessop had quickly fled to the cellar beneath the lowest level of the library and concealed himself amongst the materials stored there. Crouched shivering in the semi darkness, he heard the clash and clatter of what seemed a veritable army of barbarians as they overturned the rooms above. 

After a few minutes, he heard some of the monks being brutally kicked down the stairs to the level above his. Horrified, he had listened to the brutal interrogation of Brothers Goethra and Thom. The method of questioning was vicious and efficient, and the monks gave up what they knew with little resistance. Curiously the captors were posing scholarly questions, as if they sought some of the library’s texts. There began renewed sounds of destruction as they vandals tore through the shelves in search of their objective. 

Eventually, his brethren were loudly herded upstairs and he heard nothing more. Jessop reckoned that he had lost possession of his senses, for the next thing he was aware of was finding himself rocking on his knees on one of the upper levels when he heard the party call.

Jessop had been telling his story as he accompanied Bastien and Morgan on their perambulations around the ground level of the monastery. The inspection did not turn up any other survivors. Their trembling companion had identified the three bodies as fellow monks, leaving only two of the brothers unaccounted for; Goethra and Thom. 

To Bastien, Jessop’s tale confirmed his intuition there was something very suspicious about the attack on Ravenswood and its environs. This had not been an ordinary raid, but rather a specific mission to gather information. The burning question was no longer who had carried out the raid, but rather, what had they sought, and who had sent them? 

He returned outside and looked at the bodies again in the hope they might give a clue. Sadly, they offered no fresh perspective but merely lay staring back at him with their death frozen expressions of terror. Directing his gaze away from the distressed remains of the dead, he looked out across the nearby cliffs and the azure serenity of the uncaring ocean. Despite the beauty of the scene something seemed out of place. He scanned the area before him, seeking the source of this perception and became aware of the lighthouse that perched solitarily on the edge of a bluff some half mile away. 

The top of this structure glittered in a rhythmic way that could not be explained by the dapple of sunlight across it’s walls. With a start, he realised the light was burning, a thing unheard of to occur during the day. Oil was expensive and there was none to waste on such redundancies as making light during daylight hours. Something peculiar was going on and he meant to find out what. 

Calling his young charges together took several minutes due to the reluctance of Mortec and Gerard to tear themselves away from trying to set the library to rights. When they did arrive, Bastien passed on an adumbrated version of Jessop’s story to the pair and instructed them to try and determine what had been the objective of the raid. The diminutive monk would remain with them to render assistance. Meanwhile, he Morgan and Stravarius would walk out to the lighthouse and see if it offered yet another dimension to mystery of the sack of Ravenswood. Gerard and Mortec barely took the time to nod acknowledgement of the instructions before they re-entered the abbey, Jessop tottering wearily in their wake. With a snort, Bastien turned on his heels and left for the beacon, Morgan walking anxiously by his side while Stravarius trailed aloofly to the rear.


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## Fiasco (Dec 18, 2005)

*****​
As their companions explored the gruesome attack on the monastery, Argonne and Moxadder had followed Maron Devlis to the edge of the village where he began to track the bandits. The marks of passage were not difficult for the experienced forester to follow, particularly as the bandits had been travelling in numbers. Their quarry led them into the soothing cool of the woods. The bandits had not troubled to conceal their path, their progress having largely tramped through whatever stood in their way. Only the salt stained trunks of the mightier trees had proved to be a sufficient impediment to force them to turn aside.

Presently, they emerged in a small clearing where the remains of a large fire expelled curling wisps of smoke. Maron poked through the embers with a stick but found nothing of interest. The three cast about the clearing, trying to determine the direction the bandits had taken. Maron was quick to find the blundering tracks that led deeper into the forest and for the next half hour the trio made good progress. 

Abruptly, the tracks which had led them so surely through the foliage vanished at the foot of a large tree, whose thick branches arched gracefully over the surrounding greenery. Its smooth brown trunk had recently been scored in many places, and a thick sap weeped slowly from some of the deeper cuts. The sharp tang of the trees ichor overpowered the more subtle aromas of earthy soil and old leaves. Suspecting that the bandits had climbed the tree, Argonne began to cast about the area, trying to find where their quarry had climbed down and resumed their journey. Moxadder was content to rest and watch Maron. The woodsman absently rubbed a scratch on his arm and pondered the meaning of the vanished trail. With a harumph to clear his throat he spoke.

“Leave off your search, you won’t find anything. I’ve seen this ruse before. You lay an obvious trail to a tree, mark up the trunk and then backtrack the way you came. Anyone following gets to the tree and assumes that you climbed it to hide your tracks. It’s a good trick too, but I guarantee you that a dozen men carrying slaves and booty could not have pulled it off. Come lads, lets backtrack and try to find where the real trail splits off.”

The young men did not see fit to contradict Maron’s analysis and they began to painstakingly retrace their steps. Their progress was much slower now as not only were they trying to find where the concealed tracks diverged from the original path, they also had to contend with the obscurement their own passage had left. The afternoon was well advanced by the time they once more attained the clearing containing the remains of the fire. By now the grey ashes had expelled the last of their smoky breath and all that remained was a fading warmth. 

The aged woodsman began a close examination of the clearing but it was Argonne who’s keen eyesight picked out an anomaly concealed behind a thick stand of shrubs. The three trackers crouched close to the discovery and looked it over. Maron nodded appreciatively when he read the clues hidden amongst the detritus of the forest floor. There could be no question, this was where the raiders had truly gone, and it was a tribute to their skill that their marks had been so hard to find. Also noteworthy was that the tracks were no longer those of heavy booted brigands, but rather the more subtle imprints of soft shod or bare feet. Wordlessly the trio began to follow the new trail they had discovered.

The tracks barely deviated at all, and soon exited the woods and headed through the hardy seaside grasses for the coastline. Here the way was much harder to follow, but with Maron and Argonne assiduously looking for even the smallest clue, and even the occasional contribution from Moxadder, they never lost the trail. Their anticipation grew steadily as they keenly read the minute signals in the unhelpful terrain. At last real progress was being made in unmasking the assailants. 

They passed Leith’s Abbey a long way to their left and eventually arrived at the edge of the cliffs overlooking the ocean. An ancient path led down to the shore, and presently they stood on a small, secluded beach that was hidden from the view of village, abbey or lighthouse. A long groove etched in the sand was the only unnatural feature of the cove. Moxadder gazed out at the ocean but whatever vessel had traced the furrow was long gone. Maron walked up next to him with a scrap of red dyed canvas in his hand. “Sailcloth”, he growled, “and of a like made infamous by the Blood Sails. Found it caught in those bushes by the trail.”

The tattooed man shrugged his thin shoulders, “I knew it was pirates. There’s some tough years ahead for them girls”

“Aye”

The climb back up the cliff and subsequent journey back to Ravenswood felt much more arduous than it should. Maron declined to return to the village. The unpleasantness of the days events had left him with no taste for human company. Despite the lateness of the hour, he began the long trek back to his home.

*****​


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## Fiasco (Dec 21, 2005)

As the trackers were nearing the end of their pursuit, Bastien, Morgan and Stravarius were standing outside the lighthouse. A reddish glow limned the edges of the tower as the setting sun shed the last of its strength against its back. The simple door at its base stood carelessly ajar, allowing easy access within. Stravarius was the first to enter, followed closely by the others. The red tinged gloom of the interior made detail indistinct for the humans, but Stravarius was not at all inconvenienced. 

The circular room encompassed the entire diameter of the lighthouse. It was simply furnished with a wooden bench, chairs and a large cupboard. A sturdy ladder was fixed to the eastern arc of the chamber, allowing access to the level above. A pool of dark liquid had collected at the base of the ladder, and even as Stravarius looked, another heavy drop fell to augment the puddle. The light shining through the west facing window gave the liquid a deep burgundy colour. Fearing the worst, he ran to the ladder and climbed to the next level. This was a bedroom, furnished in the same style as below. Stravarius climbed on, a cursory glance having revealed nothing out of the ordinary. 

The first thing he noticed as his head cleared the floor of the top level was a large oil flask lying on its side. A thick residue swelled against its slightly elevated lip, slowly evolving a tiny droplet that would eventually detach itself and plummet to the ground floor. The relief he felt at this mundane explanation was immediately quashed by the sight of the dead body lying against the southern wall. It was that of a man, sturdily built and clothed in garb similar to that of the villagers he had seen. His arms lay carelessly outstretched, and his head lay at an unnatural angle close to the white painted wall. A pool of blood had congealed around his head like an unholy halo, and what had once been a rich blonde beard was now dark and crumbly from having been steeped in the vital fluid. 

Even before he had fully assimilated the full portent of the corpse his attention was diverted to the smell of burnt flesh and the second body. A brigand by the look of him, he wore thick boots, black trousers and battered leather armour. He was sprawled in embrace of wondrous device of iron and crystal that was mounted on a low stone pedestal. A bright light played out from the crystal lenses, the refracted image of the steady flame burned in its heart. Some great force must have thrown him into the centre of the room and against the bright shining device. Through some ingenious mechanism, (the green glow emitted from Stravarius’ rapier made him suspect magic) caused the light to spin slowly in circles, trailing its radiance across the windows which lined the walls of the lighthouse. A goodly portion of this path was obscured by the bandit’s head, right side cheek burnt to charcoal against the hot glass. The ladder behind Stravarius shivered violently as Bastien and Morgan climbed in haste to join him. 

Stravarius’ hood concealed his features but in this instance there was little emotion to betray on the face beneath. Once, this loss of life would have deeply saddened him, especially that of the lighthouse keeper cut down while in the execution of his honest duty. He was different now, and the site of death left him largely unmoved. In the barrows he had been broken, altered, tortured, remade, changed, not just once but countless times. Death seemed a trivial thing in comparison and he could no longer bridge the gap between his own experiences and the relatively quick end this poor man had suffered. 

He turned to face his companions who now crowded into the room. Both were accustomed to life’s harsh truths and neither betrayed a great deal more emotion than Stravarius. Morgan stepped forward and pulled the bandit back from the light. The body sprawled backwards onto the floor, revealing the handle of a knife jutting between the ribs. Curiously, the left hand of the vanquished assailant was tightly clenched. Stravarius pried the hand open, revealing a red tinged gold coin. The soft glow from his sword shifted towards blue as he picked up the coin. As soon as it left the bandits hand, the corpse’s appearance wavered and transformed. Where once there had been thick boots and armour there now was light canvas shoes, thin white trousers and a badly frayed red shirt. 

“What have we here, a pirate by the look of him. And disguised by a sorcerer’s coin it seems.” Bastien shook his head in perplexion. “Now who would go to such lengths to hide their identity for a simple village raid?” Morgan and Stravarius shrugged. A search of the pirate’s body unearthed a few silver sickles but nothing else of interest. Every few seconds, the light from the mechanism played eerily across their features as cast forth its piercing radiance without interference once again. Morgan absently righted the overturned oil flask as he made his descent down the ladder. The others followed and the three began the walk back to the monastery.

Gerard and Mortec had been working diligently to try and fathom the reason behind the library’s desecration. Initially, the scale of the destruction had daunted them and they were unable to perceive any pattern to what had been taken. It was only on closely questioning Jessop that they gained a vital insight into their task. The little monk had settled himself against a worktable leg, clutching a large and precious volume to his chest and watching with wild, unsettled eyes as the gnome and nobleman tried to set things to rights. He meekly repeated the details of his harrowing experience in a weak, atonal voice.

When his story reached the point where he overheard the interrogation of his brother monks, Mortec interjected and demanded specific details on what they had been asked. Jessop frowned in concentration and then hesitantly suggested that the questioner had seemed very interested in lore on unnatural creatures and also specific events of local history. Appreciating the gnomes line of reasoning he shook off his lassitude and mentioned that these were the areas of knowledge that the kidnapped Brothers Thom and Goethra had specialised in.

Working with greater purpose, Gerard and Mortec resumed their catalogue of the library’s scattered contents. By scanning the titles of the tomes and scrolls and making use of Jessop’s own knowledge of the works, they quickly confirmed that the room had been denuded of all its works relating to the two subjects in question. Unfortunately, Jessop was not well acquainted with the contents of the missing volumes so they were no closer to guessing the significance of the purloined lore.

The sight of the two visitors trying to bring order to the library acted as something of a tonic to the bereaved monk and his ancient calling stirred him to pull himself together and offer his assistance. The work of restoration took on an atmosphere of companionable silence as each attended to his own section of the library. Occasionally, a particularly interesting work would slow the work of one of them as they felt compelled to peruse the contents. At other times the silence was punctuated by draw out sighs or curses as a scholarly treasure was found to be badly damaged. By the time Stravarius and the others returned they had finished with the first level and made a start on the second.

The two parties exchanged information and then Bastien suggested returning to the village to see what Argonne had found. Gerard exchanged a glance with Mortec and then politely demurred. The pair had decided to stay spend the evening working in the monastery and would rejoin the others in the village in the morning. Bastien offered to see to the burial of the murdered brethren, but Jessop assured him that this melancholy task would be performed by him in accordance with Laster’s funerary rites. As Stravarius and Morgan were not inclined to spend the night in the abbey, they accompanied their leader back to Ravenswood.

Full night had descended by the time Bastien and his two companions were reunited with Argonne and Moxadder. The latter pair had reached the village only shortly before them. They discussed their varied findings and between them they composed a detailed picture of the true events of the raid. Pirates had landed in a secluded cove in the early hours of the morning and made their way overland to Leith’s Abbey, Ravenswood, and the lighthouse. Disguised as bandits through either mundane or sorcerous means, they attacked quickly and efficiently, kidnapping people knowledgeable in local history and mystical beasts and taking some care to cover their tracks by also seizing some young women and ordinary valuables.

Only two things had gone wrong in this well executed raid. The pirate assigned to murder the lighthouse keeper died even as he killed his victim and Brother Jessop had avoided detection in the abbey. Had it not been for the latter, it would have been extremely unlikely that they could have guessed the true purpose of the raid.

Bastien informed the villagers of the broad facts, confirming that it was indeed pirates who had wrought this great hurt upon them and telling them of the outrages committed against the abbey and lighthouse. As this news upset the villagers even further, he omitted mentioning the true reason for the attack. He judged it too complex a matter for the simple folk to fully comprehend and saw little advantage in broadcasting the fact they had divined the true nature of events. Soon after, the companions availed themselves of the hospitality the villagers extended despite their losses and sought the solace of sleep. The night passed uncomfortably to the accompaniment of the occasion sob or cry in the night.

The following morning, joined by a bleary eyed Mortec and Gerard, the travellers began the last leg of their journey to Yorathton. Kurul appeared from behind a cottage at the last minute and the company was at full strength again. Despite the unpleasant night they had endured, their spirits were high. Bastien, was buoyed at the prospect of successfully completing the important task his liege had charged him with. Additionally, he was eager to report the tragic and sinister events that had befallen Ravenswood.

For the aspirants, the prospect of an end to the arduous journey was reward enough. They were also excited by and apprehensive of the welcome they would receive from their as yet unseen benefactor. Speculation on the nature of the tests that Bastien had alluded to began to occupy their minds. Finally, they knew Yorathton to be a moderately developed town, and though not in any way comparable to the decadent attractions offered by Halfast, they were eager to taste of the little comforts offered by this thin slice of civilisation.

*****​


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## Shadow at the Edge (Dec 28, 2005)

I believe it was at this point the DM sat back and realised it had taken months of real time to get the players to what he considered 'the beginning'.

I wanted the group to really have something in common, and to hopefully actually work together and for common cause. 

To do this I had them start at -2 level, basically with virtually no skills, endurance or abilities, and made them live in abject terror for the first 8 game sessions or so as even a large mosquito was a dire threat to them.

It seemed to work. They worked hard together, and even got really excited when they finally reached first level and were given a feat and a couple of extra skills. It was like a feast!

Even though this entry to Yorathton is where many of the plots start to reveal themselves, the journey up to this point had not been wasted time. It was intended as a chance for the group to meet a few of the factions and groups who crawled over the surface of Anka Seth, so as to better be able to take sides or chose enemies later.


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## Fiasco (May 10, 2006)

Well, the '06 crash has wiped out most of this story hour. Fortunately, I still have the word documents that I copied and pasted from. Hopefully over the next week I will be able to restore this thread to within 95% of how it was.


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## Fiasco (May 10, 2006)

*Chapter 3*​
The company’s safe arrival in Yorathton was a great relief to all of its members. Here at last was the end to arduous travel and endless speculation on what the Baron had in mind for them. A hard days march had seen them reach Yorathton by mid afternoon. Perched atop brilliant white cliffs, the town had grown from an old fishing village that still lay at its centre. 
Bastien quickly lead them through the winding main street, eager to report to his liege. 

The houses they passed were braced unevenly against each other, cramped for room by the narrow bluff like a mouth too full of teeth. The air was redolent of dried fish and despite the new prosperity come to the town, as evidenced by the cry of merchants and much evidence of new construction, the people seemed hard faced and grim. Yorathton was a fragile scrap of civilisation caught twixt the Cursed Sea and untamed wilderness, twin facts that could never be forgotten by its inhabitants. 

Having passed through the town, the road inclined towards the highest point of the cliffs. Here loomed an old keep surrounded by a stagnant moat fed only by a small stream. Though well maintained, some parts of the fortress clearly showed the heavy weight of their years. Seeing how his Baron's castle dominated the skyline, Bastien's back straightened with pride. As always, he felt his arduous travels had been well worth the hardship if only for the pleasure of returning home having successfully fulfilled his mission.

On entering the modest castle, Bastien passed his charges over to the care of a fussy chamberlain. This worthy spent the best part of an hour trying to make them look presentable before escorting them to Yorath’s study. The chamber was finely decorated and furnished, indicating he was a man of taste. The two dozen books arranged on his shelves indicated he was also a man of learning, or at least had pretensions in that direction. 

The Baron was of average build, with thick curling brown hair and steady green eyes. His brow wore the furrows of heavy thinking but the rest of his features had the firmness and vigor of a man considerably younger. Though run a little to fat through years of sedentary occupation, he still commanded a presence that was felt by all when he subjected them to his examination. His dress was formal and expensive, if a little subdued in style. He had been perusing a scroll when they entered, which he put aside decisively, honouring them with his immediate attention rather than have them bide at his whim.

The words of welcome by which he addressed them were rich and cultured, almost overly so, as though each syllable was chosen with meticulous care and enunciated with full emphasis of its individual character. The effect of this precision slowed his speech a little from the ordinary, but the meaning of what was said was thereby conveyed without ambiguity. 

Gerard, who waited eagerly for the opportunity to introduce himself, could only admire his would be liege’s measured poise. As when he was addressed by Prince Brand, he had the uncomfortable impression that he was in the presence of someone who possessed an effortless air of commanded that he himself could only dream of. The telling difference between the two men was that Brand inspired jealously and resentment, whereas the Baron only excited respect and admiration in him.

After greetings and introductions, the Baron intimated he knew they bore news of strange happenings in Ravenswood. Gerard was quick to seize his opportunity and executing an oft practiced flourish, he set about regaling his lordship with the tale. For all his foppish ways, the young man was a gifted story teller. If he played a more decisive and commanding role in the events than the others remembered, the epic flair he imparted on all their deeds more than compensated them for it. 

Yorath remained largely impassive throughout the rendition of the tale, though when the mysterious absence of the mayor was mentioned, a small frown did crease his brow. The change was only fleeting though, and seemed to be forgotten as Gerard continued with his accounting of the events. By the end, the Baron was deep in thought as he mulled over the extraordinary events that had overwhelmed this quiet part of his fief. Almost as an afterthought, he asked if anything else of interest happened on their journey. 

It was here that Gerard truly exceeded himself. The entire encounter with the leprous assassins was recounted in such detail that his companions felt as though they were reliving the fight again. Even the Baron’s studied detachment was betrayed by his open interest as the young fop’s carefully choreographed words built to a climax. 

The matter of Brand’s signet ring was a particular source of fascination, and Yorath demanded to see this item immediately. Gerard duly fetched the trinket and in presenting it, just managed to resist the impulse to sketch a bow as he did so. Yorath frowned as he examined the ring then smiled openly when he was satisfied the ring was genuine. He congratulated the companions on their courage and wit and assured them that if they conducted themselves similarly through his tests they would be sure to gain a commission. He did not offer to return the ring to them, making it clear that he had a use for it. So overwhelmed were the companions by his natural command that not even Moxadder thought to object. Soon after, the meeting was terminated and they were shown from the Baron’s presence by a woman he introduced as Lady Tamandra.

Their new guide showed herself to be a lady of considerable refinement. Both her dress and manners were courtly, and she commanded considerable beauty as well. Her skin was flawless and her high cheekbones offset hazel brown eyes that were alive with intelligence. Her dark straight hair was pulled up in a fashion that drew attention to the gentle curve of her long, graceful neck. When she talked, she had a habit of wrinkling the tip of her nose in a way that seemed to say that though she was high born, she didn’t consider herself beyond them in any way. 

Tall and slender, she appeared in her early thirties, though her privileged position had ensured that she bore none of the ravages that robbed lesser born women of their youthful beauty. Gerard was quite enchanted by her and determined then and there to pursue this woman with all his ardour. Unfortunately for him, he was to get precious little opportunity in the following weeks.

The companions were shown to their quarters in a plainly furnished barracks located within the walls of the Baron’s castle. Though unadorned, their rooms performed their most important function in keeping them warm and dry. For Moxadder, born into poverty and eternally a prisoner to it, this was a luxury he had never experienced. 

The day after their arrival, they began performing a series of tests to determine their fitness for fighting in a gladiatorial company. Many of the exercises baffled the young aspirants but they attempted them with good will, sometimes surprising themselves with how well they performed. Riding, marksmanship, sword play, even logic and oratory were explored in order to see where their potential lay. The Baron was something of an innovator, and though some of the tests completely defeated his young charges, they still revealed much of their character to him. This, along with Bastien’s testimony on how they conducted themselves on the journey convinced him they had sufficient potential to warrant the cost of training them. 

On the 15th day of Low Summer, the new recruits swore oaths of loyalty to Baron Yorath and formally became his vassals. They had decided to name their gladiatorial company the Hydra, a many headed creature that hunted the swamps surrounding Irudesh City. Each member was outfitted in the green and black colours they had chosen for their company. Additionally, they were generously equipped with arms and armour at the Baron’s expense. For all save Mortec and Gerard this was a considerable rise in fortune. Morgan in particular was proud of his new status. His membership of the Hydra set him firmly down the honourable path trod by his father and elder brothers. Through skill at arms he longed to bring fame and glory to his embattled homeland. 

Moxadder’s feelings were more complex. Part of him took great pleasure in the simple fact of belonging to something greater than the day to day struggle for survival. Simultaneously, part of him rebelled at the loss of freedom he experienced and the pressures of having others depending on him to pull his weight. At times, the good natured comradeship of his fellows stifled him even as he gave fervent thanks that he was with people with whom he wouldn’t have to constantly watch his back. 

Argonne felt largely indifferent to the whole enterprise, though he had to acknowledge that being instructed in the fighting arts and woodscraft was a lot more interesting than chopping wood twelve hours a day. Stravarius, as always, kept his own council. He became more withdrawn just as his fellows started to become more comfortable with each other. Were his eyes visible, the others would have noticed they now burned for lack of sleep. 

Nightly he battled demons of the mind as he finally embraced certain potentialities he’d long held latent through hard fought suppression. His dreams became increasingly violent but he forced himself to endure for the sake of the power he felt growing within him. 

The others also worked hard to develop their capabilities, though in less sinister ways than Stravarius. The Baron’s other two gladiatorial companies were also present and some of its members devoted considerable time to training the members of the Hydra. This was especially true of the Massive Hand, whose skill at weapons play was of more interest to the companions than strange sorceries practiced by Five Kinds of Death. 

The training had a marked effect on the young men. They gained confidence in the use of their weapons and advice from older and wiser heads helped them with their tactics and composure under the stress of battle. More importantly, they were taught how to work together as a team, for the cauldron of the arena was unmerciful to those who failed to look out for their brothers in arms.

So the weeks passed, forging the disparate group of individuals into something approaching a cohesive unit. In what little time they had outside training, the Hydra devoted themselves to their own interests. Gerard pursued lady Tamandra with a passion that sadly went unrequited. The noble woman parried his attempts at courtship with such charm that his feelings were largely spared. When she deigned to reveal small  snippets of her past and private feelings, Gerard felt more satisfaction than if he’d tumbled a half dozen wenches.
Denied access to the Baron’s library, Mortec spent his time in communion with his God. After much soul searching he made a difficult choice, and bound himself to its consequences with unbreakable vows. Having seen the helpless suffering of those who chose peaceful contemplation, he dedicated himself to harnessing darker powers, the better to cowe or destroy those who set themselves against his faith. 

Morgan had far less weighty concerns on his mind and was content to spend his evenings in the company of the warriors from the Massive Hand, a rough and tumble substitute for the camaraderie his family once provided. Amidst the boasting and pranks of his seniors, he gained much knowledge of the ways of the arena as well as a store of battle wisdom gained by the Hand through deadly experience. Morgan found himself looking forwards to doing battle, hoping to do justice to the time invested in his tutelage.

Moxadder explored the town and found some people of dubious standing who could supply him with Devil Weed. His share of Prince Brand’s reward swiftly disappeared and he was forced to sell his cache of more exotic drugs to ensure an uninterrupted supply. He spent considerable time with a herbalist, learning the arts extracting the secret virtues of plants and turning them to his own ends. When he could, he scoured the country side for the Diabolus plant from which Devil Weed was made. Occasionally, Argonne would help him in this as the young woodsman spent considerable amounts of time in the wild while leaning his craft. His instruction came largely from Maron Devlis, whose wanderings had brought him to the seat of Yorath’s power. At the Baron’s request, he had agreed to train Argonne in the art of rangering.

*****​


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## Fiasco (May 11, 2006)

One of Yorath’s requirements of his gladiators was that they master a ranged weapon. Combatants in the games could begin as far as one hundred feet apart, and the Baron felt that the team that peppered their foes with missiles while they sought to close for melee had a distinct advantage. It became the habit of the Hydra to gather together in the late afternoon and spend a leisurely hour loosing various missiles at the target butts. The range was located towards the rear of the castle, which overlooked the ocean from the top of a rocky cliff. The cool sea breeze that caressed their weary bodies was a pleasant tonic for the aches and pains of the day’s work. Most of the companions favoured the light style of crossbow used by Mortec with even Moxadder temporarily put aside his obsession with daggers to master this weapon. The only exceptions were Morgan, who used a bow and Stravarius, who had unearthed a crossbow of prodigious size from the bowels of the Baron’s armoury. This nightmare contraption took all of his considerable strength to wind back and the bolts it launched passed right through the target more often than not. 

It was thus they were occupied some three weeks after their arrival when Argonne spotted red sails gliding silently towards them across the gently rolling sea. They came straight from the heart of the setting sun as it sank beneath the waves, like the spec of darkness in the centre of a candle’s flame. Argonne blinked the haze from his eyes and counted them; one, two, three… six in all. 

“Red sails on t’ ocean!” he cried, “And ah think they ma’ht be pirates”.
The woodsman’s alert galvanised the party to action. The distincitve red sails left no question in their minds that the perpetrators of the sack of Ravenswood had returned. The Hydra had often discussed the evils committed upon the innocent village and each of them was eager to exact a bloody vengeance on the raiders. Grabbing whatever weapons were at hand, they ran at a crouch to the cliff’s edge, trying not to betray their presence to the attackers. They took positions around the narrow fissure that had been carved into stairs that joined the top of the cliff with the small jetty at its foot. Seeing there was still a little time before the ships arrived, Gerard ran to the barracks where the other gladiatorial companies were billeted. In the rooms belonging to Five Kinds of Death, he found several of its members studying their arcane disciplines. 

Gasping for air, he informed them of the suspected pirate attack. A cowled head nodded at him in acknowledgement and the mages began to gather up those mystical components which were a vital adjunct to their craft. Moving on, Gerard spied several members of the Massive Hand returning to their quarters and urged them also towards the cliffs. With the hulking bodies of several of these stout warrior at his heels, he ran to rejoin his companions.

In the mean time, the other members of the fledgling gladiatorial company had concealed themselves as best they could along the edge of the precipice. The pirates were headed directly for the dock below them at the base of the cliff. They clutched their weapons nervously and watched the progress of the Blood Sails. The six ships were little more than boats in reality, barely having room for a dozen pirates each. The hulls were clinker built and rigged with a simple square sail. They had moved a little apart as some crews made better use of the evening breeze than others. Rowers augmented the work of the wind. Four to a side, they made only the faintest whisper of noise as they bent their backs to the oars. Their strokes were precise and unhurried, secure in the delusion they were unobserved. 

The pirates themselves were difficlut to make out in the gloom. They appeared simply dressed, with only the glint of their weapons providing any highlights. They appeared rough and unruly, though each attended to his task with economical precision. The Hydra looked at each other uncertainly. They had grown accustomed to either Bastien or one of their instructors giving them orders and found the responsibility of determining their own course of action daunting. At present there was little to decide in any case, for the pirates were still out of range of their bows. 

The arrival of Gerard with the other gladiatorial companies was a welcome balm to their frayed nerves. The more experienced companies were a composed counterpoint to the young companions. The wizards ranged themselves near the stairs and began to chant arcane phrases to the accompaniment of flexed arms and curled fingers. Their long dark robes flared dramatically behind them, pushed back by the sea breeze. Their vestments were adorned with strange astrological symbols incomprehensible to the untutored eyes of the others, yet conveying a sense of danger to them all the same. 

The Massive Hand were more straight forward in their preparation. Zmrat, their leader told the Hydra to hold their position at the top of the cliffs. The narrow stairs cut into the rock face would slow the raiders, allowing the Baron’s men to subject the raiders to a withering hail of missiles if they sought the summit. Carefully sheathing the heavy weapons they’d held in hand, the Massive Hand readied their bows and crossbows in anticipation. The Hydra’s racing emotions settled a little now they had such potent reinforcements. The sharp sighted Argonne murmured to the others that it seemed the pirates had yet to notice the nasty reception that awaited them. Concentrating on maintaining stealth and picking their way through shallow water, they had not seen the scurrying figures of the Baron’s men in the fading light.

Despite exhortations for calm from Zmrat, the composure of the Hydra proved unequal to the task of awaiting the optimum time to strike. Almost as one, they loosed their bolts and arrows as soon as the lead boat fell within range. The undisciplined discharge plunged uselessly into the water or cartwheeled whirring off the side of the vessel. The pirates gave shouts of alarm, but apart from ducking lower in their boats, they did not deviate from their mission. 

The wizard Emble glared at the companions before beginning to recite a complex series of syllables in a guttural voice. The Hydra loosed several more volleys, also without success. Though the range closed, the light failed completely as the last of the sun expired beneath the horizon. The sound of chanting filled the darkness as the sorcerers continued their work. Suddenly, the area near the pier was bathed in ethereal light, throwing the boats and crew in stark contrast to the night blackened water. The strain on the pirates faces was clearly visible in the pallor of their faces as they arched their backs to the final strokes that would bring them to the pier. Many died before they got there as the Massive Hand released their shafts to telling effect.


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## Fiasco (May 12, 2006)

The two leading boats fetched up against the wharf at the same time. Half of the crew of the northern boat were already dead ere the survivors could leap onto the dock. They others also fell swiftly when the Massive Hand bent their lethal missiles upon them. Things went poorly for the second craft as well. Without warning, five of the pirates slumped motionless to the bottom of the boat. Almost simultaneously, another pirate was pierced through by a massive bolt launched by Stravarius, while a third suddenly wore two feathered shafts in his chest, gifted him by Morgan and Gerard. Moxadder’s bolt mauled the side of another sailor but this worthy kept his feet and scrambled painfully onto land.

The pirates on the remaining boats tried to even the score with the defenders. Several balls of light appeared randomly around the top of the cliffs, illuminating the sorcerers and the Hydra. Moments later, the twang of strings whined in the night and shafts of wood danced and tumbled around their feet, causing them to duck and flinch. One bolt caught Morgan in the shoulder, spinning him backwards to the ground. 

The Fastendian gave a scream that was more fury than pain and leapt back to his feet. His vision blurred as a rage of frightening intensity too hold of his body. A small portion of his mind looked on in awe as the rest of him surrendered to the berserk fury. With a broken bellow he yanked at his sheathed sword and hurled himself headlong down the rocky stairs. One of the wizards shouted an unheeded warning to the headstrong young warrior. Morgan’s half vocalised battle roar became a yowl of dismay as the steps beneath his feet showed their treachery. A greasy layer of bilious slime had coated the rocks, denying his booted feet purchase. 

The tiny rational part of his consciousness wondered at how the rocks had become so unnaturally slick. Arms flailing wildly, he half slid, half tumbled down the cliff face, ending up motionless near the feet of the pirates who had made landfall. Seeing his companion’s predicament, Argonne snarled a bucolic oath at the slippery stairs and then trusting to luck, attempted to descend them. His feet too began to slip out beneath him when he reached the slick section but miraculously he managed to work his moment forward off the back of his heels. Then the rock offered purchase again and he came into contact with the enemy. With a defiant cry he stood over Morgan’s motionless body, ready to give battle.

Also reacting to his comrade’s peril, Stravarius began to crank his great crossbow, then cast it aside when he realised he hadn’t time. Putting thoughts of the pirates aside he began to focus on his hatred of the Dominion, feeling the strength of this emotions rising like a slow tide in his body.. Remembering the pain and terror of his maiming he growled an ugly word in a depraved tongue. Before his eyes, the power of his fury began to manifest in the form of a shaft of bile green luminescence that pulsated with the force of his antipathy. He jabbed a gloved finger at a pirate who was about to strike Argonne and watched as his bolt of venom darted silently through the night and into the attackers chest. The man cried wordlessly and fell, clutching his chest, the pain of his injury robbing him of all strength in the few seconds that remained him. Seeing the result of his handiwork, Stravarius felt sullied and weary, but also darkly triumphant. 

As the remaining boats closed for their own landings, the wizard Kassquok worked a mighty magic. With a resounding crack, one of the boats burst asunder, as though crushed by the fist of a colossus. Its crew, catastrophically removed from the battle, floated in the water like so many dead fish. Meanwhile the Massive Hand had accurately brought their attention to bear on the pirates threatening Argonne. Their sharply whistling projectiles dispatched the handful of pirates ashore. Seeing the tide of battle flowing so strongly against them, the pirates sought to break off the engagement. With the controlled haste only possessed by disciplined crews, the oarsmen dug their blades deep into the water in an effort to reverse their momentum. Despite being harassed by the bolts and arrows loosed by the Hydra, they began to make good their retreat. 

Five Kinds of Death had other ideas. A powerful breeze rose up without warning, whipping up powerful waves and driving the boats back to shore. The rearmost boat was at the edge of this minor storm and made good its escape, as did a second ship by dint of mighty effort. The third also made headway until several rowers, slumped bonelessly over their oars. The remaining crewmen were helpless as their craft was washed steadily to shore. One by one they fell to missiles rained down upon them. 

Argonne knelt at Morgan’s side, seeking to staunch his wounds caused by sharp stone and bitter arrow. The Baron had insisted that all his fighting vassals learn the rudiments of tending wounds and this training stood the woodsman in good stead. Gregar of the Massive Hand crouched beside him and offered assistance. Between them, they did enough to ensure that Morgan didn’t slip under death’s shadow.

At the top of the cliff, the sorcerers turned back for their chambers as soon as it became clear the battle was over. One of them casually gestured and light shone forth from his palm, illuminating their way. Gazing after them, Mortec suppressed a chill as he watched the complex sigils on their robes dance through the darkness, part illusion, part magic and part the play of the wind. He was fervently grateful that as mere novices, the Hydra would not have to face the deadly wizards in the arena. 

The strange slime coating the stairs had disappeared, allowing Mortec, Gerard, Moxadder and Stravarius to descend to the dock. They were joined by the Massive Hand, who looked among the bodies for survivors. Those pirates rendered helpless by the wizard’s magic were securely bound before the dweomers lost their strength. Poltron, a member of the ‘Hand who posessed a keen eye climbed from one of the pirate boats with a fistful of holy symbols. Mortec identified them as belonging to predominantly to Laster and Muhbelung, god of toil. Neither was an unusual choice for those who plied the sea. 

A thorough search unearthed little of interest or value save for a crude map that Mortec found in the hands of one of the prisoners. The scrap of parchment held a rough drawing Yorath’s keep and contained directions for finding his bed chamber. The gnome grew worried as he thought through the implications. What interest could the Blood Sails have in his liege? And would this comprehensive defeat discourage them from further raids on the castle?

As he watched Theron leave for the Baron’s castle with map in hand, Mortec was certain he had not heard the last of the incident.

The Hydra did not stay at the battle site for much longer. Yorath’s personal guard had now arrived and holding torches aloft, they saw to the bodies. Mortec determined that it was safe to carry Morgan up to the castle and the companions shouldered this most precious burden. They left him in the care of the Baron’s healers and congregated in the feast hall, certain that they would be called on soon. In the meantime they refreshed themselves with small beer and watered wine, consuming many a plateful of nourishing stew in the process. 

Gerard commandeered a small round of cheese from an infatuated kitchen maid and consumed this with dainty slices of a silver knife. He eagerly reviewed the highlights of the battle, roundly embellishing the deeds of his companions and his own most of all. All were in amazement at Morgan’s foolhardy charge. Argonne, volunteered a story about a berserk goat that had marauded his village, drawing unsubtle comparisons between it and the young Fastendian.

*****​


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## Sir Falke (May 13, 2006)

Fiasco said:
			
		

> Well, the '06 crash has wiped out most of this story hour. Fortunately, I still have the word documents that I copied and pasted from. Hopefully over the next week I will be able to restore this thread to within 95% of how it was.



Excellent! This is a wonderfull SH and it'd be very sad (to say at least) to loose it...
Keep it coming. We, the readers, are anxiously awaiting (at least, I am...)


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## Fiasco (May 19, 2006)

The anticipated summons came soon after and Lady Tamandra led them once again to the library. Yorath looked a great deal more tired and careworn than previously. With a visible effort he shook off his fatigue and addressed them.

“I have a mission for you that will supercede your training for the next ten days. The pirates who attacked us tonight are most likely the same as those that struck at Ravenswood. Though we turned back the attack this time, we were certainly not expecting it. I must know who my enemies are and I charge you with the mission to unearth them.” 

He fixed his gaze on each companion in turn as he continued. “You are young and inexperienced, but you must suffice for this task as my other companies have already been dispatched on unrelated and even more important missions. The Blood Sails are known to maraud the entire Eastern and Northern coasts of Guerney and the Fastness. However, the magic coin you found was minted on Soreceror’s isle, and was most likely gotten from there by the pirates. Tomorrow, you will take a boat to this isle and begin your investigation. Find out who is supplying sorcerer’s coins to the pirates and use that as a starting point to find out where the pirates are based, or what their motives are. 

Remember, despite your small skirmishes you are not veterans! Seek only to discover who is behind the raids, do not attempt to deal with them yourself unless you are convinced you can overcome them. Be subtle as well. Sorceror’s isle is famous for its dweomercrafters and I do not want to raise their ire, nor warn my enemies that I am seeking them out. You must return here by the tenth of Burn at the latest, for it is vital that you compete in the games. Any questions?” 

The baron regarded his charges evenly as they tried to assimilate the long string of instructions given them. No-one spoke, intimidated by Yorath’s commanding manner and the conciseness of the instructions. He nodded in satisfaction. The intelligent looks on most of their faces reassured him that his commands were understood. He could only hope that they would be equal to carrying them out. 

Other worries began to press on his mind and he concluded the interview by reaching into a drawer and handing a jeweled circlet to Mortec. “This is magical device for communicating over a great distance. Speak the word ‘dragnuth’ to activate it and picture me in your mind. Briefly speak your missive and then await my reply. The enchantment may only be worked once a day, and the effect is brief. I want you to use this to report your progress. Three hours after sunset is the best time to attempt communication with me.” 

The baron leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands underneath his chin. “One last thing. Kuruul will be going with you. It may seem strange that I insist that you take a hound with you but I have my reasons. Understand that I am completely serious when I say that he is a member of the Company of the Hydra. May the blessings of your patron deities go with you and give you the strength and cunning to succeed”. 
Recognising their interview was at an end, Gerard bowed and ushered his companions from the room. Yorath was already bent deep in thought over a scroll before the last of them left the room and closed the door. The thick candles on his table would be completely consumed, and their replacements as well ere he took his rest.

Sunrise greeted the companions as they assembled at the pier the following day. A good omen, Morgan thought to himself as he watched its golden warmth spread over the waters towards them. The sunlight limned the form of Maron Devlis who awaited them there. The older man smiled in greeting to the Hydra and began to give them directions to Sorcerer’s Isle. Moored at the pier was a small boat quite similar in design to what the pirates had used. 

The craft looked well cared for, and its name, Swift, was written in red letters on its prow. Maron had already taught the rudiments of sailing to Argonne, but he repeated the instructions for the other’s benefit. As they examined the boat they saw it was well provisioned for their journey. Kuruul grinned open jawed at the Hydra and then leapt into the boat, quickly making himself comfortable amongst the stores.

Maron gave precise sailing directions to the isle. The journey would be a short one, around four hours sailing to the North West. Their destination was the Port of Warlock, the principle town on the small island. The port was located in the centre of the stretch of coast where the Hydra were expected to make land fall. He also warned them of the eternal mists that hid the island from passing ships, telling them to trust to their directions and to keep their heading until they sighted land. 

In addition to the instruction, he gave them a bag of brilliantly coloured shells. The old ranger explained they were in case they encountered Tritons, an aquatic race that lived in the coastal waters around the island. The shells, he explained, were highly prized by the creatures, who valued them more than anything else save for pearls. 

Abruptly, Maron clapped Argonne on his back and wished the Hydra luck on their travels. He became more serious then and exhorted them to do their best in avenging the people of Ravenswood. With a twitch of a sinewy shoulder, he turned and strode away up the stairs. It was as well he did, for the scene that followed his departure would not have contributed to his peace of mind.

Rather than an orderly crew of sailors, the members of the Hydra quickly devolved into a bickering mob who’s main source of grievance was Gerard’s refusal to help row the boat. The young nobleman had taken one look at the ancient bench and dirt blacked oar handle and outright refused to participate. It took the combined threats from all his companions to convince him that bending his back to the task was preferable to being summarily dismissed from the company or simply left behind to explain his errant actions to the Baron. 

The barb of this last threat told true, and the scion of Mowbray allowed his better sensibilities to be quelled. Shoulders slumped in resignation, he slouched to one of the seats and carefully laying out an expensive silk kerchief across the wooden bench, took his position. He rebelled again when a grinning Morgan shoved an oar in his direction but by now Argonne had his measure. Vociferously cursing the young fop in his broad, earthy dialect he shamed him into accepting his duty. Daintily putting on a pair of kid skin gloves, Gerard leaned back with the others and set himself to the task. Argonne was well pleased. With the rebellious young fop quelled, there would be no more questioning of his authority as captain.

The weather remained fair throughout the morning and a clement breeze allowed Argonne to raise the simple square sail and ease the burden of rowing. Mortec, stationed at the prow for his diminutive statue precluded him from the morning labour, sighted a large bank of fog exactly according to Maron’s schedule. The mists loomed out of the water like a grey mountain, incongruous with the time of day or weather conditions and clearly of unnatural origin.

Trusting to his instructions, Argonne held them to their course, confident that in less than half an hour they would pass through the fog and sight the Port of Warlock. As the boat entered the mists the winds died and a feeling of cold came over them like a damp sheet. Without prompting, the companions increased the vigour of their rowing, trying to drive off the sudden chill and pass through the gloom as rapidly as possible. 

In the damp half light it felt as if they were shut off from the real world, and only the grunt of their exertions and the slap of their oars broke the silence. The passage of time grew indistinct and the companions began to doubt they would ever emerge into sunlight. Then, without warning, from one instance to the next, the dark shrouds of vapour parted before them and they glided out beneath a brilliant blue sky. 

The crew’s relief was palpable but they had barely time to take in the blessed sunlight before the water seemed to take on the consistency of treacle as something snagged their oars. They had become entangled in thick strands of seaweed that looked suspiciously like they had been woven into ropes. The Hydra managed to progress a few strokes further before their momentum was completely halted and the oars became locked to the sides of the boat. The crew peered over the sides of their craft, trying to determine how to free themselves of their predicament. What they saw was utterly amazing.


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## Fiasco (May 19, 2006)

Indistinct shapes began to appear beneath the suddenly choppy waters. As they broke the surface, the water blurred images coalesced into humanoid shapes astride sea horses of fantastic size. The riders were clearly recognisable as tritons, for instead of skin they possessed a delicate covering of iridescent scales, a silvery fleshy pink in colour. Sea green hair cut to shoulder length was swept back from their high foreheads. Their eyes sparkled either green, blue or grey with little warmth in their depths. Their ears were large and ridged like shells, reaching down almost to their chins and tilted back in dramatic fashion. Their lips were thin and pressed close together. Orange gills heaved on the sides of necks which tapered down to broad shoulders and a narrow waist. 

Each carried a delicately whorled spear, who’s tip was made of a long spiralled shellfish, very much alive and a deep venomous blue in colour. The tritons wore a net draped over one shoulder and a simple harness tied at the hip. Eight of them surrounded the boat and it was clear they were not pleased.

“What iss your purposss in our watersss?” spoke one of them sibilantly. Though the accent was strange, Gerard recognised the speech as Arcanum, the language of magic. The speaker appeared much like the others though perhaps a little finer featured. From his neck hung a necklace of fabulously coloured shells and a pearl earring dangled from the base of the left ear.

“We seek passage to Warlock Harbour, no more,” Gerard replied in the same language. “We certainly did not seek to offend your good… fishy selves… he faltered, his eloquence failing him for once. And we bring you gifts as well!”, he hastily improvised. 

The triton showed no response, leaving an uncomfortable silence. Gerard slapped Morgan on the arm and indicated for him to fetch the shells that Maron had given them. An uncomfortable minute passed before Morgan found the sack passed it to Gerard. 

The nobleman offered up the shells to the leader. Gravely, the triton took the bag and examined the contents, his features impassive throughout. One of his fellows, peeking over his shoulder, was less circumspect, and chattered excitedly to his companions in his watery native tongue. The leader gestured sharply at two of his troops, who obediently leaned far over their mounts and began to inspect the contents of the craft. Feeling vulnerable and outnumbered on the open sea, the Hydra did nothing to hinder them. The search was cursory and soon completed. Both glanced at their leader and gave a shrug. The triton relaxed perceptibly. 

“You have shshown uss courtessy and appear to not mean ill. We will let you passs, but realisse that you are lucky to do sso. Our treassured prince wass taken from uss by you accurssed land crawlerss and we may not be sso kind next time. Be ssure to tell that to thosse twisterss of nature in the port”.

“We thank you for your kindness”, responded Gerard. “We will convey your sentiments to the harbour authorities and furthermore, if we hear anything of your missing prince we will do our best to bring word to you.”

The triton merely hoicked a watery cough in response. No translation was needed to understand the scepticism in the response. With an exaggerated motion, he lifted his clenched fist into the air and plunged it into the water. No sooner had he done so than the entire escort plunged beneath the cryptic waters with surprising speed. Moments later, the water was undisturbed, the oars floated free and the companions were all alone on the sea once more.

“Well bugger me if tha dinst talk just like that fish!”, said Argonne, his tone half teasing and half admiring. The mood broken, he stirred them to action. “Back to tha oars, ye lummoxes, and tha too yer lordship”. Gerard bit back a reply, knowing it would be futile. Reluctantly he joined his companions in rowing towards the Port of Warlock, which was clearly visible now they were free of the mists.

Twenty minutes of brisk rowing saw through the bay and safely alongside a pier. Before they even had the chance to set foot on land or secure their boat three excise men walked up to them. In a gruff voice one of them explained that there was a mooring fee of one sickle a day and a common each for those wishing to come to land. 

Reluctantly, the companions paid up. For most of them the taxes represented a significant portion of their coin but they had no choice but to comply. The next order of business was a search of the boat for smuggled goods. They stepped ashore as instructed and watched one of the excise men slowly go through the boat. As the methodical search progressed Moxadder became visibly uneasy. Despite there being nothing concealed, his many years as a beggar had ill equipped him to bear up well to official scrutiny. Argonne noticed his friend’s unease but misinterpreted its cause. Seeing the chance to do the Fastendian a good turn he asked the customs men where the best devil weed could be bought. 

The attitude of the officials changed instantly. Expressions of routine boredom hardened to tight faced squints. Tersely their leader explained that all narcotics were considered highly dangerous on an island where a significant number of potent spell binders dwelt. Unconvinced by the Hydra’s protestations that they carried no such intoxicants, he instigated a physical search of the companions. 

Guided by instinct, they began with Moxadder, seizing him before he could move. Well practised fingers soon found the Fastendian’s stack, throwing him into a panic. Eyes rolling wildly he broke their grip and snatched back his precious weed. As the port deputies raised their weapons in preparation for ending Moxadder’s resistance, Stravarius surprised everyone by seizing the initiative in dramatic fashion. Grabbing the hood of his cloak he grasped them with gloved fingers tensed as claws and pulled it back. There was a shocked silence for a second and then a collective gasp from inspectors and Hydra alike. Morgan stumbled backwards in shock and fumbled wildly for his blade. 

Revealed before them stood a creature with fine Elven features and a shock of absolutely white hair, tightly curled and cropped close to the scalp. Demonic red eyes burned on either side of a finely chiselled nose. The skin was jet black and flawless, purple black lips were drawn back to reveal immaculate pointy white teeth.

“Cease this scuffle” the newly revealed Black Elf commanded imperiously. “I had heard that Sorcerer’s Isle was a place used to dealing with matters outside the ordinary. It seems your reputation is sadly exaggerated.”

The excise men’s truculent attitude changed markedly. What stood before them was a nightmare product of the dominion. Though almost unheard of in Guerney, such creatures were occasionally seen on Sorcerer’s Isle. The inhabitants greed for obscure arcana made them overlook the unpleasant truths that such creature represented. Once they had recovered from their shock, the agents tightened their grip on their weapons. Black Elf or no, it was their reluctant duty to enforce the law. 

“Come now, is all this necessarily?” Gerard extemporized as he fumbled at his money pouch. “Bizarre though this fellow is, he has not done any wrong. As for this person”, he gestured distastefully at Moxadder, “he’s an ignorant fool and did not knowingly break the laws of this fair isle. Let him cast his small quantity of devil weed into the ocean and we will gladly pay a fine as punishment. He pressed several silver sickles into the sweating palm of the low official and glared at his troublesome companion. With a disgusted flick of his wrist, Moxadder appeared to reluctantly cast a small parcel into the scummy water of the dock, though in reality he palmed it skilfully. Deceived, the excise men were relieved to accept this compromise.

“You be sure to keep out of trouble” their leader said once he had gained a safe distance. Pride somewhat salvaged, he hurried to catch up with his companions, who had wasted no time in getting clear of the vicinity. 

Gerard sighed in relief, amazed that the conflict had been resolved so successfully before belatedly realising that the crisis was far from over. Morgan had regained his wits and stood before Stravarius, a rapier pointing straight at his heart!


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## Fiasco (May 19, 2006)

“A filthy barrow spawn!” the Fastendian cursed bitterly, “a dirty, evil, Geduld loving piece of scum!”. His voice cracked over the last curse and Gerard intervened before he could utter further imprecations. Fortunately, Stravarius had taken no action except for pulling the hood back over his face. He merely stood on the pier, one hand defensively placed on his sword and the other held placatingly before him. The others were still too surprised to take any action save for Moxadder who backed away from the Black Elf. 

“Morgan! This is not the place to air our differences, remember our mission!” Gerard implored. The nobleman’s words registered on Morgan’s face and he nodded tersely in agreement. He stepped back and sheathed his sword though he remained tensed for action. The Fastendian glared from Stravarius back to Gerard. 

“Fine. We go into town, get a room and find out precisely how it is we got saddled with this abomination”. The others were quick to accept this plan and wasted no time in putting it into action. They walked down a broad main fare peopled with townsfolk dressed a little more eccentrically than they had seen elsewhere in Guerney. The architecture was also quite distinct though it eluded their notice, distracted as they were by recent events. They had barely travelled a hundred paces before they found a suitable lodgings. The Hat and Staff provided for their needs exactly and a price for a room was swiftly negotiated. The door to their accommodation had barely been slammed shut before Morgan renewed his invective.

“One month, one Geduld cursed month we’ve been with this black hearted bastard and he never utters so much as a peep as to what he is. It’s a miracle any of us are still alive…I never did trust him, and now we have the proof!” Morgan’s blade slid out of its scabbard again to add emphases to his next words. “You people have no idea, NO IDEA of the evils performed by these twisted animals. Unless this bastard hell spawn removes himself form our company and out presence, this Hydra is about to lose a head!”

Stunned silence greeted the outburst. The only people to appear unperturbed by the intensity of Morgan’s behaviour were Kuruul, who snored peacefully in the corner and Stravarius, who stood arms folded in the centre of the room.

“Very well” said the Black Elf as he deliberately pulled back his hood once more. His hellish gaze fixed on each member of the Hydra in turn. “I’ll explain myself and prove you have nothing to fear from me, though my enemies might”, he said with a bitter smile that was a little too menacing to be reassuring. Without further preamble, he launched into his tale.

“I can’t blame you for reviling me for what I am. I know all too well how I must appear to you. Nightmare eyes, teeth like some animal, black as Geduld’s eternal night. It was not always so. Terrible things have been done to me the like of which would have robbed you of your sanity, if not your life. For you see, I was not always like this. I began life as an elf somewhere in Guerney.” Stravarius waved an arm vaguely, as though greater detail was lost to him.

“That was a long time ago, before you were born, for we do not age like you humans. One day I was out hunting with some of my friends when we were waylaid by creatures of the Dominion. They had no business being in our woods, so far removed from their own lands, but there they were. We were taken completely by surprise and were easily captured.” A look of pain distorted his face as he remembered his suffering anew. 

“The following weeks passed in a haze of fear and pain as we were marched ever onwards towards their defiled lands. Ultimately we were taken below ground into a place that I can only think of as hell. We were separated, my friends and I, and I never saw them again. I can only pray that they died, though I doubt they had it that easy.”

He swallowed heavily and continued in a voice half choked with the effort to repress the force of his memories. “What they did to me then I cannot speak about in detail. I have forgotten large parts of it, and what little I remember causes me great pain and anguish.” With visible effort, Stravarius straightened himself from the half crouch he had unconsciously adopted. “The dreadful purpose of that terrible place, that barrow, is to take life and twist and torture it until it becomes a tool of the Dominion. I saw men warped into hobgoblins, and my kin degraded into beings like me. Other creatures were turned into things even more horrendous. I was burnt, beaten, rent and violated. And when they had finished with my exterior, they went to work on my mind but here I was lucky.” A harsh laugh escaped Stravarius at this point. None of the Hydra interrupted, acutely discomfited they were by the pain of their companion’s recollections. 

“I say lucky, but in truth I sometimes wonder if I would be happier amongst the gleeful cruelty of my dark brothers. My demented transformation was a slow, slow process, I could not tell the time precisely, but years passed in that wretched place. One day a massive quake struck the barrow and in the confusion I managed to escape. Physically, I was utterly their creature but my mind was still largely my own. I had achieved my liberty before they succeeded in recasting my thoughts to their liking, though most memories of my former life were erased.

I fled the lands of the dominion. It was relatively easy, for I looked like one of them and they were not as well organised back then. Like a fool, I went searching for my shattered past, hiding from those who should have given me succour. I discovered that more time had passed than I had imagined. Despite our longevity two hundred years brings considerable change.” 

The Black Elf’s lips began to tremble and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I never found my kin or my home. My ruined memory and the upheavals my people suffered conspired to hide them from me. Those elves I did meet would have nothing to do with me. I can’t blame them. I may not have served the dominion but my thinking had become foreign to the more civilised ways of my former people. I took to disguising myself, wandering from place to place with no thought for the future. Eventually I realised that I could either die or make the best of my miserable fate. I decided to hone my skills and plot for the day when I might strike back at those who broke me and pay them back for a small fraction of what they did to me.”

Stravarius looked at his companions with a mixture of challenge and despair. “So here I am, a member of the Hydra. Like you. I am here to serve the Baron, to improve my skill at arms and hopefully compete in the games. Just like you”, he reiterated. 

He looked pointedly at Morgan. “All I ask is that you treat me the same as before. I’m the same person who fought with you against the lepers at the docks. I travelled with you every step of the way to Yorathton. When we investigated the terrible happenings of Ravenswood I was staunch. When we defeated the Blood Sails I played my part. Trust me”, he implored them. “I haven’t given you any reason to do otherwise.”

Stravarius concluded his speech by pulling his hood back over his head and resignedly awaiting their response. He felt utterly spent. Sharing his nightmare with others had not lessened its pain. The fear of rejection and the thought of an eternity spent lurking at the fringes of society unmanned him. And they might well do more than cast him out. They might kill. He considered what he would do if they turned on him. An image of a hate filled Morgan running him through set a pulse beating in his temple. With surprise he felt the fires rekindle deep within him. If they tried to kill him he would fight. He would cut, rend, scream, batter, maim, mutilate and destroy until oblivion overtook him. It was all he was good for, was all he had left.

Staring at the Black Elf, Morgan felt at a loss. All his life he had been reared on hatred of the Dominion and he had seen enough to confirm every prejudice that was his birthright as a Fastendian. Yet this abomination, so visibly, clearly, obviously evil in appearance claimed to only have benign intentions towards them. He wished with all his might that his father or brothers were here. The others were mostly Guerneyans, they could not comprehend the nature of the evil that Stravarius represented, indeed it looked as if they had been swayed by the Black Elf’s speech! He looked to Moxadder but saw only a native of Irudesh city, a sink of decadence and inactivity that easily put Halfast to shame. The man was lost entirely to the lures of devil weed and would be no help with what needed to be done. 

With a start, Morgan sensed that Stravarius was tensed for action. His resolve firmed. If the others believed the word of this black tongued creature then so be it. It was time that he Morgan Martigan did what was needed on his own. He tightened his grip on his sword and was about to drawing it forth and attack the black skinned fiend when an unfamiliar voice spoke from behind him.

“That is the first interesting thing I have heard in months”.


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## Fiasco (May 22, 2006)

The voice managed to sound rough, cultured and bored all at the same time and it caused the entire party to jump. Collectively they turned to face it and saw a creature that stood where Kuruul had been sleeping only moments before. It was humanoid in shape, but of even more bizarre appearance than the tritons they had encountered earlier. It, or rather he was of a stature was comparable to Mortec’s yet somehow his otherworldly presence made him fill the room. His hands were a dark tan in colour and where visible, the rest of him was covered with a light fur of similar shade. As the hair climbed higher up his body it darkened to a heavy brown for his beard and further to midnight black on his head. 

He was immaculately groomed, with only a single thick forelock hanging loose over his dark green eyes, clearly for effect. His teeth were jet black and cruelly pointed, though immaculately straight. He wore a tightly fitted jacket of deep burgundy with finely sown pockets arranged in two rows on the left breast. Silken pants of dark blue were tucked in to calf high boots made of black scales.

 A small sword, curved somewhat like a scimitar hung on his left hip and a small leather satchel was slung casually over his back. A bandoleer of soft leather pouches was draped across his chest. The style of clothing affected by the new comer seemed completely outlandish to the Hydra though they could not deny he wore it with panache. The stranger continued speaking, ignoring the sensation his appearance had caused. He addressed his remarks to Stravarius, whose story had piqued his interest.

“Someone who has survived the work of Rawloqu the Transmuter with his soul intact! This is truly a singular occurrence!” He made a brief but complex gesture. “Yes, yes, so it is. He speaks truly, he is not one of them. This is most salutary!” the creature beamed at Stravarius, much as a parent might at a child’s first attempt to burble a word. 

“W w w what are you?” Gerard spluttered, the first of the Hydra to regain his wits. Kuruul looked back at his witless companions of the last two months. He had found their antics remarkably boring until now, but there was no denying their looks of bemused startlement were amusing. The normally eloquent Gerard was stuttering like an idiot, Morgan seemed to be trying to rip himself in two, so divided was he in who to strike at first, Mortec’s jaw was still hanging half way to the ground (not so difficult for one so short), Argonne looked little better and Stravarius looked utterly deflated, his thunder completely stolen. Moxadder’s scarred face gave little away but his hand shook violently as he took a deep drag of his Devil Weed. With a wicked grin that showed off far too many teeth, Kuruul decided to slake the Hydra’s curiosity.

He claimed to be a Bharghest, a strange race who’s very blood flowed with the arcane mastery that was their heritage. They had regarded the other humanoid races as barely sentient, paying them scant regard as they pursued their own obscure lore. Not even the Convocation at the height of its power had intruded greatly on their awareness. Thus they whiled away the millennia, confident that their guile and their intelligence and their sorcerous art would preserve them from all harm. The advent of the Dominion came as a supreme shock to a people who had never known adversity. Being amoral at best, they had thought that they could simply ally with the northern hoards and continue as before. By the time they comprehended the rapacious ambition that drove the Dominion, it was too late. 

Their erstwhile allies struck when they were unready and most of their race perished at one stroke. Not a numerous people to begin with, the survivors were too few to make an effective counter blow despite the powers they still commanded. They were picked off one at a time, at the Dominion’s will, almost as an afterthought to their ongoing subjugation of Anka Seth. For Kuruul, one of the last survivors, this was what hurt the most. That his race, by far the greatest of this world had become little more than a footnote due to their fatal naivety.

Still, as the Bharghests used to say, life is long, and retribution can outwait even death. Kuruul had a lot of time to plot his revenge, and he bent his mighty intellect upon this single task. He boasted to the Hydra that he was the greatest wizard and swordsman of his race. Depressingly, the diminishment of his race stole the grandeur from the claim. Mortec had questioned him as to why he travelled with them, and especially why he did so in the form of a hound. 

The Bharghest’s explanation deflated the little fellow quite considerably. The simple truth was that humanity and its related races bored him. Only one such creature in tens of thousands showed any originality of thought. Baron Yorath had been one such man, and so Kuruul had agreed to accompany the Hydra in their adventures. Accompany them, but not submit himself to the tedium of their daily affairs. Thus, he found it more convenient to travel as a dog. Functioning as a hound occupied only the tiniest fraction of his mind, he explained, leaving the rest of it to grapple with the metaphysical complexities of trying to bring down a world spanning empire down single handed. The problem, he conceded was a thorny one, so he would appreciate it if they didn’t wake him from his canine slumber unless something truly interesting was afoot. 

As the Bharghest completed his tale, he casually opened a shuttered window, allowing a large bat ingress to the room. The beast squeaked irritatingly as it circled the room, before settling itself to dangle up side down in the rafters. Before the startled eyes of the Hydra, Kuruul was one moment a strange dark and toothy creature, and the next the hound that had been so familiar to them. The beast, turned three times on the spot, the same as any mongrel from the street. Only a very human wink of an eye betrayed Kuruul’s disguise as he settled down to sleep.

The following hour hummed with chatter as the companions tried to encompass the avalanche of revelations they’d been buried under. By tacit agreement, Stravarius was accepted as one of them, though Morgan privately held to his reservations. Ultimately, they decided to accept Kuruul as well, though they were no closer to understanding what he intended or how he hoped to accomplish his desires. What swayed them was their trust in the Baron. Yorath had dealt very generously with them and was not a man who did anything unless it served a purpose (or two or three). It was he that had decreed that Kuruul be part of their company and so it would be. 

Outside, the sun had advanced across the sky with no regard for their debate and they had seen almost nothing of the town. The Hydra decided to swiftly repair this deficiency by using the last of the daylight hours to explore the streets of Port Warlock. Kuruul remained behind, the canine part of his mind already asleep while the fierce intellect that sheltered behind it contemplated the genesis of the Black Elves and sought to find ways of exploiting this knowledge to the detriment of the Dominion.

*****​


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## Fiasco (May 22, 2006)

*Chapter 4​*The companions stepped forth into the cryptic tangle of Port Warlock’s streets. They had paid scant attention to the architecture when they had arrived, preoccupied as they were by Stravarius’ sensational revelation. On their second encounter with the streets, they were more receptive to the remarkable nature of the town. 

Sorcerer’s Isle, as its name suggested, was famous for its numerous spell workers. What had drawn the wise to the island over the centuries was Novorod’s Tower. This eldritch monument was said to have been constructed by its namesake to shelter the arcane arts from the storm of the Convocation’s hatred. The arch mage Novorod had crafted well, indeed his tower had now outlasted the Gerechian’s empire by quite some time. Throughout its long existence, those gifted with the spark of magic had sought safety and the nurture of their talent within its walls. 

Long after Novorod had passed into legend, his successors had by and large kept faith with his legacy, resulting in a large community of mages making their home on the isle. Those who commanded magical power, even on a small scale, were notoriously wilful. Firm and wise governance from the keepers of the tower was required to keep magic duels to a minimum. Perhaps as a consequence, the architecture of the town had been allowed to bloom with no restraints on its design. Rivals sought to out do each other with the splendour of their creations, often incorporating outlandish themes as well as their magic into the buildings. 

It was into this kaleidoscope of bizarre shapes and unlikely colours that the companions stepped into with their imaginations already given free play by the startling disclosures made earlier that day. Overcome by the unique surroundings, they lost track of each other and fragmented into small groups, each pursuing its own agenda.

Mortec’s first thought was of the Tower of Novorod, unquestioned bastion of magical knowledge for all of Anka Seth. As a priest of the divinity which venerated magic, he felt compelled to visit this edifice and learn what he could. Stravarius and Morgan also showed interest in the tower. For the Black Elf this was not surprising, for his very blood sang with eldritch power, corrupted though it might be. Morgan’s reasons were far more prosaic. He still didn’t trust Stravarius and didn’t intend on letting him out of his sight. Also, he had head of the legendary tower and wanted to see it for himself. It would be a fine story to share with comrades on some dreary graveyard watch once he returned to Avinal. There was no need for them to ask for directions for the tower was plainly visible from almost any point in the town. Indeed, a prominent road led from the heart of the community to the base of the structure. 

Despite being slowed by the gnome’s abbreviated stride, the trio reached their destination in a comfortable half hour’s walk. The journey gave them plenty of time to admire the unique nature of the tower. Constructed of a black, glossy material that was not quite stone, nor yet metal, but something sharing characteristics of both. The structure was imposing, its fearful symmetry ascending one hundred feet into the sky. Despite the polish of its walls, it reflected no light, seeming to drink the sun’s radiance deep into its ebon being. Strange sigils drifted across its face at seemingly random intervals. Though Mortec managed to decipher a lone character here or there, their greater meaning was quite beyond him. 

A simple doorway, outlined in silver at the tower’s base was the only other discernable feature. Despite the lack of apertures, the gnome had the uncomfortable sensation that their approach was being watched. As they closed the final hundred yards to their destination, other sensations began to manifest. Both Mortec and Stravarius felt a tingle at the base of their necks, their follicles sensitive to the puissance of the tower’s enchantments. Though sheathed, the Black Elf’s sword was emitting such a powerful aura that the leather scabbard glowed first orange, then green and finally blue as it fed on and reflected back the mystic radiance. Trailing a little behind, Morgan strained his neck as he looked the tower all over, blissfully ignorant of what his companions were sensing.

They arrived at the door and spent a good five minutes nerving themselves to take the next step. Looking up, the obsidian tower loomed far above them, and through some trick of the eyes, or possibly magic, the longer they looked up, the more the tower seemed to lean over them, to the point where it appeared that the entire sky was filled with the looming dark of its substance. The only way to end this uncomfortable sensation was to close one’s eyes or look away. Within its silver frame the door was made of the same material as the walls. It lacked any obvious means of opening it. The gnome and Black Elf exchanged glances, clearly it was up to one of them to make their presence known. 

Reluctantly, Mortec stretched his small hand upwards and brought the flat of his palm towards the portal. Before contact was made, the colour and texture of the door changed to rough granite. Four feet above the ground, three sets of depressions appeared, prompting Mortec to snatch his hand back. Each was a circle which encompassed the shape of a hand. Two of them were rendered in perfect detail, the impressions in the rock exactly matching the contours of a hand. The third circle contained merely an outline traced finely onto the door’s surface. 

On viewing the surfaces, Mortec immediately surmised their significance. In an awed whisper, he explained to Morgan that since the day Novorod himself handed the tower over to his followers, access to the wealth of knowledge inside had been successively controlled by three people. Whenever a vacancy appeared amongst the trio, magically gifted beings from across the breadth of the world came to Novorod’s Tower. Each nurtured the burning hope that they were the one destined to take up the vacated wardship and therefore have influence over the magic wielders of the world. 

Even in his distant homeland, the gnome had heard that only two of the three positions were filled. Gorgonath the wizard and Kvaeth the bard ruled, but without a third member, their access to the tower’s secrets was heavily curtailed. The gnome, felt a thrill of excitement pass through him. Was he fated to become the third? He reached a trembling hand towards the circle with the plain outline of the hand. Without warning, a spectral creature emerged from the enchanted material of the door itself! Mortec emitted an undignified squeal and snatched his hand back before it contacted the creature.

The apparition was a partially translucent figure of a man dressed in tattered grey robes. Through his body, the impressions in the door were clearly visible. A face that was heavily lined with age regarded the companions glumly. With a sepulchre groan, it uttered its message. “You have come to speak to the masters. Return at midday tomorrow”. It melded back into the door and out of sight before any of them could think to ask a question. Gnome, human and Black Elf regarded each other for a long moment, then turned and began the walk back to the Port of Warlock. Mistrusting and fearful of the eldritch display he had just witnessed, Morgan vowed not to return to the tower even if all the Dominions hoards were at his heels.

*****​


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## Fiasco (May 22, 2006)

On leaving the inn, Moxadder wasted no time in slipping away from his companions and striking out for the less reputable areas. Though Port Warlock was quite small and open, his nose for squalor and quiet desperation led him unerringly in the right direction. He found an area where the fantastic buildings gave way to cruder constructions. Slipshod and slapdash were the predominant themes, and nary a smidgeon of care lavished on either style. In such places hope was still born and poverty starved much of the goodness out of ordinary people. 

He reached a dirty, rutted street where young toughs lounged purposelessly in doorways while dissolute sailors and what passed for the local lowlifes skulked its twisting length. Although Moxadder didn’t expect to find an organised guild, he was certain there would be people with links to whatever unpleasantness lurked beneath the veneer of any civilised area. Pirates who looted the entire Cursed Sea with impunity would invariably come into contact with those who were interested in reselling booty and slaves.

As he wandered down the half derelict street, he spotted a battered tavern called the Ravished Mermaid. It was a place no different to the many of its like he had frequented in Halfast. Instincts honed by ten years of survival in the blackest pits of that debauched city gave him confidence that he would spot any potential danger long before they became a threat. The fact his belly was full of good food, a fine collection of knives were concealed on his person and he wore a vest of leather stout enough to turn blows, made him all the more capable of enjoying this feeling of security. 

He stepped into the tavern’s gloomy interior and ordered a cheap ale at the bar; in reality little more than a bench set at one end of the room. He selected a neglected table against the wall, near the entrance and settled himself into the atmosphere of the place. It was nice to be home.

Gerard felt far from home. The people of Port Warlock shared neither the sophistication of cities like Thessingcourt or Halfast nor the pleasing subservience of more bucolic surrounds. Instead, the populace had a penchant for giving cryptic answers to even the most simple questions, as though each were some ancient greybeard who had the wisdom of the ages at their command. Argonne’s irritating presence did not help matters. Limpet like, the woodsman had attached himself to the noble scion. Relatively small as the town was, Argonne had not felt like losing himself in it entirely, and as he’d somehow lost sight of Moxadder, he’d made do with the fop.

Doggedly, the nobleman stuck to his task as best he could. The pirates had used sorcerer’s coins that transformed the user’s appearance. As his companions had abandoned him in pursuit of their own interests, it fell to him to find those wizards who were known to sell such items. It might be that one of the spell merchants would lead them to the Blood Sails. Frustratingly, he had to be mindful of the Baron’s requirement that he not be implicated in the Hydra’s investigation. 

Gerard pondered his options. He needed a pretext for seeking similar coins himself, something plausible yet unconnected with his true purpose. Argonne strayed into his line of vision, gawping at a particularly unlikely home constructed of what appeared to be blown glass. As usual, the woodsman had pulled his broad brimmed hat low over his face. Alas, the exaggeratedly broad chin and gaping mouth were still there for all to see. Gerard smiled wickedly. Perhaps he had a use for the lummox after all. “Come Argonne”, he said imperiously. “Stop impersonating a guppy and follow me. We have some sorcerer’s to visit”.

With much difficulty, he wrested information on the services offered by various practitioners of the arcane arts from the local populace. It was almost as though the ordinary townsfolk compensated for their complete lack of magical ability by accumulating vast stores of obscure phrases with which to season their conversation. Eventually, after much cudgelling of both his patience and wit, Gerard learned three names that bore further scrutiny: Misomorph, a human with a reputation for being an artist as well as a wizard; Quickling, an elf who openly sold expensive transmutations; and Grisha, a dwarf who peddled cheap quackery in the markets. Massaging his temples, Gerard set about trying to cajole directions to these wizards from the obtuse natives. 

The transmuter Misomorph lived in a grand villa on the hill overlooking Port Warlock. As he sat in his comfortable, well lit work room, he looked out of the broad window and admired the view. The afternoon sun gave warmth to the town, smoothing out some of its flaws and giving a unifying theme to the wilfully individualistic buildings. In the background, the Cursed Sea belied its name, gently sliding curls of water against the island’s chiselled shores. He allowed the focus of his eyes to slowly retrace the path back to his rooms, touching here, on the interesting profile of a cliff face, there on a intriguingly shadowed building. He lingered longest on his carefully ordered rock garden, with it’s tidy raked paths and subtly nuanced features. Inspired anew, Misomorph returned his attention to the modelling board. With a snap of his fingers, the square of clay in front of him became animate, the crude stuff surging and retreating as chaotic impulses rippled through its substance. 

Concentrating deeply, the wizard began to impose his will on the clay, shaping it with the force of his thoughts. Just as he was about to give form to the vision he had conceived in last night’s dreams, a loud knocking broke his concentration. Muttering in frustration, Misomorph left the work table to attend to the callers. 

As he strode impatiently through the long corridors of his manse, he railed at the parlous state of his finances which compelled him to truckle to the whims of the public. Muttering curses he flung open his door and glared irritably at his visitors. Sadly, his foreboding mien failed to make an impression. Of the two men who stood before him, one had his back partially turned and was leering at his gardens while chortling some mindless nonsense about ‘growing stones’. The other, an elegantly attired young man, genteelly stifled a yawn with the back of his hand before enquiring, “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Misomorph the Transmuter?”

“Yes you do”, replied the mage testily, “Please state your business quickly, I have urgent work to attend to. Also, if your man finds my rock garden too stimulating for his delicate sensibilities, I suggest you send him to wait by the road. No doubt the dust and gravel will provide him much amusement”.

The young fop seemed unperturbed by the mage’s bruskness and smoothly came to the point. “It is on behalf of this rude fellow that I have come to you. My enquiries have led me to believe that you are a wizard skilled in transformations of the body”, he flattered Misomorph with a honeyed voice. “Since all know your skill is paramount, I was wondering if you could do something for this!”. As he concluded his request the dandy propelled his brutish companion towards Misomorph with a small shove while simultaneously sweeping off its hat. 

The artist gasped. Now bare headed, the lumpish features of the second man were dishearteningly revealed. The aesthetically sensitive wizard was aghast. It appeared that nature had cursed the simple yokel with every imperfection that could disfigure the human face. With horrid fascination, his attention wandered from the exaggerated chin, bent nose and disconcertingly wide set eyes (one of them cocked), to the bulging forehead and crooked, discoloured teeth. The man’s complexion was rough and a ragged beard did little to hide the strange lumps that distended the surface. A great mono-brow trailed across the forehead, thick and untamed like a long neglected hedge. Not even a blind mother could love such a face, indeed the peasant looked as if his face had been shaped by a palsied sculptor who was not only blind, but had only a vague description of a man to go on. Eventually, Misomorph managed to wrest his attention away from the cretin and turn to its companion, who had maintained an expectant silence throughout the inspection. The gentleman suavely for the bumpkin to replace his hat. 

“You can see that our need is great”, said the dandy. “Do you have anything that could set to rights this cruel trick played by nature. Some magic or glamour, that might make him presentable?”

Misomorph shook his head, “Though its hard to believe, I use my gift for… projects of a larger scope. I deal with epic landscapes, flights of fantasy that can transform a villa to a place of wonder not…” his voice trailed off as he contemplated just what might be required to set the yokel right. He felt a stab of pity for the man; to be so ugly, what a terrible fate! Enlightened as he was with artistic vision, the thought of such disfigurement was nigh intolerable. Already he could feel the inspiration that had seethed through him that morning begin to evaporate before the malformed visage of the caller. He hardened his heart and gestured that the interview was over. 

“I am sorry but I do not perform, cosmetic magics”, he said, struggling to find the correct terminology. To Misomorph’s surprise, the gentleman did not seem too disturbed by the refusal while the deformed man seemed by and large bemused by the entire conversation. No doubt he was addled in mind as well as body, the mage thought as he firmly shut the door and hurried back to his studio. Mercifully, the entire visit was soon forgotten as he set anew to the task of cajoling reality to shape itself into the bravura visions in his mind.

Gerard left the villa well satisfied with their terminated interview. As he had hoped, Argonne was the perfect foil to his inquiries. The woodsman’s ugliness was so profound that their motive for seeking transformative coins was not even questioned. Confident that his method of pursuing information was sound, he sauntered back into town and made for Quickling’s abode. Despite the upheavals and frustrations of the day, he felt quite pleased with himself. He felt in command of the situation and the normally troublesome Argonne was dancing to his tune. Up until now, he had not enjoyed such pre-eminence. At the formation of the Hydra he had naturally assumed that he would be given command. This was only to be expected given his superior social standing. Indeed he had believed implicitly in his role for several days before it slowly dawned on him that the others considered him merely ‘one of the lads’. 

Oh contemptible sentiment! He had fought back by giving imperious commands and treating any overly familiar behaviour with haughty contempt. Alas, this approach met with curt rebuffs at best and he was surprised at how he missed their simple camaraderie once it was withdrawn. By the time of their arrival on Sorcerer’s Isle he had rethought his strategy. Perhaps it was his fate to become a man of the people, to work closely with them and show himself as an ideal to which they could strive. If they would not recognise that leadership was his birth right, then he would use more subtle ways to bend them to his will. He could only hope that his father would not hear of this compromise of the noble Mowbray name. He turned to make sure that Argonne still trailed docilely behind him. No matter, for the moment Argonne was doing as he was told and things were definitely looking up.

*****​


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## Fiasco (May 22, 2006)

That evening the Hydra assembled once more in the Hat and Staff. Gerard wasted no time in appraising his companions of what he had discovered. Of the three people he had investigated, Misomorph could be dismissed from consideration. Quickling, a cold, calculating elf seemed a potential supplier of sorcerers coins, albeit an expensive and discreet one. 

The third spell merchant of interest was Grisha, a surly dwarf who set his stall in the market square every afternoon. This worthy had already left for the day when Gerard had made his inquiries in the town square. Undaunted, Gerard had quizzed nearby stall holders and been given to understand the dwarf was generally considered an unpleasant and unscrupulous fellow. Gerard had been able to get good directions for finding Grisha’s house, which was situated in a somewhat isolated area an hour’s walk along the coast. 

The companions fiercely debated their options. Since they could hardly ask either Grisha or Quickling outright if they supplied the Blood Sails, at least not with any realistic expectation of an honest answer, they would have to be more circumspect in how they carried out their mission. Eventually, they took the decision to visit Grisha’s house the next day, timing their arrival for when he was occupied in the market. Hopefully they could unearth something of interest without arousing any suspicion. They agreed to meet at two hours after midday as Mortec and Stravarius claimed to have some business to attend to at noon. With that, the gathering came to an end. Each went their own way to arrange for meals and rooms. 

The following morning, the companions explored the many curiosities that a town devoted to wizards had to offer. Though many of the wares on display tempted them, most lacked the coin to indulge their desires. Gerard, fresh from his morning toilet, found himself well disposed enough to regard even the vexing locals with a tolerant eye. The temperature was moderately warm and the breeze coming in from the ocean carried a pleasant scent, uncoloured with the noisome refuse that normally floated in the waters near human habitation. Whatever else they were, the nobleman had to acknowledge that the inhabitants of Sorcerer’s Isle kept the cleanest town he had ever seen.

Somewhat before noon, Stravarius and Mortec retraced their steps of the previous day and returned to Novorod's Tower. Though both strove to appear calm they were taut with anxiety. The Black Elf had not had a moment’s rest the previous night. His proximity to such a heavy concentration of magical power had made his nightmares even more intense. Even now he felt the unpleasant tingle of sweat beading high on his scalp. Despite their trepidation, they persisted with their march. To each, the potential gains from an interview with the mighty inhabitants of the tower far outweighed their fear of the unknown.

All too soon, they stood before the entrance. Once more they were overwhelmed by the brooding entropic finish of the tower. Stravarius glanced at the gnome and then stepped forward and placed his gloved hand against the door. He was absurdly pleased that his arm was completely steady as he did so. Silently a section of the wall slid away, or perhaps it just disappeared. A poorly illuminated passageway was revealed. Seizing the initiative, Mortec dodged around his larger companion and entered the tower. With an annoyed grimace, the Black Elf followed and then there was no longer an entrance behind them. They were gone.

*****​
In a half derelict tavern named the Broken Crow, Moxadder was deep in conversation with a man called Ramain and quietly beginning to panic. This was the second establishment he had visited this morning, a continuation of his trawling journey through the town’s scum pits which had begun with the Ravished Mermaid the day before. His cautious inquiries had born little fruit thus far, but that was to be expected. He had been careful not to reveal his motives or purpose when asking questions and this had greatly complicated matters. 

After spending an hour observing the truculent denizens of the Broken Crow, he had decided there was nothing more he could learn there and had tried to leave. Halfway to the door he was accosted by a paunchy man who smoothly ushered him to a table and offered to help him with his ‘questions’. 

The following half hour saw an exchange of veiled references, outright bluff and a species of double talk that left Moxadder emotionally and intellectually bewildered. Initially, he had planned on tricking the stranger of all his secrets but within five minutes he found himself desperately trying to hold is own in a conversation he understood less and less of the longer it went. After five minutes more he was reduced to desperately clinging to his new goal of not revealing the purpose of his visit to the island. He felt completely disoriented and could no longer even remember what he had last said.

Ramain professed to be an ‘information broker’ and offered to sell what he knew to Moxadder. Alas, the Irudeshian realised that to ask specific questions would inevitably give the man a strong insight into what he was after. Baron Yorath had made it clear he didn’t wish to be implicated in the investigation of the Blood Sails and this left Moxadder at something of an impasse. Sensing his reluctance, Ramain launched into a long winded analogy of their situation, which the Irudeshian completely misinterpreted.

“Are you saying that the Blood Sails are part of a splinter faction of the Church of Laster who are believing their leader is the horny re-incarnation of their God?”, he hazarded hopelessly. 

“No, I’m not!” Ramain shook his head in disgust. “It appears that I have to speak a little more clearly. The Blood Sails are working for someone, which is all I’m willing to say at this point. In doing so, they have angered a lot of very important people and I think it’s safe to say that given the power of the people being annoyed, the Blood Sails won’t be around for too much longer.

Stung by the contempt in Ramain’s voice, Moxadder floundered into another line of questioning. “What do you know about people selling sorcerer’s coins on the quiet?” The question provoked an evil smile from the man opposite him.

“Sorcerer’s coins eh? I can’t tell you anything. What can YOU tell me?”

Moxadder fought to keep the surprise off his face. “nnnothing, nothing at all”, he stammered, not even convincing himself. “Okay, see, what I’m really after is the low down on the Blood Sails” he mumbled, forgetting that Ramain had already plucked this information from him and expanded upon it. 

Ramain relaxed and didn’t even bother to hide that he had the drug confused wretch where he wanted him. “That information I can give you, but it will cost you a sickle”.  Moxadder’s spirits sank even further. He had spent the last of his money in nursing drinks in the sinks of Sorcerer’s Isle. 

“I don’t have the scratch with me”, he began, “but I can get it to you within the hour. Or better yet, I can give you some Devil Weed! Tricky stuff to come by in these parts!” Ramain looked pityingly at the desperate creature in front of him. Clearly he had wasted his time trying to finesse money from a penniless fool. Far better to make him his willing slave.

“I’ll tell you what”, he said, flashing a smile that didn’t betray even a hair of human feeling. “I’ll give YOU some Devil Weed, as well as what you want to know, and in a few days time, you will tell me everything you have learnt about the Blood Sails”. Moxadder sat very still, intimidated by the man’s complete control of the conversation and the chilling lifelessness of his eyes. Ramain leaned forward and the Irudeshian’s attention was momentarily caught by curious pendant he wore around his neck. A silver disc worked with the motif of a many horned demonic skull seemed to stare at him with its ruby eyes. A faint foreboding at the back of his mind told him he had seen such a symbol before. With a start, he snapped his attention back to his inquisitor’s face and swallowed nervously before nodding submissively. He was painfully aware of his fear, and also that he couldn’t hide it from the menacing information dealer. 

“Excellent”, purred the rogue. “I can see that we understand each other. Now listen carefully, the Blood Sails are lead by a man named Rumscully Jack…”

*****​


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## Fiasco (May 23, 2006)

In the early afternoon the companions slowly congregated in the common room of the Hat and Staff. They were an unsettled group. It was apparent to all that Moxadder had partaken heavily of the Devil Weed again. His dilated eyes and panicked starts at sudden noises did not ease matters. Their patience was further tried by the late arrival of Mortec and Stravarius. When the pair finally did appear, they were quiet and withdrawn, thoughts turned inward and oblivious to the hostile glares of their companions.

“Let us be off” said Gerard, his voice squeaking nervously. Wordlessly they rose. Argonne carelessly kicked Kuruul awake as they shuffled out. The large canine’s eye’s flashed dangerously for a second, then the beast followed desultorily.

No-one spoke during journey to the Dwarf’s house. The weather had warmed unpleasantly and the humidity of the sea air compounded their discomfort. Under his all covering apparel, Stravarius sweated prodigiously. A steady pressure was building in his mind, wrought by a thousand questions and postulations that swarmed through his consciousness like a frenzied swarm of mean tempered wasps. His hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically as he strove to rebuild those long held paradigms that had been shattered by what he had learnt in the tower. His eyes strayed in the direction Mortec. Soon they would have to make a choice and commit themselves irrevocably to either a path of knowledge or ignorance.

Despite their slow pace, the Hydra found the modest abode sooner than expected. The building was situated near the top of a long, gently sloped hill which was sliced down one side by an escarpment overlooking the sea. Though rugged and quite exposed to the elements, the location afforded a truly inspiring view of the town. As the companions paused for a rest before closing the final few hundred feet to the house, Gerard was surprised that a mean spirited curmudgeon like Grisha would have the greatness of soul to appreciate such a view. He wondered briefly whether they had the right dwelling, but there could be no mistaking the directions he had been given. 

The ease with which they had found the house did not improve the Hydra’s mood. Something about the quiet of the place was unsettling, and the knowledge that it belonged to a wizard only made matters worse. The simple house was built of wood, well weathered and with a thatched roof that had seen better days. A sturdy door barred entry to the house, though Argonne noticed a small rectangular opening had been cut into the bottom of it. The other side obliquely visible to the companions showed a plain wall, its only feature a heavily shuttered window. 

Stravarius shifted his feet impatiently. Would none of his companions take some initiative and give the house a closer inspection? he groused to himself. It was at this point that a black cat emerged coolly from the hole in the base of the door and sauntered a couple of paces into the yard before lazily beginning to wash. Stravarius felt a cold fury stiffen his spine. In his disconcerted condition, there was something about the smug insouciance of the creature that stung him to the quick. Without conscious thought he raised the massive crossbow he carried and aimed carefully along its length. With a powerful snap, the  arms of the weapon leapt forward, hurling the shaft with great velocity at the feline. The animal had just enough time to whip its head around at the sudden noise before it was snatched away by the deadly length of wood and feather. A shocked silence followed the loosing of the bolt.

“What in Geduld’s stinking hell are you doing?” screamed Gerard in frustration. The other companions also appeared far from impressed. Argonne eyed the Black Elf with contempt and Morgan had the look of a man for whom every prejudice had just been confirmed and who longed to tell his more tolerant friends ‘I told you so!’

“Are you mad?” Gerard continued, voicing the concerns of the entire group. “We are TRYING to reconnoitre a dangerous wizard’s abode, and you decide to practice your archery on his cat! You piffle. What are you playing at, man?”

Stravarius stood shaking, his crossbow clutched forgotten in both hands. He too was shocked at what he had done. A dreadful fear shrivelled his guts. Had he no control? Was he doomed to become the thing of corruption that was the fate of all who fell under Rawloqu? Seeing the open distrust in most of his companion’s eyes, he wondered if he should try to explain, that his mind was a jangle with unsettling new thoughts that floated atop the darker currents of his endless nightmares. The look of hatred on Morgan’s face discouraged him. “I hate cats”, he offered simply before walking towards the hut. Curiously, he felt better for his explanation. It was, after all, true. By some unlucky happenstance, the feline species had eyes that were nearly identical with those of the Transmuter.

Standing some distance away, Moxadder contemplated his companions. If the slaying of the cat had not alerted anyone in the house, the noisy outburst by Gerard certainly had. He crossed to where Argonne stood with hands on hips and gave him a nudge. “Lets leave them too it and have a squiz around. I reckon maybe we can find some sign of customers who don’t come by the ordinary way if you know what I mean.” 

Pleased to have something positive to do, the woodsman nodded his acquiescence. He began to circle the wizard’s dwelling at some distance, head bent close to the ground as he scrutinised the bare rock for signs of tracks. Moxadder followed closely at his heels. Argonne’s abilities to find a trail in even the most unforgiving terrain was quite impressive. The Irudeshian wistfully remembered evenings spent hiding in the blood warm safety of the marshes surrounding Irudesh City. Old Nagresh, the half mad old serpent warrior had sometimes taught him a scrap or two of his swamp lore. Despite the snakes, crocodiles and other hazards, he had rarely felt safer during his childhood.

Meanwhile the others had nerved themselves to close the distance to the dwelling before coming to a hesitant stop before the door. As Gerard prepared to knock and announce the Hydra, Mortec tried to divert him from his intent. “This is a house belonging to a wizard, he may have left magical defences”, the gnome advised. Gerard regarded the house critically. It seemed too poorly built for anyone who had a great deal worth protecting. 

“I don’t believe such a rude hovel could have any defences”, the arrogant swordsman rejoined before lightly rapping on the door. Glancing back at his companions, Gerard noticed that Mortec had scuttled back a good fifteen feet while Morgan stood poised for action, hand on sword and expecting the worst. The Black Elf stood further away, a dark brooding figure against the skyline. 

There was no response to the knock and after pounding it a few more times to no avail Gerard was a little nonplussed. Investigation, questioning and even fighting he was comfortable with, but he was not at all certain how he felt about breaking into people’s homes. Particularly when there was a good chance they had nothing to do with their frustrating mission. Fortunately for Gerard, his dilemma was reprieved by a cry from Argonne.

The woodsman had found a concealed trail leading away from both the residence and Port Warlock and did not hesitate in calling on the others to join him. Back at the house, Gerard exhaled in relief and was about to give the command to join the woodsman when he realised the others were already on their way. Wearing a glum expression he moved to join them, nearly tripping over the prostrate form of Kuruul who had been dozing at his feet. Seeing no-one around, Gerard indulged himself in a string of vulgar curses such as he’d heard Argonne utter on frequent occasion. Somehow feeling the better for it, he hastened to catch up to the others.


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## Fiasco (May 23, 2006)

Argonne felt mildly excited as he scanned the ground for tracks. He had broken free of the strange confusion of intrigue and architecture that Port Warlock had woven around him. Now he was amongst familiar elements that followed a logic he intuitively understood. He had always taken pleasure in reconstructing the tiny stories left by those who trod the earth. Viewed from within the thrall of his Wodensense, each bent blade of grass, overturned stone with its dirty side facing upwards, or discarded refuse or scat spoke volumes to those with the skill and imagination to read the sign. 

This day, the sign indicated a little used trail with the tracks of small groups of men leading in both directions. The path meandered along the cliffs overlooking the ocean, weaving around the more difficult outcrops and scraggy bushes that clung stubbornly to the unnurturing rocks. Enthused by his find, Argonne motioned for the others to follow as he confidently began to follow the spoor.

Alone at the rear of the party Morgan felt somewhat out of sorts. Marching in the wilderness on an island full of strange wizards while on a fools errand to find sorcerer’s coins seemed pointless. Even more frustrating was that although they sought the coins, it had been explained to him that they couldn’t let anyone know they were looking for them. This seemed patently ridiculous. How were people to help them if they couldn’t tell them what they wanted? Somehow he felt that they’d missed the point of the mission. Surely they should be killing pirates, not following rabbit tracks in the wilderness. 

A familiar sense of guilt fell over him. Like most Fastendians when away their homeland, he felt oppressed by the feeling he was letting his people down. A stretch of wall protecting Avinal stood bare because of his decision to leave. Yet, by long standing tradition, fighting in the Halfast Games and showing the world the prowess of the Fastness’ warriors was considered a worthy occupation. When engaged in such a task, feelings of guilt for leaving the country were assuaged. A good showing at the Games showed the nation’s steadfastness in adversity, bringing attention to its desperate battle with the Dominion. 

Morgan had left Avinal with the honourable intention of competing in the gladiatorial contest. Instead, he found himself lagging around an island with a group of strange and disorganised foreigners. “A wall stands bare”, he muttered to himself. It was the ancient mantra of the warrior away from home. Feeling no better, he kicked a small stone aside in a fit of peevishness and offered a fervent prayer to Thuus that this vexatious mission might soon be ended. 

“Look Out!” Gerard exclaimed from his position near the head of the group. He grabbed desperately at Argonne’s pack to keep the woodsman from falling to his death. The sound of scrabbling feet and a stifled curse indicated that Moxadder had also found the edge of the precipice. The pair had been so intent on tracking that they had only seen the sharp lip of the crevasse an instant before plunging over it. The immediate danger averted, they took in the unusual feature that faced them. Through some freak action of wind and water, a thirty foot diameter sink hole had been worn through the cliff top down to sea level some eighty feet below. 

Carefully leaning over, they could see right to the bottom of the hollow, where sunlight revealed the sparkle of water. A narrow fissure in the side of the cliff had been chafed into a ten foot wide channel by the action of a millennia of waves. This had led to the formation of a natural cove almost completely sheltered from both observation and the sea. To the Hydra’s wonderment, the edges of the harbour in miniature were ringed by wooden decking, allowing easy access to the water from all sides. A long boat was secured to one of the many mooring posts around the perimeter of the cove. They could see no sign of people below, but the call of human voices and sound of movement on the cliff top near their position alerted them to the fact they had betrayed their presence. 

Moxadder reacted quickly, backing into the concealment of nearby shrubs while rapidly darting his eyes back and forth in an attempt to spot the enemy. Without knowing precisely why, Gerard followed suit, though it cost him dear for he tore the arm of his fine tunic on a thorn.

Despite Gerard’s strident warning and the sounds of other people nearby, Mortec felt compelled to approach the sink hole. Sneaking forward he reached the lip and peered cautiously within. His short stature made it difficult to see the bottom but he nevertheless sensed movement down below. A sense of someone approaching from behind distracted him and he turned and to see Stravarius move up beside him. The Black Elf began to laboriously crank his massive crossbow, clearly the demented cat killer was expecting trouble. Following suit, the gnome began to arm his weapon as well. Some way further back, Morgan cursed, then unshouldered his bow and began to hustle towards where he thought his companions were. It was just his luck, he thought, that when action did come he was stuck at the rear of the party.

While his companions hid or tried to spot the noise makers, Argonne pressed keenly towards where he had heard the newcomers. Moving to his right, he skirted the hole while freeing his massive axe from the straps that secured it to his back. 

Suddenly, arrows hissed through some bushes to his left, but sufficiently wide of the mark for him to be confident he had not been the target. Ironically, the attack was a source of relief to him. That these strangers were willing to loose arrows on sight significantly reduced the likelihood they were people going about legitimate business. For the woodsman, the negotiations he carried out with axe or staff came far more naturally than those with words. 

As Argonne probed towards the hidden enemies, Morgan reached Mortec and Stravarius. The whine of arrows passing through the air made the trio duck reflexively, but none were harmed. Guessing they had originated from his left, Morgan gestured for the other two to follow and began to cautiously pick a path around the left side of the hollow. They had not taken more than a dozen paces when Mortec caught sight of their assailants through a gap in the bushes. Carefully, he stepped around an obstacle and then loosed a bolt at one of the figures. He felt the familiar kick against his shoulder, then waited the customary half second as the deadly length of wood closed the distance towards its quarry. He felt a dark joy surge through him as the victim suddenly clapped hands to its ribs and then keeled over motionless. 

Both sides could now see each other, albeit indistinctly amongst the concealing shrubs. The mighty twang of Stravarius’ weapon sang out almost simultaneously with those of the enemy. The Black Elf flinched as the flinders of a shattered bolt danced around his feet, leaving him miraculously unharmed. The Hydra’s reprieve was momentary for the next instant an arrow suddenly manifested high in Morgan’s side. The Fastendian collapsed bonelessly to the ground, too surprised to even make a noise. Mortec, seeing the depth to which the shaft had sunk and the chalk white pallor of the warrior’s face, moved urgently to give assistance.

To the other side of the crevasse, Gerard blustered and ducked his way through thick undergrowth while beginning to question the sense of his action. He had already lost sight of Moxadder and seemed no closer to sighting the enemy. Taking a risk, he stopped moving and stood up straight to get a view unobscured by the wretched growth he was forging through. In a sweeping glance, he saw some bowmen aiming in his direction and ducked back down. Thinking quickly, he cupped his hand over his mouth in a specific way and muttered a quick message intended for Argonne. With a snap of the wrist he hurled the ‘contents’ of his palm in the direction he believed Argonne to be. It had been a simple trick that Zmrat had taught him, but he could see the use of it now. 

Through carefully manoeuvring, the woodsman had brought himself quite close to a pair of aggressors. Each was dressed simply in a plain shirt belted at the waist and dark leggings. They walked barefoot through the sharp rocks without any concern and evinced the rolling gait common to all who spent the majority of their lives at sea. Both were armed with bows, arrows loosely knocked in anticipation of finding a target. 

As he watched, he saw one nudge the other and then draw back and take careful aim. Argonne leapt without hesitation amidst the two archers. Inexplicably, Gerard’s voice whispered “Argonne, where are you?” in his ear, causing him to start in surprise and spoiling the first mighty swing of his axe. He looked about wildly, but saw no sign of his companion. Fortunately the surprise of his attack compelled the men to abandon their bows and ready weapons more suited for close combat. As they warily tried to circle the woodsman, Argonne called out for Gerard to come to his aid, hoping to even the odds against the men he faced.


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## Fiasco (May 24, 2006)

While Stravarius stood guard, Mortec tended to the downed Fastendian. The head of the arrow had passed completely through and it was an easy matter to break it off and withdraw the shaft. Then, calling on the might of his dark mistress, the gnome incanted a short prayer of healing. The harsh intonations of the petition sounded incongruous with their intent. He had spoken correctly, however, and in doing so became a vessel for a tiny spark of his Goddess’ holy essence. Mortec felt the divine power gather in his chest and tried to channel as much of it as he could into his hands. He only managed to maintain contact with the divine for a moment, but it was enough to infuse himself with healing energy. Reaching forward, he grasped hold of the wound and allowed the accumulated potential to wash through it. Severe though the injury had been, Mortec had proved to be a worthy enough channel to heal it almost completely. From above and behind he heard Stravarius speak words that caused even him to blanch. A man screamed in response.

Argonne’s call had given Gerard and Moxadder a direction to work towards. Throwing caution aside, the nobleman surged free of the strangling vegetation and darted into the open towards the outcry. He quickly spotted Argonne’s opponents; two men who pressed the woodsman with cutlass and rapier respectively. Readying his own weapon, Gerard leapt boldly to the attack the man on the left. 

His opening lunge failed to find the warrior’s flesh but distracted him sufficiently to miss Moxadder’s approach from behind. The Irudeshian straightened from his furtive crouch as he manoeuvred into position, killing intent etched deep into harsh features. He darted forward to plunge his dagger deep into his victim’s back but fell instead to his knees, brought down by a root snagged treacherously around his ankle. With surprising dexterity he managed to get back to his feet but by then the opening was lost. 

Gerard was shaking his head in disgust at the cowardly and futile attack when his foe lunged unexpectedly and stuck a good two inches of steel into his thigh. The pain of the blow served as a cruel tonic to his battle field moralising on chivalry in combat. 

A distance away from Gerard and his lesson in ethics, Morgan became aware of sharp rocks digging into his back. With a start, he realised that he must have fallen though he had no recollection of it. Just as he started to remember the blinding agony of the bolt reaving through his side, it dawned on him that the pain was no longer there. He looked up and saw the gnome crouched over him, his hands giving off a strange radiance that faded even as he watched. 

The expression on Mortec’s face was a queer one. Part awe, part gratitude and shades of relief battled against the overlying mask of clinical detachment. The gnome sensed Morgan’s scrutiny and their gazes locked. An uncomfortable moment passed between them. What exactly did a gnome think? The Fastendian wondered. Was there concern there? Had he empathised with his companion’s hurt or was he just acting out of shrewdness, doing what was needed in order to better his own chance of survival? Man and gnome averted their eyes at the same time. Somewhat embarrassed, Morgan retrieved his bow from where it had fallen to the ground. For his part, Mortec seemed relieved to return his attention to the aggressors.

Gerard’s timely intervention had allowed Argonne to focus his efforts on one opponent. Tendons straining in effort, the woodsman arrested the flight of his axe and brought it down on the base of an incoming cutlass. The blade shattered, leaving his surprised adversary with a numbed arm and a shocked expression. Acting from instinct, Argonne leapt forwards and crashed his shoulder into the man’s chest, hurling him backwards towards the edge of the chasm. For a long moment, the warrior teetered on the brink of the crevasse before falling backwards into the void. A long second later a heavy thunk heralded his demise. 

Argonne’s move had exposed his back to the remaining warrior and he would have suffered for it had Gerard not lunged desperately to divert the retributive attack. He succeeded but received a painful nick to his forearm by way of a skilful riposte from the stymied attacker. The move also saved the swordsman from Moxadder's follow up strike, leaving him unharmed but outnumbered. Defiantly, the man caught Gerard’s eye, his intentions clear as he circled to his right, further away from Moxadder. The nobleman gulped nervously. His forearm burned with pain and blood had flowed down to his hand, making his grip uncertain. Gerard lips compressed into a thin line of concentration as he focussed tightly on swordsman’s face, hoping to read the direction of the next thrust. 

Without warning there was a blur of motion, a sickening noise and then his opponent was a bloody heap on the ground. Standing above it was Argonne, eyes ablaze with the thrill of the kill. There was a moment of silence as the three of them surveyed the results of the death blow and then the noise of the conflict on the other side of the chasm reasserted itself. With a bloodthirsty grin, the woodsman began to lope in that direction, eager to continue the fight. With a resigned shrug, Moxadder followed, though with a good deal more circumspection. Considerably slowed by his wounds, Gerard limped to the rear. Realising it would take him too long to reach the fray, he readied his crossbow with the aim of picking off any reinforcements that might appear.

Three enemies were visible to the Hydra on the other side of the crevasse. They were working their way forwards through light cover, loosing missiles as they advanced. Morgan and Mortec’s bows twanged close together, but neither found its mark. 

Stravarius achieved a better outcome. Ignoring his crossbow, he summoned the dark energies wrapped tight around his soul. A guttural word, a violent thrust of a gloved forefinger and a viridian dart leapt into the chest of a heavily bearded attacker. The man cried out in fear and pain but didn’t fall. The Black Elf growled in annoyance. It was becoming easier to draw on his corrupted essence but the effects were not universally deadly. He stepped back behind Morgan and Mortec, the better to give himself time to arm his fearsome bow.

The trio’s foes pursued their own strategy. A grizzled man in his forties hung back and began to crank his crossbow while the other two pressed forwards. The bearded man struck by Stravarius’ sorcery hoped to take the easy option by swinging his axe at the gnome. His target’s reduced stature foiled the attack, however, with the blade passing harmlessly above its head. 

Mortec narrowed his eyes in anger and then beseeched his goddess once more. Morgan, could not decipher his words but felt the menace contained within them. The gnome’s hands grew dark and a spitting line of black energy snaked down his arm and into his open palm. There it curled up into an eldritch ball which emitted a high pitched crackle which contrasted sharply with muted rush of the surf and the laboured breathing of the combatants. Almost casually, the gnome stepped forwards and grasped the man’s out thrust knee. The result was spectacular. 

The blackness jumped from Mortec’s hand to the victims knee, whereupon it elongated and raced up the length of the man’s body before diving deep into his chest. His skin shrivelled as all the vitality and moisture was stripped from his body. He flung his head back in agony, mouth opened in a scream rendered silent by the necromantic assault. With a resigned whisper, the empty shell of humanity collapsed at the gnome’s feet like a sack of dust. 

Morgan, who was battling a tangle haired swordswoman, mastered his shock and struck her in the shoulder with his rapier. More because of the horrid demise of her companion than the pain of her wound, she fled, narrowly avoiding Morgan’s follow up thrust at her unprotected back. The bowman who had hung back loosed a panicked bolt at Mortec that missed wildly, before dropping his weapon and joining his companion in flight. They managed to run some hundred feet before the man was caught high in the neck by a dart sped from the other side of the chasm. The woman managed to run a dozen steps further before Stravarius sprawled her dead to the ground with an oversized bolt sunk deep into her back. 

It took a long moment for Morgan to realise that that pounding he heard was not merely his heart, but the sound of Argonne’s approaching footsteps. Still aghast at what Mortec had done, he glanced vaguely past the woodsman’s shoulder and saw Gerard posed theatrically in the distance, crossbow still braced against his shoulder. He looked back at the gnome and saw he was staring at him, defying him to make comment on the manner of the bearded man’s demise. Knowing that Stravarius would offer him no support, he shrugged resignedly. With deep unease despite the relief of victory, he waited for the others to join them.

The Hydra took several minutes to regroup and search the bodies of their foes. They had killed five in all, and a hasty accounting of each other’s actions suggested that none had escaped to raise an alarm. Not entirely reassured by this, they turned their attention once more to the hidden cove. No movement was apparent, though the ruined body of Argonne’s first opponent leaked blood onto the wooden dock. Nearby, the long boat sat nearly motionless in its sheltered mooring. A closer look showed the familiar red canvas of the Blood Sails furled tight to its mast. Exhilaration gripped the company. Finding the secret lair of the Blood Sails was success far beyond their expectations. Surmising that their opponents had come up from the hideout, they began to search the surrounding area for some means of making the descent.

They spread out and moved towards the far side of the sink hole, their boots crunching through stubborn tangles of salt stained bushes. Mortec, still vitalised with the strength drawn from his desiccated victim, was the first to notice an entrance concealed by a screen of brush. Stravarius moved quickly and threw the obscuring shield aside. A sturdy reinforced door was revealed, set at an acute angle in the rock of the cliff. Impulsively, the Black Elf grabbed at the large latch securing entry. With a vicious snicker, a length of steel swept down at his wrist. Stravarius snatched back his hand just in time to avoid the trap. 

“Watch out for the trap”, said Moxadder snidely, “damn near took your hand off”.

Stravarius merely glared by way of response. Despite the trap being harmlessly sprung, he gingerly worked the latch with his dagger and shouldered the door open. They all crowded forwards, effectively blocking all light into the passage. The Black Elf’s eyes burned through the darkness with ease, however, and he saw steep, narrow steps carved into the damp limestone. The stair led down in a tight spiral, allowing him to see only a little way down. 

The stone in the passage way was moist and the cool dampness of the air was pleasant after his exertions in the sun. Looking behind him, Stravarius saw the determination in the faces of his companions. Without need for words, they began their descent into the heart of the Blood Sails lair.


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## Fiasco (May 24, 2006)

*Chapter 5*​
Stravarius descended the steps with his sword held tensely in front of him, ready to parry any sudden attack. Behind him came Argonne, large axe held one handed near its head while the other hand trailed along the limestone wall. The others followed; Morgan, then Gerard, then Mortec, Moxadder, and finally Kuruul. They moved silently, by and large, but the occasional scuffle or clink of unguarded metal was enough to fray nerves. The darkness herded them close together, those with keen night vision guiding their less perceptive comrades through the winding dark.

After progressing two turns round the stairs Stravarius saw a flickering light which washed colour through the interminable blacks and greys his night vision was limited to. Slowing his pace even further, he edged round the curved wall until he saw the torch burning silently in its sconce. He stopped, then held out an arm behind him, halting Argonne with his palm. Stravarius held his breath and listened. He heard the distant murmur of the sea, the click of Kuruul’s paw as it ticked a step, the scrape of a pack against a wall and the thrum of the blood pounding in his ears. Nothing hinted at the presence of more pirates. 

The Black Elf was not reassured. Sensing the line behind him beginning to compress, he forced himself to keep moving. The Hydra coiled round three more loops of the stairway before they reached the bottom. A four way intersection confronted them, its passageways carved from the soft rock of the cliff. Another torch burned against the wall on their left.

With the stairs at their backs and ten feet short of the intersection, they could see the way ahead led to what looked like a storage room. Several crates were stacked haphazardly within sight and various objects littered the ground. Stravarius walked forward, glancing left and right down the intersection but seeing only unadorned corridors to either side. He waved for the others to join him and stepped into the store room. The only light came from the torch behind them but it was enough to confirm the chamber’s purpose and to reassure themselves they were alone. With Argonne keeping watch, the rest of the Hydra squatted in a rough semi circle and conferred. 

“This definitely looks like the Blood Sail’s lair”, whispered Mortec, gesturing at clutter of supplies about them. The smell of oil, brine and leather settled upon the group. “Should we leave before being discovered and report to the Baron?”

“No. We should explore this place thoroughly”, Gerard opinioned. Stravarius was noncommittal, content with the strenuous work of arming his crossbow.

“I agree”, said Morgan. “We only saw one boat in the harbour, there can’t be many more of them left.” 

Argonne turned his attention away from the doorway and joined the conversation. “Ah think that we hav’na killed enough o’ the bastards yet. Tha knaws what they done in t’Ravenswood”. Indeed, all of them did remember the day they’d walked out of the morning mists and into tragedy. The woodsman’s words were enough to decide them. 

Stravarius led the party out of the room and down the passageway to their right. The way broadened, and the companions walked in loose pairs, weapons readied for any outcome. The corridor wound alternatively left and right until they reached a longer section with the far end continuing past the range of even the Black Elf’s vision. An opening on the left provided subdued light for the nearer section of the passage. Cautiously, they approached the opening, Argonne and Morgan pressing close to Stravarius’ back to get a better look.

Their eyes contracted painfully as they gazed at the outside world. Sunlight dazzled upon the gently rippling waters of the cove. The stone of the passageway abutted the wooden deck that surrounded the water. Squinting, they looked about, hoping to catch sight of any pirates that might inhabit the complex. Almost directly opposite them a narrow channel lead East to the Cursed Sea, the longboat they had seen from above bobbed gently near its entrance. Around the Northern side of the harbour another passage led into the pirates lair while to the West, two such passageways could be seen. There was no sign of anyone, and only the muted lap of water against the boat and the distant crash of waves disturbed the silence. Disliking the exposure of walking around the decking, they turned back the way they came and continued to explore the main corridor to the West.

The way continued for over one hundred paces before light once again alerted them to an approaching opening. The Black Elf breasted the turn to the East and entered a large hall. Immediately, a crossbow bolt flashed at his chest, driving great sparks off his breastplate and knocking him back half a stride. Stravarius saw two openings to the cove on his left and a makeshift barricade cutting South-East across the room. Four heads were visible behind the fortifications and his instinctive response drove a feathered shaft through one of them. The Black Elf shouted his defiance at the three remaining Blood Sails manning the barricade.


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## Fiasco (May 24, 2006)

The noise of crossbow’s discharge and Stravarius’ rage prompted the rest of the Hydra to action. Moxadder left his position next to Gerard at the rear of the party and ran forwards at a crouch, a dagger held low in his left hand. He reached the entrance to the hall and dropped into a crouch. Peering into the room he tried to assess the strength of the pirates’ position. Behind him, Gerard took a different tack. Hearing the noise from ahead, he surmised the rough position of the chamber and decided to approach it from a different flank. Running at full speed, he turned back the way they had come and ran back to cove. His fine boots barely made a noise as he dashed across the decking and into the closer of the two Southern passages. The sudden transition from the bright of the cove to the dark of the room made it hard for him to see much of what was going on. The same could not be said for the defenders, and an arrow ticked the wall just above Gerard’s head.

Argonne had been close behind Stravarius when the attack was launched and he was next into the room. Axe held firmly in hand, he charged the barrier of overturned tables and chairs. The attack provoked the discharge of two crossbows, neither of them effective. The woodsman tried to leap over the barrier but stumbled on an awkwardly placed stool and only just retained his footing. Behind him Mortec reached the entrance and loosed a bolt from his readied crossbow. Despite the difficult angle, it ripped across the cheek and ear of a pirate, causing him to scream in pain.

Morgan had been slow to react to the ambush, but finally stepped into the room. With bow in hand and arrow knocked, he sought a target in the poorly lit hall. His task was complicated by the presence of his companions in front of the barrier. The point of the arrow wove back and forth undecidedly while his forearm began to tremble with the strain. When the shaft was loosed, it passed harmlessly over the heads of everyone, the Fastendian having erred on the side of caution.

Two of the pirates retaliated with their crossbows, but they were so panicked by the close proximity of Argonne and Stravarius that they failed to strike the mark. The third defender had more success. Leaning over the tables, he managed to catch Argonne high in the shoulder with a knife before ducking back below the barricade in time to foil a dagger thrown by Moxadder.

“Over and at them boys!” encouraged Gerard as he ran at the barricade. He was quickly forced to back peddle in order to avoid being decapitated by Argonne’s, exuberant back swing. The massive axe cut inexorably through the air before impacting with both a pirates shoulder and an oaken table. Both suffered grievously, with the man being hurled from his feet and the wood splintering asunder.

Mortec added to the mayhem by loosing another bolt. Although it did not strike true, the missile caused the remaining two defenders to duck for cover and gave Stravarius the opportunity to leap atop the barrier unopposed. Steadying himself with one hand, he wielded his rapier in the other, glaring at his foes from within the depths of his hood. The nearest pirate snapped the string of his crossbow in his haste to arm it. The other, afflicted with a lazy eye, jerked too early on his weapon as he brought it to bear and buried the bolt deep into a table. The third defender slashed wildly at the cloaked assailant but was foiled by the steel breastplate. He collapsed from the effort, more blood to leaking from the shoulder ruined by Argonne’s axe.

From opposite corners of the hall, Morgan and Moxadder tried to pick out a target amidst the chaotic flurry. Frustrated for the moment, they both advanced a little closer to the barricade, hoping to see an opportunity. Gerard’s evasive action had taken him to the far side of the barricade and eschewing a dangerous climb, he began to pull on some of the furniture, trying to tear the edifice down. To his right, Argonne leaned over the hole he had smashed in the defences and brought his axe decisively down on a buccaneers head. The blow crushed the man’s neck and ended his life.

From his position atop the barricade, Stravarius lunged forward suddenly and speared his sword into the man with the lazy eye. The pain of the wound prompted a low moan and moments later, he and his partner clattered their weapons to the ground and begged for quarter.

“Let go your weapons!” Gerard commanded unnecessarily as he finally wrestled aside an impeding table. “And it will go better with you if you tell us of any friends you have lurking nearby, he continued”.

“Don’t kill us!” pleaded the man which Stravarius had wounded. Facing back towards the opening he called to his unseen companions to surrender. The Black Elf was already standing amongst the fallen to be well positioned to relieve the pair of newcomers of their clubs when they fearfully entered the room.

The Hydra acted quickly, pulling the barricade completely asunder and dragging their captives into the centre of the hall. The man who had begged for quarter identified himself as Rumscully Jack. Of the others, the club men were named Gelleck and Kossus, while the pirate with the wrecked shoulder was Bethpry.

Mortec and Argonne produced lengths of rope and it was small work to bind the prisoners into helplessness. Two corridors led from the Southern wall of the hall. With his best dagger in hand, Moxadder moved down the right hand passage. Stravarius explored the left. Morgan scowled distrustfully at the Black Elf’s back but then returned his attention to their prisoners.


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## Fiasco (May 25, 2006)

Moxadder barely made a noise as he scouted the hide-out. His few possessions were tightly secured and his long thin legs stepped lightly across the soft limestone. Torches were secured at intervals along the passageways, providing ample light. He moved up to an opening on his right. A cautious peek suggested it was another store room. Looking ahead, he saw further archways lead off from the left and the right. A little beyond these the corridor stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. The Irudeshian stopped still and listened intently. Not a sound could be heard from the way ahead. Behind him he could hear the firm voices of his companions questioning the captive pirates.

The wide corridor that Stravarius had selected led South for a short distance before turning North. After twenty or so paces his way forward was blocked by iron bars, somewhat rusted but still strong. Peering past this obstruction he could see captives huddled in filthy cells. A smell of waste, despair and decay overwhelmed his nose and dragged bile up to his throat. A single torch provided only feeble illumination but his Dominion cursed heritage allowed his eyes to easily pierce the gloom. 

Beyond the portcullis that guarded entry to the small prison there were four cells. Two to a side, with a narrow passageway between. Each cell was a combination of cold, slimy stone walls and ceiling length iron bars. One cell contained an old man stretched motionlessly on his back with a bent old woman squatting against the cell’s stone wall. The lack of any movement in the man gave a sinister clue to his condition. The adjacent cell held a muscular man in his early forties. Despite obvious signs of rough treatment he appeared quite hale. His powerful forearms rested impotently between two of the bars, clearly defeated by their cold strength. 

On the other side of the prison two young women leant against each other. One wept silently, her shoulders shaking in time with her stifled sobs while the other listlessly tried to console her. Both appeared hard used. The inhabitants of the final cell were more unusual. Although their scales were dulled and besmirched with the muck of their captivity, they were clearly recognisable as Tritons. No doubt kin of those who made their homes in the shallows around Sorcerer’s Isle. The sea creatures were clearly miserable, their great gills flapping desperately in their effort to strain sustenance from the moisture in the air. Deprivation of their natural element had reduced them to a desperate state. Three of the creatures lay in the pen; two elders and a younger, slighter one. Though one of the elders appeared near death, he dribbled a small measure of water from a large bucket onto the neck of the youngster.

Stravarius remained in the gloom of the passageway and observed quietly. So abject were the prisoners in their misery that they had not heard or seen his approach. He reached a gloved hand up to his head and pulled his cowl lower over his face. Despite his sympathy for them he doubted his demonic appearance would give them any comfort. Resignedly he turned his back on them and retraced his steps. Their suffering would have to endure until he could return with the others.

While Moxadder and Stravarius had gone exploring the others had wasted no time in beginning their interrogation. Argonne pushed his homely face into that of Jack’s as he broadly annunciated his questions. The great leader of pirates lacked composure and blabbered desperately to keep the intimidating woodsman appeased. He rapidly confessed to raiding the coasts along the Cursed Sea and also informed them that a large part of the fleet was currently out on a raid, hence their inability to repulse their captors. 

Mortec, who had been closely watching the proceedings grew increasingly suspicious. The man was plainly dressed, with the simple shirt and trousers that almost passed for a uniform amongst the Blood Sails. The only adornment he possessed was a plain silver ring, a thin battered thing that was scarcely worth the metal it was made from. The pirate himself was unprepossessing. His chin was weak and his hair lank and greasy. His eyes appeared small and pinched together due to the fatness of his cheeks. Mortec started to voice his suspicions when he was interrupted by the return of Stravarius. 

“They have prisoners!” The Black Elf announced the moment he entered the hall. “Men, women and even some of those Tritons we met on the journey across. They have all suffered much by the look of them. They are locked in cells, we’ll probably need the keys to get them all out.”

The gnome turned to the man calling himself Rumscully Jack. “If you are who you say you are, you should have the keys to the prison.

“I do!” The man gabbled eagerly, “but not with me. They are in my barracks, I mean chambers, at the end of that corridor”, he said pointing in the direction Moxadder had gone.

“Moxadder!” Shouted the gnome, his voice carrying surprisingly well for such a diminutive fellow. “Search the room at the end of the hall. We are looking for keys to the prison cells”.

Hearing the command, the Irudeshian slouched up to the door. It was made of heavy wood and was closely set into the surrounding stone. An iron ring positioned just above waist height seemed the obvious means of entry. He grasped hold of the handle and gave it a sharp twist. The Irudeshian experienced a brief moment of doomed anticipation as he felt his action release a tremendous amount of energy from a hidden mechanism. The next instant a blade shot out of the door and skewered him a half inch below the sternum. Moxadder hissed in pain and surprise before collapsing backwards to the floor. The feeling of the blade doing him further harm as he slid back off it was a terrible one.


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## Fiasco (May 25, 2006)

Back in the hall the Hydra heard the sharp snick of the blade and the sound of Moxadder’s dagger clattering to the floor. With an inarticulate cry, Mortec charged from the room, fearing the worst for his companion. Stravarius followed close at his heels. Argonne cursed vociferously, but mastered his impulse to join them. Instead, he turned his attention to the cringing pirate. 

“When t’wee chap asked if tha knew owt of any keys, why dinst’a say owt of trap!” the woodsman thundered. His voiced dropped dramatically, “Ah believe tha hast played us false, and tis as well ah have summat to remedy it.” He raised a large, clodhopping boot and kick the terrified man flat on his back. Then with grim deliberation he raised his great axe, making sure to wave it before the horrified faces of the other pirates. The pirate leader’s mouth trembled and he tried to plead for his life but only horrid dry croaks emerged. Quickly, before he could have second thoughts, Argonne brought his blade smashing down. Gerard was to hear that sickening crunch in his mind for days to come. 

Fascinated, despite himself, the nobleman stared at the body amidst the cacophony of pleas, confessions and bargains the other pirates were yammering. Surprisingly, the head was still attached to the shoulders, the man’s long greasy hair had been thick enough to partially withstand the blade’s edge. This fact made him no less dead, however, for the force of the stroke had crushed his neck. The body lay motionless, completely reft of life and with a face disfigured by the wordless terror of the extinguished soul. 

Gerard felt somewhat shocked, he had always taken Argonne for a lout but had not thought him capable of this level of savagery. Looking to his companions, he saw that with the exception of Morgan, all were equally disturbed. The Fastendian warrior merely stood impassively, regarding the surviving captives with cold eyes. He had been witness to far worse on the desperate battlefields of his homeland. 

As Mortec ran to Moxadder's aid, he felt none of the ambivalence of his reaction to Morgan’s injury on the cliff top. The man had acted on his instructions and he could only hope his injury wasn’t fatal. Stravarius overtook him, his armour thumping rhythmically with his strides. 

The Black Elf reached Moxadder and tried to staunch the heavy bleeding with the edge of his cloak. He worked feverishly until Mortec relieved him and called once more upon his Goddess. The flash of heat, reminiscent of a fire’s glow, washed across Stravarius’ face. He watched in fascination as the wound closed over completely and Moxadder’s shallow breathes deepened in the absence of pain. He coughed reflexively and sat up. Seeing the concerned faces staring at him he felt a strange sensation of relief. He tried to smile his thanks but only managed a sickly leer. Fortunately, his saviours knew him well enough to interpret this as one of gratitude. 

Weakly, the tattooed beggar waved them back, uncomfortable with their proximity. He shifted position and whistled in awe at the size of the blade that projected from the door. With trembling hands, he withdrew a stick of devil weed from his pouch and stood, wincing in the anticipation of a pain that did not make itself felt. The torch flame was sufficient to light the weed despite the staccato movement of his hands. He inhaled deeply of its essence, welcoming the familiar rush of the Big Fear. Once the first exhilaration passed, he blinked back to awareness and saw that the other two were on their way back to their companions. “Just a little more of the weed”, Moxadder told himself, then he would join the others and help with whatever needed doing.

After performing the brutal execution, Argonne had been content to merely loom threateningly over the pirates while Gerard took up the questioning. It was a frustrating process. While deeply intimidated, the reavers were largely ignorant of any deeper purpose to their depredations. Apart from admitting the dead man had not been Rumscully Jack they had little to contribute except to avow that the remainder of the fleet was expected back at any time. The interrogation had degenerated into a futile cycle of accusations and denials by the time Mortec and Stravarius returned.

Argonne was about to enquire after Moxadder’s condition when he discerned movement by the nearer opening leading to the cove. He was amazed to see a large man walking past the opening with complete unconcern. This figure immediately struck him as the pirate leader they had been seeking. The massive red beard, prominent scars, fine clothes, arrogant swagger, gaudy jewellery and supple boots; in short, everything about the man spoke of success and daring. The face had calculation and cunning stamped deep into it while sea cold eyes spoke eloquently of black deeds done without a shadow of remorse. This had to be Rumscully Jack. Without hesitation, Argonne raised his axe and charged, screaming a wordless challenge all the way.


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## Fiasco (May 25, 2006)

The ill conceived battle cry warned the pirate sufficiently to duck the woodsman’s tremendous blow and once more cheat a well deserved death. At the outcry, the rest of the Hydra reacted quickly. Mortec deftly slapped a fresh bolt into his crossbow and with a supreme effort, armed it in one smooth motion. He moved towards the north eastern opening, hoping to get a clear sight of the buccaneer. 

Gerard took a similar course of action, taking his crossbow to hand and hoping to outflank the pirate by emerging from the north western exit. Stravarius unsheathed his sword and ran to join Argonne, determined to sink his blade in the despoiler of Ravenswood. Morgan had time to hastily nock and arrow and loose it before the pirate was obscured by his companions. Unfortunately, the shaft flew wide and Jack escaped harm. The pirate assessed the situation at a glance and danced backwards from Argonne. He retreated quickly and the axeman’s follow up swipe fell inches short. 

The move took Jack all the way across the decking and into the waters of the cove. Remarkably, he didn’t sink but appeared to stand directly on the water! He gave a deep belly laugh at the look of amazement on the woodsman’s face then plucked a battered horn from his belt and gave it wind. A sonorous groan echoed back and forth across the constrained waters of the port. The high rocky walls of the sink hole seemed to amplify the noise and to the Hydra’s surprise, the horn raised great billows of fog from the water.

The booming call and shouts of his companions alerted Moxadder to the new danger. His sinewy muscles, wound to a fine tension by the Big Fear, exploded into motion. Legs straining, he ran down the passageway towards the dock. In the hallway, the gnome kept his nerve and loosed a bolt with extraordinary accuracy. Despite the distraction of companions moving in front of him, the partial cover offered by the edge of the opening and the rapidly thickening fog, the shaft scores a shallow furrow in the pirate’s left thigh. 

From his position West of Rumscully Jack, Gerard also raised his loaded weapon and squeezed the release. Unfortunately, the tension within the bow proved too great and the string snapped as it strained to hurl forth the bolt. With a curse, the nobleman threw it to the ground, and seeing that his foe was well out of range of his rapier, ran back towards the barricades where he had seen some discarded spears. As he left he heard Argonne bellow “Ah’ll get thee Rumscully Jack!”. The woodsman had run around the circumference of the dock, in order to secure the long boat from the pirate.

From his position near the North-Eastern opening, Stravarius sheathed his sword and began the strenuous process of arming his great crossbow. Morgan moved up to stand next to him and loosed another arrow from his bow. Unfortunately, the fog was now quite thick and he failed to strike his indistinct target. To his surprise, he felt the muscled form of Kuruul brush against his leg and the next instant everyone heard the creature give a strange howl. The high pitched, plaintive noise reverberated in counterpoint to the deeper tones of Rumscully Jacks magical horn.  

The result was equally wondrous. As quickly as the fog had gathered to the pirate’s call, it receded once more, bathing the cove in brilliant sunshine. The abruptly clear conditions allowed all to see the corsair briefly lose his composure before he snatching another object from his belt.

As Rumscully Jack regarded his enemies from across the shining waters he felt a grudging respect for them. They had managed to counter his fog, and now he was in danger of being brought low by the weight of missiles they would loose at him. Nevertheless, the thought of abandoning his magnificent hideout too easily was galling. The new object in hand was a conch of startling purity and smoothness. 

Taking a deep breath, he raised the narrow point of the shell to his mouth and exhaled mightily into the natural tube. The noise that emerged was surprisingly soft for the effort expended, but reassuringly, he saw the water shiver in response to the mystical call. Satisfied, he returned the conch to his belt and stepped further back into the centre of the cove. The magic of his boots left peculiar footprints in the water that remained for a breathe before merging back into the whole. 

Gasping from his exertion, Moxadder reached the dock. Reaching to his side he cursed at the realisation his prized dagger had been left in the corridor. Fortunately, he had collected other knives in his time with the Hydra, and he drew one of these as a substitute. Trying to concentrate through the persistent effects of the weed, he threw his blade at the pirate. Though his aim was good, it failed to hurt Rumscully Jack. The length of the cast had robbed the dagger of any penetrative force, and the pirate’s jerkin rejected its point. 

For Mortec’s crossbow, the range presented no such difficulties and the absence of fog gave him a clear view of his foe. He caressed the stock of his weapon for luck and then loosed a bolt. Once more he achieved success, drawing a red line across Rumscully Jack’s beefy arm and drawing a snarl of pain.

Back in the dining hall, Gerard, dashed behind the remnants of the barricade and seized a lengthy spear from against the wall. Struggling with the foreign heft of the weapon, he staggered back in the direction of the melee. 

From his position on the opposite side of the dock, Argonne stepped into the longboat and cast off its securing rope. Then, bracing himself, he leaned back over the dock and kicked mightily with his foot, hoping to launch the vessel in Rumscully Jack’s direction. Unfortunately, he underestimated the force it would take and ended up sprawling himself across the deck. The boat barely moved at all, wallowing a few yards in the buccaneer’s direction. As he scrambled desperately to his feet, he looked back at his companions, hoping that they would act to cut the reaver down. He saw Stravarius and Morgan standing side by side, unlikely allies in the desperate battle. 

The Black Elf was feverishly working at his crossbow, the massive tension it demanded severely hampering his speed. Beside him, Morgan retrieved an arrow from his quiver then drew back and loosed in one easy action. The arrow nicked the pirate’s shoulder and Argonne clearly saw the rage suffuse the pirate’s features at this further sting to his pride.

Rumscully Jack regained his composure when he saw the waters of the cove begin to froth with activity. The Hydra watched in fear as fish scaled humanoids thrust themselves up from the water and regarded them with cold, emotionless eyes. The functional harnesses and spiralled spears were a familiar sight. As the tritons moved to attack, Mortec wondered at how such noble creatures could make common cause with such a vicious cutthroat. 

Moxadder perceived the situation quite differently. The proximity of taking Devil Weed and the frantic rush of the battle had quite unhinged his reason. When the tritons had lunged up to confront them he dropped his newly drawn dagger and fumbled desperately for his crossbow. “A Kraken!”, he screamed, fingers shaking as he armed the bow and raised it to his shoulder. Unfortunately, his nerves were too disordered to allow his to aim. The Fastendian contented himself with waving the weapon erratically while trying to pick out a vulnerability within the imaginary beast’s torso. To his compromised senses, each thrashing triton was a tentacled arm, and the pirate captain its hideous head. He thrust a white knuckled hand into his mouth and tried to compose himself before trying to take aim again.

Mortec glared at the panicking Irudeshian and forced himself to concentrate on his task. With an effort that made his muscles burn with exertion, he armed his crossbow, raised it to his shoulders and loosed it once more. He missed, a nimble footed shift in position by the pirate defeating him. Nervously, he edged back a little further into the doorway, hoping to avoid facing the tritons in close combat. In doing so, he was nearly bowled over by Gerard, as the nobleman ran past him with a great spear clutched in both hands. Nearly overbalancing from his burden, the fop’s even strides degenerated into a stutter as he tried to stop before reaching the water. With his forward momentum halted just in time, Gerard aimed his spear at the chest of a fast approaching triton and hoped for the best.


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## Fiasco (May 25, 2006)

The appearance of the tritons caused Argonne to reassess the wisdom of his sea born attack. Instead of bearing down on an unawares pirate he was sailing in the direction of a pair of formidable sea creatures. Abandoning what remained of his dignity, the woodsman ran back along the length of his boat and leaped back onto the dock. The force of his leap dug the stern of the boat downwards momentarily before it sprang back up and lolled another few feet towards Rumscully Jack.

When Stravarius saw the tritons appear his initial fear was replaced with the germ of an idea. Thoughts whirring, he remembered that the tritons had lost their prince and wondered if it was one of the captive sea folk in the prison. Surely, he reasoned, allegiance to the prince might outweigh any compulsion the magic of the horn could command over the attacking tritons? Distracted by his thinking, he negligently took aim and missed badly. Pleased to discard the heavy weapon, he turned and ran back into the hallway and in the direction of the cells. 

“Stay and fight, you coward!” yelled Morgan at the departing Black Elf. In his fury, he bent his bow nearly in half before loosing the shaft at Rumscully Jack. Inspired by his anger, the arrow flew true and pierced the bearded man high in the shoulder. The pirate shook with fury and drawing his sword, he advance a few paces towards the Fastendian before reason stilled his feet. Regaining his poise, he smiled mockingly as his summoned allies threw a flurry of spears at his foes. Perhaps because they were disoriented from their summons, or merely through good fortune, none of the Hydra took serious hurt. 

The pirate cursed anew, frustrated at the ineptness of his troops, but still refused to flee. Though the pain and number of his wounds were mounting, he could not stomach retreat from such a clearly inexperienced group. One had already fled, and another was raving senselessly. Surely his six tritons would easily overcome the other four. Jack’s calculations were interrupted by a bolt that nearly buried itself in his foot.

“Take that you damned Octopus!” screamed Moxadder from deep within the devil weed’s thrall. Somehow the Irudeshian had struck true with his crossbow. The tattooed man capered up and down in a bizarre parody of the fugues performed by Monks of Hutenkama. 

“That’s right! Strike hard and strike true”, shouted Gerard and suiting actions to words, he lunged forwards and rammed his spear deep into the eye of an approaching triton. The creature emitted a watery scream that was terrible to hear. Thrashing about in its agony, the beast almost ripped the spear from Gerard’s hands in the violence of its death throes. Tightening his grip, Gerard swallowed deeply and freed his weapon. Its bloodied tip quavered a little as he pointed it at the next triton.

Keen to take part in his companions success, the Mortec pushed violently down on the arms of his weapon in a bid to arm it before the tritons overran his position. The satisfying click of the arms snapping into place was immediately followed by the unpleasant crack of wood. A part of his crossbow had been broken by his hasty action and tension released from the weapon resonated painfully through his arms. Mortec cast the mangled weapon aside and tried to put some distance between himself and the spear casts of the enemy.

From his vantage near the boat Argonne freed a length of cloth from around his waist, revealing it to be a sling. Placing a stone in the pouch, he thrummed it around his head. The eerie whine built to a pitch as he made his cast. The stone travelled on a flat, dangerous trajectory, but missed the pirate and cracked against a wall. Disappointed, the woodsman fumbled another stone from his pouch.

As the others fought, Stravarius reached the bars of the prison door. Acting with haste, he threw aside a thick bolt and wrenched the door open. The sound of shrieking metal caused the prisoners to cower in fear. Ignoring the humans, Stravarius went straight to the cell containing the tritons, who gurgled fearfully to each other in their strange aquatic language. Their cell was secured by a rusty iron lock. 

Thinking quickly, Stravarius grabbed a metal torch holder from the wall and smashed it repeatedly against the mechanism. Though strong enough to defeat frail prisoners, the lock was heavily corroded and the ancient iron broke asunder from the powerful rain of blows the Black Elf lavished upon it. Without troubling to explain himself, Stravarius shouldered one of the retainers aside and seized the prince. With a grunt he threw the fish man across his shoulders and staggered back in the direction of the Hydra. Struggling under the triton’s weight, he hoped that his gamble would pay off.

At the dock, the companions were under intense pressure as they tried to withstand the triton’s assault. Gerard lunged once more with his spear but failed to strike a triton that swayed sinuously out of the way. He hopped back frantically, barely escaping a disembowelling thrust from the fish man. Rumscully Jack laughed deeply in approval of the carnage. His humour further improved after he sculled the contents of a potion retrieved from a belt pouch. The pain of his wounds faded, and he looked to take a more active part in the fight. Rapier in hand, the pirate leader moved easily across the churning waters of the cove. His sword deftly parried a dagger hurled at him by Mortec and a sudden dodge to his left defeated the stone and bolt sent his way by Argonne and Moxadder.

Lungs and muscles burning with effort, Stravarius approached the entrance to the cove. In the doorway he saw Mortec taking cover while beside him stood Morgan with bent bow in hand. The Fastendian loosed his arrow and watched it slice across the pirates side. Rumscully Jack’s response was almost too quick to see. Still loath to close within range of too many foes, he reached down into his boot and hurled a knife at Morgan’s chest. The throw was a powerful one, though it struck a little lower than intended. The warrior gave a ‘woof’ of pain and surprise at the dagger in his guts and sank weakly to his knees. With the single mindedness that was a characteristic of his people, he groped for another arrow from his quiver. The pirate’s satisfaction was short lived, for the next instance, a bolt cut into the meat of his left arm. Spinning to the right he saw the gangling crazed one give a distorted grin of triumph. 

Deprived of his principal weapon, Mortec reached to his belt but was dismayed to find he had no more daggers. Unable to press his attack, he turned to Morgan. Readying a small prayer, he yanked the dagger from the man’s gut in a burst of dark blood. He quickly placed his finger on the injury and released the trickle of power he had drawn. Though the wound didn’t close, it ceased bleeding and gave the Fastendian some relief.

Gerard was the first to hear Stravarius’ heavy foot steps as he returned to the fray. Distracted by the Black Elf’s burden, he nearly missed a parry against the thrust of a spiral pointed spear. Wincing at his close escape, he prayed to Laster that Stravarius knew what he was doing.

“You’d better be worth it” Stravarius muttered as he staggered across the last few yards to the dock’s edge and heaved the enfeebled triton into the water. A stone whined past his head, another ill directed cast from Argonne. Breathing raggedly, the Black Elf was beyond caring. Collapsed to his knees he watched his triton sink beneath the surface.


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## Fiasco (May 26, 2006)

As the sea caressed the triton’s body, its dull clammy scales began to shine with colour. Responding as if to a miraculous tonic, the body took on vigour and even the eyes achieved a sparkling semblance of life. The prince kicked back in ecstasy, savouring the rush of good clean water flowing through his hungered gills. 

For a few precious seconds the fish man lost himself in communion with his element before he mastered himself and kicked powerfully back up to the surface. Slapping the flat of his webbed hand against the water, he instantly drew the attention of his kin. Gurgling words of strange potency, he raised a clenched fist high into the air and then plunged it dramatically into the water. As one, the other tritons shook themselves as if emerging from an unpleasant dream. Immediately, they turned from the Hydra and began to menace their former master. The prince, overcome by his effort, lapsed back into the waters, immersing himself again in the healing fluid. 

Rumscully Jack was caught completely off guard by the turn around, giving the tritons time to encircle him in a ring of scales and spears. It took the sting of another arrow from Morgan to stir him to action. He feinted a move to his left which drew several false thrusts from the tritons. This gave him all the opening he needed and he charged at the surprised fish folk. Just as it looked like he must run into their upraised spears he launched himself skyward, the power of his leap making a great depression in the water. Spears flashed in crisscross fashion amidst the sparkling waters, but nimble Jack proved too quick. A clear path to the open sea lay before him and he ran towards it unhindered until a bolt from Moxadder sunk deep into the back of his thigh.

Gerard ran around the edge of the dock, hoping to cut off Jack’s escape. Despite a powerful burst of acceleration, it seemed doubtful he would make it in time. Mortec also acted in desperation, hurling the bloodied dagger he’d removed from Morgan. The distance was long, however and the blade merely skimmed into the sea. It fell to Argonne to act. As the pirate hobbled past him, he launched himself from the dock and tried to haul the pirate captain down. Despite his many wounds, Rumscully Jack managed to duck the tackle, causing the woodsman to belly flop into the water. Feeling himself going under, Argonne grabbed hold of his enemies legs to save himself from drowning.

Watching the woodsman’s failed attack, Stravarius cursed in frustration. He was too spent and too far away to be of any assistance. Beside him, Morgan gave a grunt of pain as he drew back and released an arrow. It was a fine effort, piercing the reaver once more in the arm. Almost as if scenting blood, the pursuing tritons fell upon the distracted pirate. Jack was nimble, but he was pierced to the quick. At least three spears found their mark, yet still the man struggled onwards. Powered by a fury that threatened to overcome any obstacle, he heaved himself from amidst the mass of fish folk. With a savage kick, he also broke Argonne’s hold and leapt free once more. Thighs pumping powerfully, he strained the enchantment of his boots to their limit as he sought traction from the water. 

Desperately, the tritons struck at his back but despite receiving another wound the irrepressible pirate struggled onwards. To the watching Hydra, it seemed that Rumscully Jack would make good his escape when Gerard charged into the equation. The nobleman had anticipated well and his run had brought him close to his target. Seeing his chance, he leaped hard and high over the water, his spear clutched overhead with both hands. Falling from the sky like a mythical avenger he plunged his spear deep into the reaver’s back. This final blow proved too much, bringing the burly pirate down, though his enchanted boots kept his legs bizarrely afloat. Gerard’s own momentum terminated with a shock of salt water to the face. It did nothing to quell his fierce satisfaction at having brought their quarry down.

At the fall of Rumscully Jack, the tritons ceased their martial posturing and swam back to their prince. Thrashing mightily, Argonne managed to reach the edge of the dock, as did Gerard. The pair turned their attention to their vanquished foe who had also floated within reach. With difficulty, the two dragged the inert body up onto the deck. To their surprise, the pirate still held his rapier clutched tight in his right first. When Gerard tried to pry it from his grasp, he noticed the man was still breathing. Shaking his head in amazement at the buccaneers resilience, he called for rope with which to bind the pirate. The triton prince overheard his words and swam over to them with three easy strokes despite his weakened condition. With his guard pressed close about him, he spoke.

“I thank you most deeply for my rescue. I had truly despaired of seeing these rich waters again. If the man lives, I ask that you give him over to me so that he might face the wrath of my people.”

“Nay good denizen of the sea”, Gerard refused as politely as he could. “Though I am most pleased to have been of service to you, I fear that I cannot accede to your request. This man has pillaged the coast of Guerney and caused much harm. He must be questioned hard on his deeds and motivations, and after that he shall receive even harder justice”. He looked steadily at the prince and was about to speak further when the body of the triton he had killed floated between them. The limp body had been robbed of all the grace it had possessed in life, and the sightless eyes of the fish man stared upwards between the pair, as if in accusation. Gerard swallowed hard and hoped he didn’t betray his sudden discomfort.

The prince seemed to ponder deeply, then spoke, “Very well. The debt I owe you compels me to obey your wishes. But know this. If we ever see him alive we will bend all our vengeance against him. Of more immediate concern are my companions. I ask that you bring them from their cells ere they die of deprivation.” 

Argonne and Morgan immediately leapt to do the princes bidding. Satisfied, the prince continued. “I also require you to return those items that the beast stole from me. The prince moved forwards and took a bright (and in Gerard’s opinion quite gaudy) necklace from the neck of Rumscully Jack. Searching the pirates belt, he also took an unusual wavy bladed dagger and the conch shell. The last, he pressed into Gerard’s hand. 

“This horn holds puissance throughout the Cursed Sea. If you give it wind, it will summon the aid of the tritons. I give this item freely to you, but I caution you to use it wisely.” As the prince concluded his speech, his two companions in misery were carried into view by Morgan and Stravarius. The two captives were helped into the water, where once again, the soothing water seemed to repair much harm. The prince of the tritons looked once again at the Hydra. 

“My name is Prince Ssilonquain. Before I leave, I would like to learn the names of my benefactors, that I might speak of your deeds to my people.”

One by one, the companions gave their names, and the noble creature nodded its head at each announcement. At the conclusion he spoke again. “Very well then, my thanks and farewell. I am pleased that the people of the dry lands are not all as despicable as the ones who held me captive”. With that, the tritons sank beneath the water and swam powerfully down the channel leading to the sea. With a flash of silver scale and a swirl of green hair they were gone.


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## Fiasco (May 30, 2006)

Those injured in the fight saw to their wounds while the others returned to the dining hall. To their dismay, one of the prisoners was missing. Gelleck, it seemed, had freed himself of his bonds, though both Bethpry and Khossus remained. The comatose body of Rumscully Jack was dragged in to join them, then stripped of possessions and bound tight. 

The escape of the prisoner left the Hydra nervous. They all felt as though they had ridden their luck to the limit. By some miracle they had wandered into the heart the pirates’ lair and prevailed, capturing their leader to boot. They felt an acute superstition, almost a premonition that the slightest carelessness or oversight would bring the entire edifice of their fortune down upon them. The knowledge that the rest of the pirate fleet was due back at any time was no small part of their trepidation. 

While Mortec and Stravarius guarded the prisoners, Moxadder and Argonne searched the rest of the lair. Gerard and Morgan went to the aid of the remaining prisoners. Amongst Rumscully Jack’s possessions they had found a ring of keys and they were confident they could effect the captives release.

To the searchers, the rest of the lair yielded little of interest, consisting largely of barracks, guest rooms and a kitchen. Rumscully Jack’s room proved to be the exception. Even here, Argonne and Moxadder’s initial search found little of value. Frustrated, the Irudeshian began to pay closer attention to the walls. Squinting, he shuffled back and forth across the room, measuring distances in his mind. Eventually, he gave a snort and marched directly to the centre of the South Western wall. He probed a slender crack with a dagger and managed to swing clear an entire section of the wall. 

Beyond lay the stuff to bring excitement to the heart of any seeker of fortune. A small square room was revealed that contained two large chests pushed against its back wall. Barely controlling his excitement, Moxadder forced himself to examine them carefully for traps. The livid scar on his chest was a potent reminder of the price for incaution. After careful scrutiny, he pronounced them safe to move and they set about dragging their find back to the central room.

Back in the main hall, Stravarius paced agitatedly before the captive pirates while Mortec squatted in front of Kuruul. “What did you do to make the fog disappear?” The gnome asked. The hound merely yawned, sending a waft of foul breath across the priest’s face. “Hrrmp, be that way, you recalcitrant beast” muttered the gnome. Frustrated in his enquiry, he turned his attention to Rumscully Jack’s items. 

The tarnished, silver chased horn was definitely enchanted; they had already witnessed its properties. The pirate’s rapier was also of interest. Muttering a quick prayer, he confirmed that enchantments had been laid across the blade. Mortec rubbed his hands together. Not only had their mission proved successful, it would most likely be materially rewarding as well. Assuming they escaped, he reminded himself with a nervous glance at the cove.

At the cells, the prisoners had been rapturous at the arrival of Gerard and Morgan. Smiling a little condescendingly, Gerard worked at the locks with Rumscully Jack’s keys and managed to spring them open. Holding a scented kerchief to his face, he commanded the residents to identify themselves. 

The captives began to clamour at once, detailing their suffering at the hands of the pirates at the top of their voices. Through sheer force of personality, Gerard was able to calm them down and impose some semblance of order. Questioning rapidly established they had all been taken from Ravenswood. The middle aged man was Olvan the boatwright, while the two young women were Leesha and Nadine.  The old woman was Wilima, who had been sharing a cell with an old man. He had died the previous night. None of them knew him and he had seemed addled.

Looking at the abject condition of the villagers, Gerard decided that further questioning would be fruitless until they were properly fed and rested. With Morgan’s help he began to herd them towards the main hall. As they went he explained that they had killed all of the pirates they could find, but that they would have to leave quickly before more came. 

On their return they saw that the others were all anxious to depart. Mortec had conceived of the idea to take the longboat and load it up with whatever they wished to take. Working quickly, the Hydra raided the pirate’s stores and took as much drink and food stuffs as they could stow. Loading these and the two chests taken from the secret room, they next turned to carrying their three prisoners aboard. Finally, the villagers and the Hydra boarded the boat. Even with over a dozen passengers, the craft easily accommodated them all. With Argonne in charge, they gently pushed the craft along the narrow channel and out into the open sea. 

Their emergence into the clean air and gentle waves of the ocean was akin to being reborn. Once they saw the horizon was free of vengeful pirate fleets they let go of their accumulated stress and fear. They had fought and won three battles in one day. Though all of them had suffered wounds, their relief at having survived helped to the dull the pain better than any tonic could have. 

Despite the general euphoria of the Hydra, Argonne kept his head. Instead of drifting aimlessly in the water, he set them to rowing the boat along the coast away from the Port of Warlock. He was determined to find somewhere secluded to land so that they could question prisoners and examine the loot in peace.

They rowed for an hour, more than enough time for the rowers to lose their exhilaration and feel the ache of every one of their cuts and bruises with each stroke of the oar. Finally, the Woodsman saw something that pleased his eyes and fifteen minutes later they had taken the boat into a sheltered cove. They dropped anchor and began ferrying supplies and prisoners to shore. 

The villagers of Ravenswood were exhausted and barely had the strength to eat a simple meal before falling asleep. The Hydra light heartedly began making camp, exchanging jokes and banter as they relived their triumph. Eventually they ran out of words and merely grinned whenever they caught each others eye. They had bearded Rumscully Jack in his den and lived to tell the tale. Whatever the troubles of the morrow, this was a day to savour.

*****​


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (May 30, 2006)

Good to see you back up to date, Fiasco.


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## Fiasco (Jun 6, 2006)

*Chapter 6*​
Morgan leant back against a boulder and surveyed the campsite. Beside him a fire crackled soothingly, the white driftwood burning blue and smokeless in the late afternoon. The aroma from the stew pot made his mouth water but he stifled his appetite.  The rapidity with which the villagers were consuming their food indicated they would soon be after second helpings, and then most probably a third. The Fastendian didn’t begrudge them. A little personal discomfort was nothing when weighed against what the others had suffered. 

Nearby, Moxadder stood concealed in the shadows of the cliffs which formed the backdrop to the tiny cove. He had also disregarded the meal, choosing instead to draw on his Devil Weed while keeping a close watch upon the heavily trussed figure of Rumscully Jack. 

Morgan shared his concern, indeed a bow lay close to hand, an arrow already knocked against the string. The people of the Fastness knew well that an enemy was never to be trusted, even one that appeared helpless. Kuruul grunted as he scratched a flea in his sleep, then wedged his powerful rump more firmly against Morgan’s legs. At times like this it was hard to believe that the beast was anything other than a warhound.

Concealed higher up amongst the rocks, Stravarius surveyed his companions from beneath his voluminous hood. Though best suited for night vision, his eyes were sufficient for him to keep vigil for approach from the sea. Below him in their sheltered cove, Argonne fussed about Plunderer, their captured ship. It had been dragged ashore behind an outcropping of rocks. The woodsman made sure that it was invisible to ships on the sea and safe from the vagrancies of the tides.  

Gerard and Mortec shared the meal with the villagers. The gnome, so grim and fell in battle was of a completely different temperament in social settings. With skill and patience he worked with Gerard in teasing out the finest details of the pirate attacks from their charges as they ate their fill. By the time evening fell and the exhausted prisoners fell into a deep slumber, the pair felt confident they had learned all there was on the subject. Morgan stood and looked pointedly at their captive. The time had come for Rumscully Jack to answer to the Hydra.

They dragged him away from the camp, the waxing moon throwing gleams off their exposed metal. The pirate lord remained still, whether from his wounds, fear or exhaustion, the companions could not tell. Stravarius propped him upright against a boulder and with an uncovered face, scrutinised him with his burning gaze. The Rumscully Jack’s eyes widened a little but showed no other reaction. Satisfied the prisoner was still secured, the Black Elf removed the gag and stepped back into the half circle of his companions. Alone, injured and in deadly peril for his life, still the pirate gave a rasping chuckle as he surveyed his captors one by one. 

“Well lads”, he said, “You’ve managed to capture the great Rumscully Jack. I dare say you’ve gotten more than you bargained for. Why, you look more scared than I do! Tell me, what are your plans for old Jack?”

“We shall execute you”, said Gerard shortly, determined to quash the pirate’s insolence. Another chuckle rumbled forth from that barrel chest.

“I think not. You’d have already cut my throat if that was your game. No, you need me or you fear me. Whichever it is, tread carefully. Whenever I give a little, I take a lot in return.”

“We could torture you”, Mortec chimed in. The expression on his face was not kind.

“Aye you could. Some of you might even have the stomach for it”, he said, eyeing Stravarius and Moxadder. But it’s a nasty, dirty business and I don’t break easy. It will take time, and that you don’t have. Leastways so I judge”. 

An uncomfortable silence fell over the Hydra. Rumscully Jack’s words rang disconcertingly true.  They may have bested him, but the bulk of his fleet might already be scouring the coastline for him. At least one pirate had made his escape and could easily have reached the Port of Warlock by now. The chill of the night, a murderer’s moon in the air, served to heighten the threats articulated by the pirate. Waves crashed against the shore, uncaring of the party’s dilemma.

“I’m sure you want to live”, said Gerard, changing tack. “But we need a reason for sparing you. Tell us why you have been ravaging the coast of Guerney. Tell us the purpose of your raids and at whose behest you made them”. 

Rumscully Jack shifted his position a little, wincing at the pain this caused. “Aye, I can guess what you want. Unfortunately, It’s more than my life is worth to tell you.”

“Are you sure? It’s your life that is forfeit if you don’t tell us.”

“I wish I could, I surely do. But there are things my employers would do to me that are far worse than death. And they would know what I have said”, his gaze strayed towards Stravarius. “They always find out in the end”.

“You’d better worry about what we’ll do first”, Morgan snorted in annoyance. “What then do you offer in return for your life, you murdering thief!” 

Rumscully Jack exhaled heavily. For a second his bluster disappeared, revealing a heavily wounded man tired almost beyond endurance. Mortec saw even deeper; a life spent chasing after easy gains, a constant battle against the elements in order to wrest something precious from others. By the lines in his face it was evident he had plied his trade a long time. Unrepentant though he was, the ultimate emptiness of his life was just beginning to dawn on him. There would never be a final haul that would allow him to retire and enjoy his wealth. Danger, hardship, and then death by the sea or sword were all that awaited him. A wasted life, as human lives so often were. They set their sights so low. Nevertheless, this man had accepted his fate. Face hardening, the pirate responded to Morgan’s words.

“I offer you my wealth on this island, what little information I can give, safety from your enemies and the friendship of all the pirates of the cursed sea. Do not discount the last!” He said, forestalling another interruption from Morgan. “We have a code of sorts and my word carries weight on these waters.”

“You offer little that we don’t already have”, sneered Gerard. “Your treasure is already ours, I’d wager and your friendship we can do without if we must”, he added sarcastically. “I wonder that you didn’t offer us our lives as well!”

“I am offering you your lives you damn fools!” Jack roared despite his wounds. “If you are lucky, LUCKY! My absence has not yet been noted and if I return, I can pass of the entire thing as a failed raid. Delay much longer and my employers will know something’s afoot. Once their suspicions are roused, they won’t relent until they have everyone put to question. You won’t last a day. Look at you, a bunch of no-nothing fools who haven’t even the wit to appreciate the luck you’ve had so far!”

The Hydra were momentarily taken aback by the pirate’s outburst. Moxadder broke the silence. “He’s right”, then facing Rumscully Jack, “We’ll take what you offer, but screw us around and I’ll cut your throat”. For a brief second, the stooped figure of the Irudeshian was transformed. Rearing up to his full height he towered over the bound form their captive, seemingly fully capable of carrying out his threat. The image only held for a second, then a rasping cough shook his frame and the alley denizen slunk back to his patch of shadow. 

“Very well then, Rumscully, we will accept your bargain”, said Mortec with a sidelong glance at Moxadder. “But you must also swear not to pursue vengeance against us”.

“Nor to plunder the coast of Guerney”, Gerard added. “Now tell us what you can”.

“I’ll have yer oath’s first”, responded the reaver. “I’m to be released unharmed before the break of day”.

“By Laster, I so swear”, said Gerard, accepting the decision of gnome and Irudeshian. “If you fulfil your side of the undertaking, you shall be released free and unharmed ere the dawn light strikes Sorcerer’s Isle. The others also swore, each in their own fashion, binding themselves to the bargain lest the wrath of Gods and Fate strike them down.

Then the pirate also swore an oath, pledging the friendship of the pirates of the cursed sea. True to his word, he revealed the location of the secret treasure chamber in the Blood Sail’s lair. He also identified the virtue of several items taken from his person. The ring that allowed him to walk on water and the great horn that summoned great billows of fog when winded. He named his blade Eldritch Light, and said that its virtue was to prevent the wielder from bleeding to death from his wounds.

Morgan began to berate Rumscully Jack trying to extract a promise to change his ways, then stopped, frustrated. The pirate leader was steeped in evil, and no words from the Fastendian would change this wolf who fed upon the lambs of humanity. He clamped his mouth shut in frustration. He’s companions appeared oddly pleased with themselves, glad to be rid of Jack in exchange for an undertaking not to raid the coasts of Guerney. The short sighted fools! As ever, they appeared incapable of seeing the wider picture. In return for vague and most likely useless information, they had loosed a dread pirate upon the shores of the Fastness. He was tired of the compromises that could allow a killer of men to walk free in return for the merest scrap of what he knew. Not for the first time since arriving on the island he yearned to walk the walls of Avinal once more. 

Once freed of his bonds the pirate captain began to limp painfully towards the track along the cliff top. He looked over his shoulder at the companions and imparted his final words.

“If might be worth your while to take the Eastern path back to Port of the Warlock” he said with a gleam of mischief in his eye. The path he indicated was the narrow, trail they had followed from the house of Grisha, the dwarven spell worker.

The following morning they rose at dawn. The first order of business was to send the freed slaves back to Yorathton aboard the Plunderer, the vessel they had taken from the pirate lair. Though still weak from their ordeal, Olvan had been confident that he and the others could sail back to Guerney, especially with the favourable winds blowing from the Island. For the Hydra it was a relief to send them on their way and be free of their responsibility to them. 

In the light of day they decided to examine the chests taken from the pirates lair. The contents had proven most satisfactory. In addition to hundreds of silver coins, several items of magic had also been found. Argonne and Stravarius had each claimed a magic ring of unknown power. Throwing caution to the wind, both had immediately tried them to, with no apparent effect. The Black Elf also took possession of Rumscully Jack’s horn of fog. A metal spear named Irongut was claimed by Morgan, along with a dozen enchanted silver arrows and a high quality chain shirt. Moxadder chose the horn given them by the triton prince. The gnome gained possession of a ring or water walking, two magic scrolls bearing divine magic and a non magical but well made crossbow. Several unidentified magic potions were distribute amongst them as well. The coin had been evenly distributed and those goods too heavy to carry had been placed back in the chests and concealed in the cove.

*****​


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Jun 6, 2006)

Bit surprised they didn't just string him up when he refused to talk! Still, let's hope our heroes don't regret this too much ...


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## Fiasco (Jun 8, 2006)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Bit surprised they didn't just string him up when he refused to talk! Still, let's hope our heroes don't regret this too much ...




Fair comment. I have actually ammended the previous post as it neglected to mention a key piece of information that the pirate also related in exchange for his life.

In further justification of our actions you have to bear in mind several things with this party:

a) They were piss weak. Many characters had very low stats and hp. We knew we had gotten lucky and that there was a big fleet of pirates out there. By having Rumscully Jack owing us a favour, we hoped to avoid any further confrontations with them.

b) The mission was to gather information. At this point we still had no idea why the Baron's castle was raided. Rumscully Jack was the only lead we had and we had to convince him that it was worth his while to help us as best he could.

c) Rumscully Jack was very convincing when talking about the power of his masters. He proposed that if we let him go, he would return to his lair and pass off our attack as a raid that was beaten off with nothing of importance gained, thus hopefully keeping us safe from reprisals. If we killed him, they would be alerted and our job that much harder. It was touch and go, but reason prevailed and we let him go, with oaths sworn to enforce the agreement all round.*

* Although our DM didn't give us details, out character backgrounds told us that oaths sworn by the names of the gods were binding.  You could break them, but faced divine wrath if doing so. We believed it and much later in the campaign we witnessed the consequences of breaking such an oath.


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Jun 8, 2006)

Fiasco said:
			
		

> In further justification of our actions you have to bear in mind several things with this party:




Just to be clear, I wasn't intending to crticiise your choice in any way, Fiasco. Just that the majority of groups I've seen tend to be of the "kill first, and do deals later" variety!


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## Fiasco (Jun 21, 2006)

Moxadder lay helpless on the ground and waited to die. He was sprawled on his back, staring up at the overcast sky. It provided no clues as to his fate. There was little sensation in his body save for the thrum of his pulse along his temple where the bolt had struck. He wanted to examine the wound but was his limbs lay boneless, useless on the uneven ground. Above the light buzzing plaguing his ears he heard the sound of battle coming from Grisha’s hut.  Straining his eyes to the left he could just make out Mortec’s body where it lay on the ground. He too had been hit by a crossbow bolt, the shaft sticking high in his chest looked particularly grim when contrasted with the gnomes diminutive stature.

A loud crash rattled from the far side of the hut, as though someone had been hurled through a wall. Moxadder could also make out screams of pain. They sounded like they belonged to Morgan. While listening closely to what very much seemed like the demise of his companions, the Irudeshian was surprised to realise that he didn’t want to die.  The irony of experiencing such a radical change to his disposition while bleeding to death was not lost on him. 

A particularly strong craving for devil weed began to torment him. The noises from the house gained in intensity, though the number of participants seemed to be decreasing. A metallic shriek cut through the air, followed by the ping of fragments bouncing off many surfaces. The combat noises paused for a second, then a deep roar (certainly not from one of his companions) presaged the resumption of the melee. 

Concentrating fiercely, Moxadder tried to move his limbs. He only succeeded in increasing the throb in his temple. A half articulated groan escaped from his throat. Almost as if in response, he saw Mortec’s body twitch, then the gnome sat up with difficulty. 

Ignoring the arrow lodged in his body, Mortec climbed clumsily to his feet and staggered towards the front door of the hut. The exertion proved too much and he fell to his knees half way. Cursing, he ripped the shaft clear of his body and tried to ignore the pain as he called for succour from his goddess. A sequence of tumultuous noises from within the hut culminated in Morgan’s limp body being hurled into the yard. Despite this distraction, Mortec completed his prayer and with renewed energy, stepped past his fallen comrade and into the house. 

He saw a giant dwarf, if there could be such a contradiction, facing off against his three companions. As Mortec got his bearings Gerard make a lunging thrust that slid along the dwarf’s ribs. The retaliatory strike from Grisha’s staff tumbled the light weight nobleman to the ground. He failed to stir. Stravarius and Argonne seemed in poor condition to take up the fray. The Black Elf’s blade had snapped halfway down its length and Argonne was staring stupidly at the wooden haft of his axe. Of the head there was no sign.

Mortec straightened himself to his full if insignificant height. He knew what must be done. Reaching deep within himself, he called on the ultimate power bestowed on him by his dark mistress. Eldritch energies, wreathed his hands and a feeling of unstoppable destiny girded his soul as he advance on his towering foe. The corrupt wizard didn’t notice his approach until it was too late. With the inevitability of time behind them, Mortec’s tiny hands grasped the flesh of his foe and allowed the accumulated entropic force to ravage through living flesh. Grisha screamed the cry of a soul condemned to eternal damnation as unseen fire consumed his flesh and reduced it to a withered husk. 

Mortec threw his head back in exultation then looked upon his companions, eyes ablaze with divine fire. Beside him, the giant body contracted abruptly and returned to normal dwarven proportions. Argonne said not a word. Stravarius felt a moment of strong kinship with the gnome.

They turned to their fallen companions. Gerard had sustained heavy wounds, but remarkably his condition was stable. Eldritch Light, clutched tightly in his right hand, had prevented him from slipping into deaths embrace. Morgan’s wounds were not quite as extensive, and a minor application of Mortec’s power saw the young warrior regain consciousness. Moxadder’s paralysis lapsed of its own volition once the toxin in his body lost its potency. A quick bandaging of his temple was sufficient for him to lend assistance in the ransack of the abode.

Gerard’s body was carefully placed out of the way. Nothing more could be done for him until Mortec had a chance to renew his powers. With the Irudeshian leading the search, the Hydra began sorting through the untidy contents of the shack. Stravarius stood in the shadows of the doorway, keeping a lookout for any visitors who might approach Grisha’s home. 

The Hydra worked efficiently, sifting through the piles of objects and sorting the valuables from the rest. Apart from several items of Grisha’s that were identified as magical, there was little else of interest save for a handful of silver and copper coins. Nothing suggested any complicity on the dwarf’s behalf with the Dominion, which was frustrating as its was Rumscully Jack’s cryptic hints that had prompted them to revisit the dwarf’s abode. Convinced they had missed something, they subjected the walls and floor of the house to loser scrutiny. 

Moxadder eventually found what they sought, a strong box concealed in the floor in an unregarded nook of the dwelling. The Irudeshian carefully examined the chest and deemed it safe to open. A key had been found on Grisha’s body and sure enough it fitted the lock. The contents lived up to their expectations. Two large books were secured within, as well as two scrolls, a healing potion, hundreds of sliver coins and a handful of gold ones. 

The silver coins were ancient and black with corrosion, their stamp still carrying the marks of Gerech’s Convocation. Such coin was now only found in the hands the Dominion, who had inherited the huge treasure houses of the vanquished empire. A detect magic spell cast by Mortec revealed that a gold medallion, a head scarf worn by Grisha, his staff and both books bore enchantments. The potion was used to restore Gerard to consciousness.


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## Fiasco (Oct 24, 2006)

Hi there. 

Its been a while since I've posted an update but hopefully I will be able to resume soon. In the mean time, another player in the campaign has started a SH which chronicles the story from his characters perspective. You can find this new SH here .


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## Shadow at the Edge (Oct 25, 2006)

Moxadder took a bolt from the Dwarf in the house? 

The Hydra moved quickly from the bay to the house then?


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Oct 25, 2006)

Fiasco said:
			
		

> Hi there.
> 
> Its been a while since I've posted an update but hopefully I will be able to resume soon.




Welcome news!


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## Shadow at the Edge (Nov 16, 2006)

Well????

Please sir, can I have some more?

'Else I may have to resort to reading on of 'dem real books, you know, on paper and stuff.


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## Fiasco (Jan 11, 2007)

**Author's Note**

The previous two SH posts have been slightly re-written to make a little more sense.

**End Note**



As the sun passed from overhead and began making its long descent into the West, the companions conferred on their next course of action. With their successful raid against the Blood Sails and the slaying of Grisha, they had achieved all they were likely to on Sorcerer’s Isle. It was now a matter of finding the best way of returning safely to Yorathton. 

Knowing Grisha to have been a recluse who discouraged visitors, the Hydra decided that they had at least a day before having to worry about the wizard’s death being discovered. Rich with coin, they were eager to take advantage of the exotic attractions of the town’s numerous spell workers. Despite their painful injuries, the companions made the return to the Port of the Warlock with a light step. After securing lodgings at the Hat and Staff they quickly went about their affairs, determined to squeeze as much as they could out of what would hopefully be their last day on Sorcerer’s Isle.

Morgan and Argonne’s random perambulations found them drawn down an ally so tiny they had only discovered it because Argonne had accidentally stumbled inside. A dim shop that lurked unobtrusively at the back of the alley, with a glance at each other they pushed forward. The entrance consisted of a crude bead curtain, embellished with numerous finger bones. They clattered unpleasantly as Morgan eased them aside and cautiously entered.

The interior smelt strangely, a melange of old clothes, dust, cabbage soup and an unidentifiable acrid odour that stung the back of the throat; all partially concealed by the heavy of spice of several slow burning scented candles. A large clump of clothes moved suddenly, revealing itself to be an old woman. With a pained grunt she shuffled towards the companions, craning her neck upwards to compensate for the sharp curvature of her spine.

“Customers, customers”, she cackled before coughing wetly on the back of one liver spotted hand. “Welcome to Grelda’s little shop of naughty delights, my sweet cakes.” She swung oddly back and forth between the two men as she continued, ”So then, what will you strapping young drakes be looking for? Be it a love potion or a lust potion, a purgative, an aphrodisiac or a restorative? Maybe its something more serious that you are after? Don’t be shy, I heard it all before, no rash too nasty... How about a nice, saucy nymph in a bottle?”. 

Throughout this overwhelming barrage, Argonne and Morgan had found themselves backing away towards the door. They were about to turn and take the final step to safety when to their horror they realised the crone had deftly manoeuvred herself to block their exit. Shoulder’s slumped in resignation, they began to examine the disquieting wares on display while Grelda’s unpleasant, insinuating prattle assaulted their ears. “Don’t be shy…”

Moxadder’s fevered imagination burned as brightly as the tip of the devil weed he was drawing on. In one trembling hand he clutched the mighty conch gifted the Hydra by the prince of the tritons. On his hip he felt the satisfactory weight of a pouch full of sliver coins. One final drag diminished the weed to a few glowing embers that burned the tips of his fingers before he flicked them carelessly away. Setting his shoulders left the concealment of a shadowed doorway and entered the prosperous shop of the town’s most skilled arcane craftsman. To its increasingly astounded owner he explained what he wanted done and how quickly. The stunned protest that followed was decisively quenched by the heavy weight of coin which splashed carelessly across the artisan’s work bench.

While Gerard spent the day in languid extravagance, the gnome and the Black Elf went about more serious work. Once certain they had escaped the notice of their companions, especially Morgan, they made the now familiar journey to the Tower of Noverod. The fear of their previous visit was replaced with anticipation as they were soundlessly disappeared within its soulless black walls. Inside, secrets were laid bare and mighty oaths sworn. They left late in the afternoon, their battered minds filled with dreadful knowledge and the secrets of an ancient ritual that would seal the allegiance they had sworn to the masters of the tower.

Early in the evening, the companions sat down to their final meal on Sorcerer’s Isle. It was a lavish one made up of the finest the Hat and Staff had to offer. Only sporadic conversation was made as the Hydra enjoyed both the privacy of their thoughts and the fine provender set before them. 

Besides Morgan rested a fearsome iron war mask made of ancient design. Throughout the evening the others found their eyes drawn to its brooding presence, almost as if it were an extra guest at their table. Morgan’s fingers unconsciously traced the fine designs engraved in the metal whenever they weren’t otherwise occupied. 

Argonne also fondled his new purchase, a gaudy amulet set with semiprecious stones that was suspended from a heavy gold chain. His escape from Grelda’s shop had proven costly and both he and Morgan were nearly as skint as when they had first stepped on the isle. 

What little conversation was made chiefly dwelt on the absence of any sign of the Blood Sails. It seemed the Rumscully Jack had been a man of his word. Mortec also reminded his companions of their need to inform the Baron of their doings with the magical amulet supplied them. With luck he would be satisfied with what they had learned and recall them to his castle. To the relief of all, this was exactly what occurred and they retired gratefully to their rooms.

The dawn had only just begun to stain the sky blood red when the Hydra cast off their boat’s moorings and rowed gently into the silky calm of the bay. They worked with a will and soon passed through the islands foggy shroud and into the open sea. A stiff wind blew favourably towards Yorathton and Argonne wasted no time and raising the Swift’s sail to take advantage of it. The others rested on their oars, relieved to be spared of the arduous work.

For the first hour they made good progress though the sea became increasingly choppy. In the second hour, conditions worsened to the point where the Swift was climbing waves many times higher than itself and plunging dangerously into the troughs. The wind had also increased to near gale like conditions, threatening to snap their mast or tear their sail asunder. Argonne leapt up to try and take it down when the boat pitched unexpectedly and spilled him into the water. Keeping his cool, Argonne clutched the amulet around his next and tried to invoke its power of water breathing. 

Nothing happened, and he only received a deep lungful of seawater for his efforts. As he coughed and choked he desperately tried to find the Swift but the wind and waves obscured if for site. Another fit of retching shook him and he sank despairingly beneath the waves.

Panic erupted aboard the boat at the loss of their one capable seaman. Gerard and Mortec scanned the waves in the hope of spotting Argonne while Stravarius and Morgan successfully lowered the sail. Another massive wave nearly pitched them overboard, as did the fall as they plunged down its back.

Amidst the chaos, Moxadder maintained a fatalistic calm. With difficulty he brought up the conch horn secured at his waist and began to fumble for a concealed pocket in his clothing. 

Steadying himself with his knees, he deftly packed a tight wad of devil weed into the silver cone devised by the artificer from Sorcerer’s Isle and set at its narrowest point. With a deft scoop he half filled the shell with sea water and raised it to his lips. By thumbing a tiny button near the cone he caused a tiny jet of blue flame to appear as he sucked hard on the conch. Contrary to any reasonable expectation, a powerful tone emanated from the horn, its pitch so deep as to be barely audible though the Hydra’s chests vibrated painfully in sympathy. The effect was quite spectacular for as the sound spread it flattened the waters at an ever increasing radius. Soon as far as the eye could see the ocean had become dead calm.

With a heaving splutter, Argonne broke the surface of the water and began swimming feebly towards the boat. Acting quickly, Morgan pushed out an oar for the woodsman to grasp and dragged him aboard. As Argonne vomited copious amounts of water into the boat, the rest of the companions looked at each other in amazement at the effects of the horn. Their contemplation was interrupted by Moxadder when he collapsed insensate into the scuppers, completed robbed of his wits by the magical conch and the weed.

It took three hard hours of rowing to reach Yorathton, but none of the companions begrudged the effort, such was their relief at reaching dry land in safety. Their arrival had not gone unnoticed and there was a messenger awaiting them to escort them to see the baron immediately. Stretching legs cramped by their voyage, they began the painful climb to the castle.

*****​


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## Fiasco (Jan 18, 2007)

Scrolls and scraps of parchment littered the Baron’s writing table. Yorath’s powerful body hunched like a spider at the centre of a paper web. He acknowledged the presence of the companions with a grunt and then belied this apparent disinterest by rigorously cross examining their statements for a full hour. Satisfied at last, he sank back in his chair and let out a vast sigh. Summoning a servant to pour wine, he pronounced his judgement.

“Its difficult to know what to make of you. On the one hand, instead of delicately trying to assess what is going on you assault a secret pirates lair and slay a wizard in his den! Not what I would call subtle”, he said dryly. “Yet on the other hand, you have succeeded beyond any expectation against superior foes and numbers. Through your courage, some might say recklessness, we are revenged upon the Blood Sails and likely free of any further trouble from them”.

The baron paused in his speech long enough to allow his liegemen to puff out their chests a little at this complement. “And yet”, he continued, “you have failed in your chief mission, which was to discover the reason for the attacks in the first place”. The companions deflated with an almost audible susurration. Satisfied with their contrition, the Baron smiled. “All in all, I find myself pleased nevertheless. You have come a long way and demonstrated that despite your unorthodox methods, you are capable of delivering results. Which is for the best as my other gladiatorial bands are away on various missions and unavailable to give you further training before the games begin. For the moment I have no further tasks for the Hydra. You have ten days to sharpen your skills amongst yourselves and to make preparation for the journey to the Games in Halfast. Report to my bursar for your entry fees and look to my steward for equipment”. The baron gestured for them to leave, saying “Now go enjoy yourselves this night, you have earned it. Many cares press upon me and I doubt we’ll meet until the conclusion of the games. Carry the pride of Yorathton always in your hearts.”

The ten days allotted to the companions passed swiftly. They trained amongst themselves, repaired or replaced damaged equipment and drew provisions for their journey. The Baron’s generosity had stretched to the point where he provided them with mounts, the better to speed their journey and this also occupied the time of those with little experience of riding. 

The month of Low Summer passed and with the dawn of the second day of Burn the companions rode for Halfast. Uniformly outfitted in the black and green of the Hydra and with their gear in good order, they made an impressive sight. More importantly, each saddle bag jingled with the weight of 5000 silver sickles worth of gold coin, the prodigious entry fee required for participation in the Games. 

Throughout the morning the temperature climbed steadily as the sun beat mercilessly on the land. Knowing that many days of travel lay ahead of them, the Hydra allowed their mounts to walk at a gentle place. Despite this, the horses were visibly drooping by mid afternoon.  Overhead an ominous crack of thunder split the cloudless sky. A mile south of the trail, Argonne spotted a thick plume of smoke.

Sweating profusely, they broke from the trail and rode to investigate the fire. They found an isolated farmstead in the last stages of burning to the ground. The remains of the inhabitants were littered in and around the building. Those not burnt by flames had been rent to pieces and partially consumed. Several bodies twitched and Morgan observed rats working at opened bellies like a line of piglets at their mother’s teats. More of the rodents peered from under the shadows of every bush, brazenly watching the companions as they took in the carnage.

Moxadder dismounted and crouched to examine the clawed tracks which criss-crossed the dusty ground. Several converged and lead to an outbuilding that had escaped the flames. Just as he realised what had made the tracks he a flicker of motion inside the barn’s half closed doors. He gave a start and then leapt astride his mount. “Ride!” he shouted at his companions even as a horde of vicious rat trolls burst from the building. 

The warning gave the companions a few precious seconds to spur their horses away from the peril. The panicked steeds needed little urging as they raced to escape the small but deadly trolls. They hit the road at a flat out gallop and did not relent until their horses began blowing foam from their mouths. Dismounting, they walked their steeds until they regained their wind. Gazing back, they were relieved to see they had escaped the trolls. The sun had sunk low and in its fading light they made their camp. 

Though exhausted, sleep only came with difficulty for they were still on edge from their narrow escape. Even with the sun gone there was no respite from the heat which encompassed them in its stiffling folds. No wind stirred the tinder dry land. That night there was no lack of insomniac volunteers to stand watch for want of anything better to do.

Mid way through the night Mortec spied a procession of ghostly white figures march silently through the blood warm darkness. Led by a patriarchal figure clad in ancient Gerechian vestments, they passed a mere score of paces form their camp. The gnome turned to warn his companions but saw they were awake to a man. They held themselves still, scarce daring to breathe as the insubstantial figures filed past in orderly procession. Oblivious to the observers, they kept their gaze fixed on their spectral leader as they passed around and partially through the curve of a small hill. 

A tiny flame glowed once they had passed as Moxadder used his conch to light some Devil Weed. Half of it disappeared almost immediately so hard did he draw on it to try and steady his nerves. Gerard found himself wishing he had some of his own. The terrors the drug unleashed were preferable to musing on what had passed by. One by one they settled to their haunches, resigned to maintaining a wakeful vigil until dawn. 

At first light they mounted their steeds and rode on. The morning heat swelled up to near intolerable temperatures which did not abate when a hot breeze sprang up and rolled dark brooding clouds across the sky. At one point they passed the body of a mountain troll, its flesh teeming with hundreds of rats intent on stripping it to the bone. Later, a pack of rats the size of small dogs ambushed them from behind a fallen tree. It was almost with relief that the companions laid about them with blade and cudgel in defiance of the danger and the strength sapping heat. Here at last was a physical outlet for the fear and tension they had been under. The rats’ hunger soon proved ineffectual in the face of the savage fury of the companions.

“We have to leave now!” said Argonne with sudden urgency as Stravarius viciously spitted the final rat on the end of his rapier.

“Why? That was the last of them” the Black Elf said as he wiped and sheathed his blade.

“I’m not talking about them, I’m talking about THAT”, the woodsman shouted urgently.

Stravarius looked up to where the woodman pointed further down the road. An obscenity passed his lips as what looked like a brown river swept across the land towards them. A river made up entirely of rats in numbers so vast it beggared belief. They flowed across the ground like a living carpet, consuming everything that crossed their path. As they turned to flee, the noise and stench washed over them simultaneously. The force of it nearly hurled them vomiting from their saddles as they clapped hands to their ears while doubled up with nausea. The horses thundered back they way they had come down the road, eyes bulging in terror as they sought to outpace the oncoming doom.

Realising their flight was taking them back to the rat trolls of the day before, Gerard wrenched his mount from the road and up a slight incline. The others followed him on faith, fighting to keep together and desperately clinging to their bucking saddles. To fall was to die horribly. Slowly, far to slowly, they began to pull away from the noisome swarm. All were convinced their doom was upon them and the horrid squealing of the rats shrilled them to the point of madness.

A deep throated roar cut through the high pitched chittering and a massive troll appeared two hundred yards to their right, a tide of rats almost at its heels. Where the creature touched earth large stony spikes reared up, impaling the rats that passed over them. Heedless, other rats swarmed over their dead companions and surged up the trolls legs and back. Somehow, it staggered on, a wriggling mound of furry bodies and writhing tails until a dozen paces later it sank to the earth. Almost immediately, the body began to shrink as it was consumed by a thousand, thousand ravenous maws.

A deep boom rolled from the heavens, diverting the companion’s attention from the troll’s gruesome death. Fortunately, their mounts had been running all the while and a little distance now separated them from the living plague though it was doubtful the horses could maintain lead for long. The way levelled out and Gerard glimpsed an ancient Gerechian trail marker. For lack of a better idea he goaded his mount in the direction it pointed. Overhead, the overripe clouds swelled purple and reluctantly sweated a few thick beads of rain. The smell of wet dust rose to compete with the receding stench of the rats. Lungs gasping in the sweltering atmosphere they fled onwards.

A large hill appeared to their left, an ancient structure built in its face. Without word they turned toward it, the relentless swarm of rats trailing in their wake. As they closed on their objective they were amazed to see the land turn into neglected fields sowed with weeds. A group of poorly clad peasants appeared to be working the old and barren land. 

Clutching ancient tools, their rags blowing in the hot breeze, they seemed unaware of the approaching apocalypse. As the companions neared the farmers they realised there was something terribly wrong. A few starving rats had already reached the workers and begun to nibble on them. The peasants toiled on, paying them no heed whatsoever. Silently they worked their useless tools and scattered imaginary seeds over the unbroken earth. To Gerard’s utter horror he saw there was little to nourish the rats, merely ancient bone and dry sinew for these peasants had been dead a long, long time. Rather than being allowed to rest a profound evil had seized their bodies and forced them to twitch and dance a degraded parody of their former lives.

Unable and unwilling to stop, they raced past and fetched their mounts sharply against the front of the building. The massive walls and doors were concealed beneath a sinister black membrane. Hearing the rats close in behind them they desperately clawed and hacked through the disquieting barrier. Even in his fear, Mortec noted the grinning skull of Geduld that was ripped asunder in their desperation. Beneath were powerful doors of bronze set with a massive symbol of Gerech. Human, gnome, Horse and Black Elf hurled themselves against the doors and forced their way inside. With barely a moment to spare they turned and slammed doors in the face of the devouring wall of rats. 

The sound and smell of the nightmarish plague abruptly subsided with the closure of the doors. Their heaving terror filled the ensuing silence as pitch darkness consumed them.


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## Fiasco (Feb 13, 2007)

*Chapter 7*​
They gasped and shuddered in the darkness, leaning hard against the heavy stone doors which sheltered them from the pestilential rodents. The noisome smell of rat left their nostrils, to be replaced by the odour of dust, decay, and the slow passage of time. As the sound of the blood pounding in their ears diminished they became aware of a discordant hum resonating throughout the chamber. Gerard spoke a word taught him by Zmrat and a dancing ball of flame appeared on a coin he held. The Hydra started as the flickering light revealed an eerie choir standing a scant dozen yards away. Their once white robes hung in tatters from their shoulders and their hair was long, listless and unkempt. As if cued by the light, the choir mistress raised her baton and signalled for her charges to begin. Eyes cast heavenward, they launched into a hymn, completely oblivious to the new arrivals.

_“You can’t do evil from a hole in the ground…”_ they sang as the adventurers regarded them suspiciously. Despite their pallid faces and gaunt figures, however, the Gerechians appeared to be alive, or at least better preserved than their farming brethren outside.

A little nonplussed by the lack of a reception, the companions glanced at each other in confusion. Taking care not to disturb the singers, they moved about the chamber. They were in a large square room with imposing doors leading to the North and West. It had once been a grand reception hall, but now was slowly crumbling to ruin. The mosaic tiles from once great masterpieces now littered the floor. The gaps they left behind seemed to blaspheme the holy images of Gerech ruling from his stone of light. Judges were now blind, the clergy ignorant of their flock, the temple guards bloodthirsty and brutal. Death and decay stalked what had once been scenes of peace and abundance.

Despite his harsh background and detestation of Gerech, Morgan felt strangely disturbed by this blasphemy. He felt overwhelmed by a sense of wrongness, a great perversion that had gone unchecked. Coupled to this, he couldn’t shake a powerful sense of déjà vu despite having never set foot in a Gerechian place of worship. Without being fully conscious of his actions he returned to his horse and took down the war mask from Sorcerer’s Isle. As his fingers touched the cold metal a flood of alien memories rushed through him. Arms trembling with barely suppressed emotion, he lifted the mask to his face and felt it cleave to his flesh. For a second, nothing further happened, then the stiff metal of the mask appeared to melt and conform to his features. He gave a strangled cry and fell first to his knees and then to the ground, his fingers locked tight in the matted locks of his hair.

The sound attracted the others, who rushed to their fallen friend, then drew back in horror at what they beheld. In some grotesque way the war mask appeared to be alive and its fluid texture appeared to crudely transmit Morgan’s facial expressions. Initially they showed his shock at what was happening to him. Then a second expression appeared. Instead of the pensive cast that was characteristic of Morgan, a powerful arrogant expression appeared. The mask surveyed the ruined grandeur of the room and appeared overwhelmed by what it saw. The features ripped and distorted unpleasantly as a fierce internal battle raged. Eventually, Morgan’s regular features reasserted themselves and he looked at his awed companions. Unnoticed behind them, they choir launched into a new devotional.

_“Warm is the hand that touches the stone…”_

Argonne hesitantly leaned forward and helped his stricken friend into a sitting position. He tried to pry loose the mask but an arm grasped his shoulder.

“Don’t”, said Morgan. “Its all right, I’ve regained control”.

“Control of what?”, said Mortec, fixing him with a shrewd gaze. As he did so, his hands slowly dropped to where his crossbow was secured.

“The thing in the mask. He says his name is Valentin Seth. Its hard to explain”, Morgan continued. “He claims a disaster befell him a long time ago, and since that time his soul has lived on in this mask. When we entered this place,” Morgan paused as if listening for a second, “…the Yorathian Grand Temple, he was recalled to, to consciousness”. He pressed a hand to his face and nearly swooned. “So many memories”, he whispered. “Let me rest a while and get my bearings again”. For the first time he noticed the wary stance of his companions. “Don’t worry,” he said, attempting a reassign smile. But the mask made even this innocent expression appear warlike and menacing and they were not reassured. Nevertheless, they forced themselves to relax and give their friend time to recover.

The names mentioned by Morgan awakened faint memories in Gerard, as if he had heard or read them somewhere before. He searched his memories but could not pin anything specific down. With a shrug, he decided to try and talk to the choir as they concluded their hymn.

“Excuse me,” he said coming up to stand at the choir mistress’ shoulder. After a long pause, the woman turned around. Her milky blue eyes were filmed over and she only looked approximately in Gerard’s direction. 

“The chapel is that way,” she grated, pointing vaguely Northward. “You should hurry, the service is about to begin.” Without waiting for a response she turned back to her choir and raised her baton.

_“You don’t go blind in his holy light…”_ they began to sing dutifully. Gerard shook his head in puzzlement and rejoined his friends.

Morgan had recovered somewhat and was on his feet again. “We’ve come to an understanding now, Valentin and I. You have nothing to fear. He can give us useful information, and in return all we have to do is try and work out what is wrong in this place”.

“Ah don’t trust no bloody Mask” Argonne muttered darkly. “Tis unnatural.”

“But think of the knowledge he possesses”, said Mortec hungrily. A high priest of Gerech, even one dead for a thousand years would have invaluable knowledge of this place”.

Stravarius seemed indifferent to the situation and no-one bothered asking Moxadder, who was backed against a wall, eyes darting suspiciously in all directions. Gerard took the initiative. “We’ll, keep and eye on it and you. Since we don’t want to go back outside, we might as well explore a little. Something is definitely very wrong in here.”

The companions first saw to their exhausted mounts. Removing saddles and giving them water and feed. Then, checking and rechecking their weapons and supplies they opened the large bronze doors leading North and left the room. Behind them, the choir began a new hymn.

They Hydra found themselves in a narrow corridor lined with a half dozen statues. They were man sized and carved of marble. Their detail was exquisite, and Gerard barely suppressed a shudder, half expecting them to spring to life. As they progressed down the corridor they felt their gazes drawn to the faces of the statues. Some displayed powerful emotions like fear, wrath or despair, while others were curiously blank. 

“These are all high priests of Gerech”, Morgan whispered after a brief consultation with the mask. “Or at least they were, a thousand years ago”. The party continued as the corridor bent to the East. They continued to follow it and reached a door a third of the way along its length. Glancing warily at each other, they cautiously opened it. Inside they saw an empty room covered in the dust of ages. A few empty wooden racks seemed to indicate it had once been an armoury. After a cursory inspection of the room they returned to the passageway.

After advancing a little further they encountered another room leading off from the corridor. This one was a good deal more interesting, and disturbing. Ragged red writing covered the walls and floor. Even those unschooled in ancient Gerechian could discern that it was the one word written over and over. “mine, MINE, *MINE*” the gnome translated. It was written in blood. Dominating the centre of the room was a fine bronze breastplate on a stand. Footprints circled the armour, marring the writing which had been particularly vigorously applied in its vicinity. 

The party stood in awe of these clear manifestations of a deranged mind. They also pondered what had kept it from taking possession of the armour. Morgan coughed. “Valentin suggests I put it on.” Though warped by the mask, the questioning expression on Morgan’s face was clearly his own. Seeing no objection from his companions, the Fastendian removed his chain shirt and began to strap on the breastplate. After hesitating for a second, Gerard stepped forward to assist him. To the relief of all, nothing untoward seemed to happened and Morgan didn’t report the presence of a new spirit.

They returned once again to the corridor and continued Eastward. The flickering illumination of Gerard’s light revealed a small crowd of figures milling around ahead of them. They were similar in appearance to the strange choir they had encountered, perhaps a little more ragged. To the party’s surprised, these seemed to have noticed them.

“Do you know the way to the chapel?” one of them enquired anxiously in a dusty voice.

“The service is about to start” another intoned nervously.”

The Hydra glanced at one another, not sure how to respond. As they got closer to the crowd they noticed that behind it a pit had been dug across the breadth of the corridor. Fastidiously avoiding contact with the Gerechians, Gerard cautiously pushed through them and gazed down into the pit. It was deep and lined with spikes. The bodies of several Gerechians mouldered in the bottom of it and the stench of rot and decay that had been present throughout the temple was much stronger here. The nobleman felt his gorge rise.

“Too wide to jump”, said Stravarius pragmatically. The Black Elf seemed to be the least disturbed of them all, and showed no concern for the milling Gerechians. “Let’s try in the other direction, he suggested” and began retracing their steps. The others followed.

“We don’t know what is happening either”, said Morgan quietly to the Gerechians as the party moved away.

The choir was still singing busily in the entrance chamber as they crossed it and opened the Western door. It revealed a narrow corridor very similar to the one behind the Northern door, complete with statues of Gerechian high priests. Two rooms led off the corridor and they explored both. The first was another armoury. It was empty save for a half dozen spears and pikes scattered across the floor. The second room contained numerous wooden chests that had fallen apart. The ancient bronze coins they contained, dark green with Verdi Gris, had been disgorged onto the floor. Ignoring them for the moment they returned to the corridor. It opened out into a rectangular room with a set of doors in its North wall. 

They opened the doors and saw another corridor, this one lined with six fountains. Each was a work of art, with stylised depictions of important events in the Gerechian faith. Instead of water, however, they were filled with a green muck. Curious, Gerard approached the nearest fountain.  As he leaned over it, the slime in the fountain reared out and lashed out at him! Acid burned his arm but he managed to wriggle out of its sticky grasp. With a cry of utter revulsion he fled the back into the rectangular room. The others drew their weapons and prepared to drive off the bizarre menace, even as similar creatures reared up from two of the other fountains.

*****​


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## Fiasco (Mar 13, 2007)

Grimly the others readied their weapons save for Moxadder, who had lingered in the preceding room. The green things moved slowly and the adventurers were the first to strike. Perhaps because of their revulsion, however, only Morgan scored a hit. In return a slimy pseudo pod seared the Fastendian’s leg with its caustic secretions. Another attacked Argonne was even more successfully, smoothly flowing up his legs and engulfing his lower torso. The woodsman’s axe clattered to the floor in a botched attempt to scrape himself free of its embrace.

Gerard had joined Moxadder in the other room, trying to recover from his disgust at being touched by the filthy slime. He was just thinking of returning to the battle when three bizarre creatures ran into the room. The size of war hounds and covered in a tough knobbly hide, their strange heads were mounted by two feathery antennae. Chirruping hungrily, they charged at the companions who barely had time to ready their weapons. 

Shaken and outnumbered, things looked dire for the pair. One of the creatures ran in and whipped an antenna at Gerard’s sword, who just managed to snatch it out of the way. He lunged at the creature but the point of his sword was defeated by its armoured skin. Moxadder tumbled behind it and sank a dagger to the hilt into its back. The creature quivered in pain, then swung around to get at the source of its pain. The Irudeshian proved too quick, snatching his weapon out of harms way.

The pair battled on grimly, too caught up in their struggle to survive to ponder the strangeness of the creatures attacks. Gerard just managed to get his weapon clear of a second attacker before scoring a hit on his first opponent. With a dagger in each hand, Moxadder also put a deep cut in its hide. Panicked, the beast tried to flee but was brought down by another vicious strike from Moxadder. This left him vulnerable and the third creature charged in and touched his hand. The dagger in his fist crumbled to rust. Reared back in surprise he shook the dust from his hands, then shrugged and drew another of the numerous daggers he carried. Glancing down, Moxadder saw it was the one awarded him by the Baron. He slashed viciously at the one that had destroyed his weapon and cut its face open.

Gerard executed a copy book lunge and plunged nearly half the length of his weapon in the other creature. Grievously wounded, it bent itself nearly double backing off the blade and fled. Seeing the other creature occupied with his companion, Gerard ran his sword through its flank as well for good measure. Moxadder used this distraction to land a pair of vicious blows in turn to drop the beast dead at their feat. Panting from their exertions, the two faced each other across the bizarre corpse for a few seconds before the continuing sounds of battle turned their attention to the fountain room.

The battle against the slimes had reached a climax. Argonne had managed to shake off his attacker and retrieve his axe. A vicious cut made the creature slow its assault. Morgan raged helplessly on the ground, seconds away from death as one of the vile creatures flowed across his chest and towards the fearsome mask of his face. Shouting a mighty plea to his Goddess, Mortec lunged forward and touched the slime. A sure of crackling black energy raced into the creature and withered it to dust. Thinking that this was becoming a habit, the gnome reached down and began pouring healing energies into the badly injured warrior.

Stravarius spoke a twisted word of power and a bolt of green struck the slime menacing Argonne. Already damaged, it slowly collapsed into liquescence. A dagger sailed over Mortec’s head to strike sparks off the ground near the final slime, signalling the return of Moxadder and Gerard. The nobleman began to lunge forward in attack when his disgust for the creatures returned. Shuddering in horror he pulled weakly back, desperately trying to avoid vomiting on himself or his comrades. His help was not needed in any case as Morgan regained his feet and skewered the slime with a deep thrust while Mortec finished it with a precise blow of his mace.

Ascertaining that the remaining fountains contained no more of the slimes, the companions took a few minutes to recuperate from the battle. Once they felt strong enough they continued down the corridor. As with the others, several rooms lead off from it and they explored these as they continued Northwards. They found another chamber in which the word ‘Mine’ had been endlessly scrawled in blood. It was otherwise empty, suggesting that something had taken possession of whatever the deranged writer had coveted. 

The next room was filled with twelve large mirrors mounted on the walls. The companions could only speculate as to their purpose for the spirit of Valentin refused to divulge their use when queried by Morgan.

Further on, another room lead off from the corridor. This one was cluttered with furniture almost to the height of the ceiling. Parts of the walls and floor showed signs of a fire and claw marks scarred the plastered walls. Noticing that the furniture appeared to have been piled into a crude ladder, Mortec began to climb them towards the ceiling. Moxadder examined the claw marks and commented that they had likely been made by a squatter troll. Knowing of their habit of hiding treasures, he joined the gnome in ascending the precariously balanced furniture. Reaching up with his long arms, he managed to reach the ceiling and began tapping it with a dagger. In short time he found an area where the masonry was only paper thin and punched a hole through it. By this time Mortec was next to him and he boosted the gnome into the opening. 

Mortec found himself in a cavity which concealed a number of curious objects. One by one he handed them down to Moxadder, who either secured them on his person or passed them down to the others below. They turned out to be items sacred to one or other of faiths. Once they had  safely gathered at the bottom of the room they examined their haul. Mortec cast a simple orison and confirmed that each of the items was divinely enchanted. They had found a wooden box bearing the symbol of Thuus god of the Fastness; a censor with bearing the mark of Urumei, goddess of healing; a net sacred to Srcan, goddess of new beginnings; a pair of glass globes that bore the rune of Todesmagie; and a small portable shrine rendered in gold leaf and sacred to Gerech.

Feeling secure for the moment, they began to experiment with some of the items. After an intense examination, Mortec announced that the globes were a meditation aid and helped with unlocking or recalling information when researching obscure subjects. Meanwhile, Moxadder had felt drawn to examine the wooden box. Sliding the cover aside he found two thin platinum cusps within, each bearing the mark of Thuus. Deducing that they were to be placed over the eyes, he deftly fitted them in place. He felt them merge seamlessly with his pupils. At first he experienced only a cool sensation, but then felt a powerful irritation begin to burn his eyes. Thinking quickly, he invoked the name of Thuus, something he had not done since his misbegotten childhood in Irudesh City. The discomfort immediately left him and he felt the divine presence of Thuus slowly seep through his mind. With it came an awareness of the cusps’ powers; he now saw more clearly and further in the flickering torch light. Gazing about him in wonder, he sensed that other powers remained for him to discover.

As he looked at the others they gasped in surprise, for his eyes had changed to the colour of platinum, save for a small black symbol of Thuus in the centre of each pupil. As he savoured the power of the relic, Moxadder felt extremely disturbed. His mind returned to his childhood and his running battles with the priests of the faith. They had been a source of food and shelter, but as he grew older the danger of the Soup Road became more and more real. Eventually he had left them behind when he fell under the shadow of the Dirty Knives. The things he had done since then had been in continual violation of the ways of Thuus. Heart hammering in his chest, he removed the cusps, replaced them in their box and handed them to Morgan. He gave a shuddering sigh, as if a great peril had been narrowly avoided.

“Forgive me Thuus”, Moxadder murmured, “the light of your teachings cannot reach me where I walk in the shadows.”

While the Irudeshian had been examining the cusps, Mortec had made another breakthrough, discovering that the censor of Urumei could greatly aid the healing arts. Unable to make progress with the other items, the Hydra returned to their explorations. A little beyond the room of the hidden treasures they found a stairway to the East which led down into the darkness. Feeling unready for the challenge that might wait below they continued on down the corridor which terminated in a final room. 

It was a place of misery, pain and desecration. Even the least sensitive of them felt the psychic impression of extreme agony that had immersed itself in the very stones of the room. Here was a place where something terrible had happened. Terrible and unnatural, for by the glow of his sword, Stravarius determined that powerful magic had been used to work a vile transformation. The Black Elf shuddered in sympathy. As always, the hellfire of his own torment burned near to the surface.

The chamber itself contained nothing except for the perverted symbols of Geduld and remains of the shackles that had restrained the tormented. They were glad to leave the oppressive atmosphere behind and retrace their steps. They decided to return to the entrance on Gerard’s insistence that he must retrieve a change of clothing from his horse. It would also give the rest of them the chance to stow some of the gear they had accumulated. As they marched back down one long corridor, and then another, they noticed a set of doors to the East that they had neglected to explore. Large and imposing they were, forged of thick bronze and etched with scenes of Gerechian worship.

Stravarius and Argonne heaved one of the doors open and gathering his courage, Mortec stepped into the room. He saw an immense chamber, one large enough to have been bounded by all the corridors they had traversed. It was filled with the life sized stone statues of an army of Gerechians in full battle panoply, carved in incredibly fine detail. The air was unnaturally still, even the dust lay completely undisturbed. Looking down, Mortec saw an old cloak at his feet. He stooped and picked it up, feeling the velvet softness of cloth and fine dust caress his fingers. Something moved in the still chamber, a cloak on one of the statues began to unaccountably flap as if in a breeze. Terror gripped his soul and he fled the chamber, screaming at the others to close the door. With a boom the door slammed shut, sealing in the mystery of the stone army. On hearing what the gnome had seen, none of the others showed any inclination of reopening the door, electing instead to return to the entrance chamber. 

The choir sang on but paid them no heed as they checked on their mounts and secured the less portable of their treasures. Gerard scrubbed himself clean as best he could with some water and cloth before donning a set of fine clothing. They took some refreshment and rechecked their weapons and gear. Without any more excuse for delay, they returned to the stairs leading down. Standing at the top, their torches pierced only a small way through the darkness. Stravarius informed them that they continued straight down beyond even the range of his unnatural vision.

As he stood smoking Devil Weed at the top of the stairs, Moxadder felt something pressed into his hand. Looking down he saw the box containing the Eyes of Thuus. In shock he turned and stared at Morgan who had come up behind him. The warrior looked almost guilty through the metal of his war mask as he held his hands palm up to fend off any chance of the box being returned.

“I, I think you should have it” he said. He opened his mouth to say more but the metal lips of his mask snapped shut as if of their own accord. Shrugging helplessly, the warrior backed away.

With a sinking feeling, Moxadder felt the chains of fate tighten about his soul. At that moment he understood he was ultimately and inescapably of the Fastness, one of Thuus’ children. No matter how forlorn or degraded the path he trod, he could never escape the faith and doom of his people. With shaking hands he ground out the stick of weed, reverently removed the cusps from their box and placed them once more over his eyes. The darkness before him receded. He could see the way; all that remained was to walk the path. Looking neither right, nor left, he began to descend the stairs.

*****​


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Mar 13, 2007)

I've caught up again after quite a hiatus. And I must say that I'm very glad to see this excellent story move forward again. Keep up the good work.


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## Fiasco (Mar 17, 2007)

Thanks for the encouragement, HalfOrcHalfBiscuit. I hope to have another update ready soon.


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## Fiasco (Mar 22, 2007)

The stairs were white marble with discolouration reminiscent of a decayed tooth. The steps were slick with moisture making footing precarious. Stravarius joined Moxadder at the head of the party and together they descended the broad, shallow steps as they wound their way downward.  Abruptly, the Black Elf motioned for the others to stop. In the quiet, they heard the faint muttering of voices from below. 

“It sounds Gerechian”, said Stravarius.

Morgan’s mask rippled faintly as he cocked his head to catch the voices.

“It is”, he said after a pause. “Ancient Gerechian. Valentine says they are complaining that there hasn’t been a service in years.”

The Hydra looked at each other, then with a shrug continued downward. The floor at the bottom of the stairs was covered in an inch of water. The light from Gerard’s torch cast a faint illumination over a cluster of five Gerechians, though whether their milk filmed eyes registered the light was questionable. Readying sword and shield, Stravarius approached them. 

Much like their brethren upstairs, they were garbed in the aged robes of the Gerechian faith though in this case they were damp and covered in mould. In a mucus filled voice one of them addressed the Black Elf in ancient Gerechian. Not understanding, Stravarius merely shrugged his shoulders, which frustrated the speaker. It spoke more urgently but when that also failed to get the desired reaction the group moved disappointedly away. 

“They were asking if you had come to give a sermon”, Morgan translated.

“If they keep botherin us Ah’ll give them a service they’ll nowt forget”, said Argonne darkly as he hefted his axe.

By now all of them had stepped off the stairs except for Gerard, who stood on the lowest step and looked with dismay at the slimy water that covered the floor. Seeing the others continue on, he held a kerchief to his nose and then stepped into the slushy muck with an exaggerated grimace.

Keeping a watch in all directions, the Hydra advanced into an enormous hall supported by two ranks of towering pillars. A large rectangular pool dominated the centre of the room. It was filled with water so foul it was a viscous yellow green in colour. A powerful stench clawed the companion’s nostrils as they took in the sight and smell of the feature. Despite its noisome qualities, a dozen swimmers bathed in the pool, as if they were enjoying the purest of spring water. Gerard crammed a scented cloth to his face as he convulsed at the horror of what he saw. Unable to take his eyes off the swimmers, he did a double take when one of them was suddenly dragged beneath the surface. Gerard looked to his companions, but their attention had been drawn by a Gerechian in the robes of a priest  who wore a phylactery strapped to his head. Shuddering, the effete nobleman backed away from the pool.

The rest of the adventurers listened as Morgan spoke ancient Gerechian with the priest. Whatever his words, they angered the Gerechian for without warning he raised his hands and shouted words of dark power. A flowing black web shot from the priest’s hands and engulfed the party. They felt the unnatural strands begin to leech the vitality from their bodies as they desperately tried to tear their way free. Gerard, who had been too far away to be affected cried out a warning as the bathing Gerechians abandoned their sport and swam straight for the party. By the time the Hydra had broken free of the webs, they were close to being surrounded by over a dozen swimmers who shuffled forwards dripping viscous fluids onto the marble floor. Though naked and unarmed, they bared sharp toothed grins that horrified the adventurers. Worse, their long sharp nails dripped a thick black substance that boded ill for those who were struck. Grimly, the Hydra prepared to defend themselves, already in a bad way from the effect of the priest’s spell.

Despite his web induced weakness, Morgan quickly lunged forward and skewered the priest with his rapier. Gerard swiped ineffectually at one of the Gerechians while shouting at it to keep away. Hefting his great axe, Argonne also tried to cut at the priest but it dodged nimbly out of the way.

Mortec was closest to the pool and found himself under intense attack before he could collect his wits. Acting on instinct, he drew a dagger and slashed at a Gerechian. On the other side of the battle, Moxadder drew his daggers with a lightning quick move and then dodged, dived and tumbled into a position behind the priest. With a vicious swing, he hooked a dagger deep into its shoulder blade. Seeing the dire position his companions were in, Stravarius bravely held his ground. Drawing on his hatred he summoned a bolt of arcane energy and lanced it into the priest.

Disregarding the damage being done to it, the priest raised its frost rimed black mace, and struck Argonne in the head. The woodsman reeled from the powerful blow but managed to keep his footing. Silently the Gerechians completed their encirclement of the companions, eyeing them hungrily with their filmy eyes.

“Look out!” Cried Morgan. “These are Gerechians no longer, they have become ghouls, eaters of flesh!” The warning came to late to do the Hydra much good.

Mortec was clawed in the shoulder and felt the chill paralysis sweep over him. Gritting his teeth, he managed to fight off the unnatural weakness. Others attacked Gerard and Morgan but they managed to evade the blows. Moxadder was not so fortunate, his position behind the priest left him open to several ghouls and he was nearly buried in a flurry of claws. The Irudeshian dodged nimbly but one of the claws ripped into his back. For a second the undead paralysis raced through his drug weakened system but then the Eyes of Thuus glowed an intense white and the weakness passed.

Perceiving the peril enclosing them, Mortec cast a spell of consecration to bolster his powers and weaken that of the enemy. Crying out to his companions to hold the undead off for just a little longer, he began to open a conduit to his deity. Trying to buy the gnome time, Morgan lunged at the high priest while Gerard slashed wildly at a ghoul. Neither found their mark. Still hurt from the blow he had taken, Argonne raised his axe high and brought it crashing down at the priest. Unfortunately, the blow missed completely and thundered into the floor, where the axe head was smashed to pieces. Staring dumbly at the haft of his axe, he failed fend off the claws of two of the Gerechians. Battered to the point of death and paralysed to boot, he collapsed to the ground.

Sneering in triumph, the high priest raised its mace high in anticipation of striking the killing blow when another crackling bolt of power drilled through its head. The mace clattered to the ground and the body swiftly followed. Stravarius’ eyes blazed red and in that moment his companions found him just as frightening as the undead surrounding them. 

Making the most of the priest fall, Moxadder tumbled away from his numerous opponents a second ahead of their slashing claws. The final part of his manoeuvre ended up as a lunge which plunged his dagger into the side of one of the unsuspecting creatures. It clawed at the tattooed man in retaliation but his leather armour kept out the blows. Others attacked the rest of the companions, missing most but hitting Morgan. Accustomed from early boyhood to battling the undead, the young warrior refused to succumb to the paralysis and neatly stabbed his assailant in the throat. 

Despite the priest’s fall the Hydra’s position was dire. They were heavily outnumbered; Argonne was down and most of the rest of them were injured. Though they had so far avoided the worst of the ghouls attacks  they were completely surrounded. The battle promised only one, grim conclusion. Fortunately for the Hydra, they had managed to hold out long enough for gnome to act. 

Bolstered by his spell of consecration, Mortec called on the power of his dark Goddess. A tremendous wave of energy radiated from the tiny figure and swept through the surrounding ghouls. Casting their arms up in terror, fully seven of them broke off their attack and stood rooted to the spot in awe. The small gnome commanded their attention utterly, standing proudly and fully revealed as a priest of Nachtigal, for it was she he had called upon. His deception of masquerading as a priest of Todesmagie had come to an end.

Inspired by the gnome, the rest of the companions roared in triumph before attacking the remaining ghouls with renewed vigour. Standing over Argonne’s body, Stravarius and Morgan strove to drive back the ravening ghouls with the sharp points of their rapiers. Once of them slipped Morgan’s guard and jagged a claw into his thigh. The warrior turned pale and then slumped paralysed to the ground. Feeling the momentum begin to shift back to the Gerechians, Moxadder stepped up his offence and cut down a ghoul with a wild flurry of blows. Another advanced and clawed the dagger-man but his eyes glowed bright in defiance of the unnatural chill. Before the remaining ghouls could attack, Mortec called again on the might of Nachtigal. The dark energy that radiating from him momentarily blackened the sight of his companions as the remaining undead were forced to cower at his feet.

The Hydra looked on Mortec in awe.

“Quickly”, he commanded. “Hack them down before they shake free.”

Even Gerard leapt to obey, cowed by the authority radiating from his small companion. It was grisly work, but none questioned its necessity. They had not been in such peril since the pirate’s lair. It was a wearisome business, and by the time they had finished Mortec had been forced to expend more of his energies to renew his power over the ghouls.. 

With the stench of slaughter upon them they set about binding their wounds, hoping that no virulence had infected them through the claws of the dead. Mortec was forced to burn more divine essence to restore some health to Argonne, who had been sorely battered.

Having recovered his strength, Stravarius began to explore the rooms leading off from the massive hall. The first was occupied by four figures. Two lay naked on low stone tables while two others in loin cloths rubbed rancid oil onto their backs. The Black Elf, hung back, wondering if they were alive, dead or something in between. One of the masseurs reached for a bone knife and began to scrape off the oil. Unnoticed by either party, skin was being shaved off along with the oil. With a grimace of distaste, Stravarius moved onto the next room. It was filled with steam and not even his supernatural sight could pierce its confines. The silent form of Moxadder came up to join him. His platinum eyes glowed once more, piercing the fog to lay bare the contents of the room. Abruptly he retreated, pulling Stravarius with him.

“What is it?” Snapped the Black Elf, annoyed a the contact.

“Something shadowy in the far corner, I didn’t like the look of it. Stravarius nodded. He had no wish to face any strange peril either.

Back by the pool, Mortec had finished examining the priest’s belonging when the paralysis left Morgan’s limbs. Screaming in fury, the Fastendian leapt to his feet and began hacking ineffectually at the dismembered corpses with his rapier. With an irritated sigh, the gnome called once more upon his powers and healed the Fastendian of the worst of his wounds. With a great shudder, Morgan regained control of himself and embarrassed, began to see to his weapons. 

Meanwhile Gerard stood with his back to the pool, feverishly working to clean his rapier of the gore of the battle. Unnoticed by him, a slimy tentacle emerged with slick smoothness from the scummy waters and began to slide towards him...


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## Fiasco (Apr 5, 2007)

The tentacle arched up in anticipation of seizing Gerard when a bolt buried itself deep in its slimy flesh. A warning cry from Morgan accompanied his attack, galvanizing the others to action. A forest of tentacles burst from the water, followed by a hideous sagging body reminiscent of a lanced boil leaking pus. Gerard gave a cry of horror even as he desperately scrambled backwards and fumbled for his crossbow. Argonne too tried to retreat, dragging his wounded body as fast as he could away from the monster. Morgan called on the Hydra to bring missile weapons to bear, within moments he was joined by Moxadder and Mortec. A ragged volley of bolts were sent against the horror as each adventurer tried to load his weapon as fast a panicked hands would allow. 

Stravarius alone was a centre of calm amidst the frenzied behaviour of his companions. Firmly repressing his disgust at the creature he called on his dark nature to summon a surge of necromantic energy into his fist. Feeling the strength sapping magic build to painful levels he hurled it the creature with a snap of his arm and a dark word in the language of the Dominion. The eldritch assault struck true and the putrid beast wilted visibly under the assault. Encouraged, the others loosed a better directed volley against it. 

Enraged, the creature exerted itself mightily and snapping its tentacles forwards, used the momentum to heave itself bodily from the pool. With the corrupted waters cascading from its hideous body it gathered itself for a deadly charge at the Hydra’s position. Eye’s bulging in terror, the companions struggled to reload their weapons; Moxadder cursed bitterly as his crossbow string snapped under the strain. Gerard’s bolt sank into the creature’s flesh with a revolting slurp but it was not enough to forestall its assault. Eye’s blazing furiously, Stravarius stepped forward and sent another necromantic bolt into their horrid foe. This time the black pulse of energy wracked the entire creature’s frame and abruptly its entire strength fell from its limbs, dropping it against he marble floor with a disgusting slap of diseased flesh. 

Shouting for the others to finish it Morgan advanced and loosed arrows into the creature from point blank range. Twitching its tentacles feebly the creature tried to pull back into the safety of the pool but the next volley of bolts ripped through its body and spilled its life to the floor. Even as the body collapsed in upon itself the Hydra sent another two terror inspired volleys into its corpse before they ceased. 

Trembling, they took stock of themselves, amazed that they had come through unharmed. Having spent their final reserves of energy they decided to retreat to the level above to recover from their wounds. As they gathered their possessions together Stravarius noticed a glint of metal from the other side of the pool and circled around to investigate. He discovered a small pile of treasure which included an ivory mask, a scattering of gold and platinum coins of ancient Gerechian design, a beautiful ebon staff shod with silver and a metal book case. Pleased with the haul, the Black Elf gathered them together and rejoined his companions who were already retreating towards the stairs. 

Once they had regained the relative safety of the upper level, the companions decided to return to the main entrance. Watching the wandering Gerechians with renewed wariness they reached their mounts without incident. There the guard shifts were quickly determined and all those not on duty collapsed into an exhausted sleep. Body still tingling from the energies he had expended, Stravarius watched over his companions, his blazing eyes piercing the darkened recesses of the chamber. The dolorous hymns of the Gerechian choir nestled mournfully in the subconscious of the sleepers.

_The mill stone of his justice will grind them into truth…_ 

Despite their uncomfortable surroundings it was a much refreshed party that descended the stairs a day later. The scene in the pool room appeared unchanged save for the fact that the tentacled horror had decayed into the viscous slime that stained the marble a particularly virulent green. Leaving the side chambers be they moved to the far end of the room. Raising their torches high they saw a set of slime encrusted double doors in the North wall. More curiously they also saw two rough tunnels dug into the stone of the Eastern wall. As the Hydra warily approached they heard a whimpering sound from the nearer one.

Gazing intently forward, Stravarius looked in vain for the source of the noise for it lay beyond even his exceptional vision. Concentrating for a second, he called upon one of the minor gifts imparted on him by the Dominion’s corrupting influence and limned the tunnel with sickly green flames. By their unearthly light two short but stocky figures were revealed as they ran towards the companions. 

“Rat Trolls!” Moxadder shouted as the companions noted the familiar knobbly hide and wicked teeth and claws of the creatures. Stravarius summoned a bolt of viridian energy with a word and sent it unerringly into one of the trolls while the other was struck by a bolt from Gerard and a dagger from Moxadder. Their nimble movements foiled the remaining attacks of the Hydra allowing them to close without further harm. A claw shrieked off Morgan’s war mask while Stravarius barely evaded a disembowelling slash from the other attacker.

The companions slashed and stabbed ineffectually at the creatures as Moxadder abandoned his position in the front line to circle behind the trolls into a flanking position. Though outnumbered the trolls were carrying the fight to the companions, their swift movements and high pitched snarls unnerved the Hydra. Stravarius took a nasty slash to the chest and was forced to fall back. His retreat was covered by Gerard who managed a good thrust into the troll with his rapier. Beside him Mortec called on dark Nachtigal and summoning dire power into his hand, brought it to bear on the other troll. A charge of ravening energy tore through its muscles, causing it to shrill in rage. In retaliation the creature hacked both sets of claws into the gnome, hurling him bodily backwards. Despite the gruesome damage, the dread gnome gamely struggled to get back to his feet. 

A crackling bolt of necromantic force struck the troll, leeching a little strength from it as Stravarius contributed to the battle. Positioned behind the trolls, Moxadder fervently hoped that no reinforcements were coming. Timing his attack to coincide with that of Morgan he slashed a deep cut across a rat troll’s back. Both creatures were injured now, but fought on undeterred. From experience the Irudeshian knew all too well how much vitality the tough little creatures possessed. Almost as if to demonstrate their capabilities both trolls scored vicious hits, injuring Morgan and Gerard. 

Thinking to conserve his arcane energies, Stravarius drew the wand sold him by Grelda in the Port of the Warlock. Sighting carefully along its length he aimed at a troll and spoke the world ‘Schwach’. To his surprise, nothing happened. His brow furrowed for a second, then he brought his sword up beside the wand. No tell tale colourations appeared on the blade, telling him the item was not enchanted. Cursing at having been cheated, he hurled the useless bit of wood away, resigned himself to calling on his own powers once more.

Despite taking wounds the companions battled on valiantly. Morgan and Gerard both scored hits on the same troll, allowing Moxadder to bring it down with a dagger deep in its spine. The other fought on, forcing Argonne to defend desperately with his staff. A bolt of magic from Stravarius weakened the troll considerably and Morgan wounded it severely with a perfectly weighted stab. A brief moment of sanity came over the ravening rat troll and it tried to flee the combat only to be brought down by a powerful thrust by Gerard. 

With the noisy chaos of battle over the companions heard more whimpering sounds come from the depths of the tunnel. They looked at each other, fearing another assault but Moxadder shook his head.

“That aint rat trolls”, he gasped in exhaustion. The Irudeshian was drenched in sweat and his lungs rattled unpleasantly as he struggled to regain his breath. With trembling hands he conjured a stick of devil weed from his pouch and struggled to get it lit. Shaking his head in disgust, Morgan finished binding his wounds and advanced resolutely down the tunnel. The others followed, clutching weapons tightly in trepidation. After a hundred feet they came upon a crude nest made up of refuse, coins and scattered pieces of equipment. Huddled in the centre of the pile was a whimpering, pot bellied human. 

His pale flesh was glazed with sweat and the few rags he wore stuck unpleasantly to his skin. The sour reek that emanated from him rivalled the stench of the troll nest. He looked up at the party with terrified, pale blue eyes while trying to snuffle back a trickle of snot from his nose.

“Oh please don’t hurt me”, he implored wringing his fingers. In the name of mighty Gerech, please take me from his place.”

At the mention of the god the companions looked disgustedly at each other.

“Ahnother bloody Gerechian”, muttered Argonne darkly. “That’s just what we bloody well need, and me without an axe!”


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## Fiasco (Apr 19, 2007)

While Gerard and Mortec questioned the wretch, Moxadder and Argonne sifted through the filthy nest. To their surprise they found items of value amongst the mess. Coins of various mintage glinted amongst the ordure and what at first appeared to be a pile of scrap turned out to three suits of dirty but high quality dwarven armour accompanied by assorted weaponry.

Disgusted with this naked display of avarice, Morgan pointedly turned his back on the fossickers and kept watch down the corridor. Tense and uneasy, Stravarius did the same in the other direction. 

Questioning the human proved tedious and irritating. A miserable, self pitying creature, it took patient navigation through his numerous outbursts of tears, self recriminations and hand wringing misery to learn he was named Sneeful the Pious, an acolyte of Gerech. His tale was unreal and garbled, for he claimed to have come from a temple of Gerech many hundreds of miles distant, North of Riverglenn. Bored with the ordinary monastic routine he had wandered down to the lower levels of the temple where he wandered into a ‘chamber of stars’. He had little recollection of what happened next, except for making the horrid realisation that he was now in a very different temple. He had wandered randomly until falling afoul of the rat trolls who had captured him for their amusement and eventual feasting.

A scoffing Gerard would have dismissed the story out of hand had he not recalled the fragment of an ancient legend he had read in Leith’s Abbey. Though obscure, in the light of what Sneeful claimed Gerard now understood the text may have alluded to the ability of senior priests of Gerech to swiftly over travel great distances during the time of the Convocation. Calling Morgan over, he asked him to confer with the spirit of Valentin to confirm the substance of the story. 

The Fastendian wrestled internally for a few long moments before curtly confirming the broad veracity of the claims. When pressed for further details his metal lips compressed stubbornly. Shaking his fearsome mask Morgan refused to divulge further information, stating regretfully that they were speaking of the most sacred mysteries of Gerech, not to be shared with heretical unbelievers. Valentin’s words, not his he amended apologetically.

Frustrated, Mortec glared first at Morgan and then Sneeful. To be on the verge of learning such a great and ancient secret only to be denied came close to causing him physical pain. Grinding his teeth he considered Sneeful’s demeanour. While the cringing and cowardice were certainly genuine, there was a hint of calculation behind the performance. The little snot knew more than he was letting one and the gnome itched to wring the truth out of him. 

Mortec’s musings were interrupted by the decision of the others to continue exploring the tunnels. Staring Sneeful in the eye he told him to stay close and keep quiet. A futile command as it turned out for the whining complaints of the woe begotten acolyte continued unabated. 

Their exploration bore unexpected fruit for in the furthest recess of the final tunnel they found a cluster of dwarves; bruised, battered and heavily bound. Sneeful seized upon the halt to collapse to the ground, rubbing his legs and groaning loudly. Kuruul ponderously lay down close to the acolyte, keeping a half slitted yellow eye on him. 

Gerard hastened forward to cut the captives free of their bonds while Mortec conversed haltingly in Dwarven before shifting to Guernean when he learnt they were familiar with the language. The dwarves shared a similar tale to Sneeful; in as much they had stumbled into an abandoned temple of Gerech when seeking shelter from a storm. Their explorations had taken them deep inside the ancient building. They were a little uncertain of what had happened next and were surprised to hear that they were now a long way distant from the Kazakash mountains on the distant border of Guerney. 

Finding the composure and obvious competence of the dwarves a welcome contrast to the irritating presence of Sneeful, the companions quickly proposed an alliance with them. While initially suspicious, the dwarves quickly warmed to their rescuers when reunited with their equipment from the rat troll’s nest. Further items were piled nearby and they were fully outfitted in short order. The dwarves introduced themselves as Rarut Key Mace, Rokana Silver Seeker, Hakay Vein Carver and Torgal the Witch Slayer. 

Though not in the best of health, they were very keen to find a way out of the temple as quickly as possible. It was only when Mortec expounded on the dangers they faced that they reluctantly agreed to taking rest in order to regain their strength. 

Once more the party returned to the entrance chamber to the temple, this time augmented by allies both wanted and not. A half day’s rest proved sufficient time for Torgal to call on Muhbelung to heal those who had toiled hard and also to restore his powers. In the same time, Rokana, noticing Argonne’s broken axe, offered to repair it with her portable forge. The woodsman gratefully accepted the offer and was mightily pleased to be armed with his favourite weapon once more. 

Despite the relative safety of their surroundings the dwarves appeared uncomfortable resting, as if time were against them. Mortec and Gerard were able to glean that Rokana was a high ranking noble of her people and that she had been on her way to an important betrothal ceremony when they had fallen afoul of the temple. Spurred on by these worries they pressed the others to continue the exploration. The companions agreed. 

Sharing tales of their experiences they returned to the room containing the noxious pool and came to stand before the slime encrusted double doors in the North wall. The companions looked grimly at each other and all conversation ceased. Argonne and Stravarius approached the foreboding entrance. Taking a deep breath they laid hands on the doors and began to push (causing Gerard to choke back bile at their seeming disregard of the filth they were touching). 

With a damp groan the doors swung inward to reveal a large dining hall. Long tables slick with mould lined the chamber and a large number of figures sat before tarnished silver plates piled high with slime. As one the diners glanced up to stare hungrily at the new arrivals with their soulless white eyes. The companions’ horror was compounded when they saw a small pack of rat trolls busily feeding on the body of one of the acolytes. They looked up lazily from their grisly meal to take note of the adventurers as if to mark them down for dessert. 

Argonne and Stravarius stood dumfounded for a long second as they took in the scene before acting in complete accord to drag the doors shut. The others fumbled desperately for their weapons while the grim expressions of the dwarves hardened to stone. Moxadder cocked his head and listened keenly for any sound that might be coming from the dining hall. Apart from the nervous movements of his companions he heard nothing. A slow minute passed with each second accompanied by a painful hammering in their chests. Spitting contemptuously, Argonne broke the tension.

“Bloody Gerechians, thah so daft thah couldn’t find t’arses using both hands. Tha’ve probably gone back to shovlin slime or the gods knaw what else robbish in t’gobs.”

“We should take advantage of that and fight them on our own terms”, said Morgan. “We open the doors and lure some of the rat trolls, shutting the rest out and keeping the odds in our favour.”

“You’re all mad”, whined Sneeful. “Who would be fool enough to be the lure…” his voice trailed off as a fit of paranoid fear seized him.

“I might be able to help with that” rasped an unexpected but familiar voice. Kuruul had decided to grace the conversation with his full attention and hence stood transformed into his humanoid aspect. His appearance caused a sensation, with Sneeful swooning into merciful (at least for the others) senselessness and the dwarves preparing to do battle with the strange goblin like entity. Several minutes were taken up in reassuring them and explaining the Barghest’s unique nature.

Eventually order was restored and Kuruul went on to explain that his magic would serve to lure some of the rat trolls to them. It would fall to the rest of the adventurers to secure the door and destroy the creatures. Moxadder suggested having a large fire lit in order to ensure the immolation of the trolls’ bodies.

While a small party was sent upstairs to fetch dry wood the others planned the specifics of the assault. The concept of making plans was a novel one for the Hydra and they all pitched in with enthusiasm. Moxadder and Rarut would stand beside one of the doors, positioned to bring down a troll from behind. Argonne would be by the other, ready to throw the magical net of Srcan they had found on the top level. Beside him would be Mortec, who would take care of any ghouls which might wander through. Stravarius, Gerard, Morgan and the rest of the dwarves would stand further back from the doors, to attract the attention of the trolls and to allow them to bring them down with ranged weapons. No-one asked or cared what Sneeful would do, an arrangement which suited him very well. On recovering his wits he crawled out of harm’s way to cower against a distant wall.

As Morgan stood with the rank of warriors facing the doors he surveyed the area of battle. Everyone was in their place and a healthy fire was burning ten feet back and to the right of the entrance. Kuruul moved up to stand before the doors, motioning for them to be opened. Something nagged at the Fastendian. Their plan seemed sound, but at this critical juncture it seemed that something had eluded them in their planning. He was about to say as much to Gerard when the doors were pushed open, revealing the nightmarish dining hall.

The scene was as before, with the Gerechians dining at the table while the rat trolls lurked to the back of the chamber. Kuruul strode into the doorway and then vanished, reappearing directly in front of the surprised trolls. Before they could react he began to sprint back to the doors. With shrill yips and hoots they followed, eager to bring down this tasty morsel. The Barghest was only narrowly in the lead when they passed through the doorway.

The carefully devised plan sprang into action. Moxadder reached out with a long arm and plunged a dagger deep into a passing rat trolls neck. Though it screamed in agony, it continued its charge at the cluster of people standing 40 feet beyond the doors. Rarut clipped another troll with his axe but is also continued its advance. On the other side of the door Argonne hurled his net. Unused to its cumbersome weight his timing was off and the trolls had already passed by when it hit the ground. Beside him Mortec gazed into the room at the nearby Gerechians who had stopped their ghastly feast to watch the battle. Calling on his dark Goddess he channelled her wrath into the room, cowing four of the diners. The rest reacted in fury, however, and tumbling back their chairs they charged en masse to join battle.

As Morgan braced for the attack of the five bounding rat trolls only scant yards away and took in the sight of the horde of undead about to enter, he suddenly came to the gut wrenching realisation of the flaw in their plan; no-one had been assigned to shut the doors!


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