# Dusk in the Land of the Fading Stars- Clark's Story Hour



## clark411 (Jul 22, 2002)

Greetings,

Before I begin this story hour, I’d like to start with some sort of advisory note that attempts to allieviate any confusion or confoundment caused by the title of this thread being so similar to that of Femerus' Story Hour.  Note that beyond the title, Femerus' has a  icon while mine has a  icon.

Both of these story hours are set in the same world, at the same time in the fiction, and are both run by myself.  I run Femerus' story online (as he's a college bud that moved home), and run this game locally (as my other college mates live around here).  The two campaigns exist concurrently and experience two different plots that both will twine more than overlap I hope (although two games is definitely a strain on the thinking cap), and events that each cause will more than likely reflect in the setting of the other campaign, as is appropriate.  

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy.


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## clark411 (Jul 22, 2002)

*Creation Myth "A Father and His Children"*

Here is the Creation Myth as presented to the players.  This was the first piece of literature that I used to give them a flavor for the campaign world.  This copy is identical to that found in Femerus' story hour, so this might be familiar.


"A Father and His Children"

From His throne in the Great Hall of the Gods, the Father of Man was chief and ruler of all the gods, but as any father, He did not hold such title from a throne. He was father from his window far above the gilded forums and marble halls of the Great Hall. There He stood each night, longspear in hand, stirring from the ether great gems of unimaginable beauty, brightness, and heat. He called them stars, and like an artist upon a canvas immeasurable, He drew constellations above a planet of blue and green. It was a gift eternal, from a father immortal.

He was the Father of Man, and for Him these gems of fire, life, and light paled in comparison to his most cherished creation: man. Humanity and all its spirit was to him a milieu of shining lights and sublime colors and textures more grandiose than an eternity of myriad stars. He saw them as a reflection of Himself that stood not as a testament of some divine vanity, but rather as a creation made for no other purpose than to feel life in all its happiness and sadness. With hearts He shaped with His own heart, man lived to the brief yet infinitely mutable cadence of passion, compassion, and hope.

Night after night, the Father of Man would spend countless hours swirling stars into form and arranging them into patterns of hunters, farmers, kings, peasants, animals, and gods. As time passed, the gods themselves came to watch his creation, and while some marveled at his works and thanked him for their images in his sky, many grew envious of His children. He was to be a chief and father to them, not mortals of no great power or consequence, and the love that He gave to his mortals was love not given to them. Even when He finished his tapestry of stars and ether, they watched Him as He stood at His window for hours looking down upon His children with great affection.

In distant places beyond his sphere of stars and his planet of green and blue, the gods plotted against the Father of Man. Led by the Deciever, Prince of the Gods, they stood in silent corridors of the Great Hall and allowed their hearts to fester with anger and deceit. The throne was empty, and the Deciever whispered that if the Father of Man would not lead the gods, then only He could. In the names of duty, honor, and station He hissed in secret words and muted oaths that He would rule with a love devoted solely to the gods that obeyed Him- and these words were like ambrosia to the gods that had longed for love and leadership.

After nights of plotting deep and dark promises, the Deciever strode into the chambers of the Father of Man. Fierce sword of shadow in hand, the Deciever pointed to his chief, and bade him turn away from His children. Seeing the Prince armed for battle, the Father of Man called his spear, Starshaper, to His side. As it raced to his side, His anger grew. The Prince derided Him, and called Him a poor father and incompetant ruler. It took little more than these words to enrage the Father of Man, and He quickly leapt towards the Deciever, his golden spear racing towards the dark heart that challenged Him.

A great battle ensued. For days and nights the Deciever and the Father of Man clashed with steel and magic both great and terrible. The Deciever's sword was black and poisonous, but the Father's spear was true, and pierced the side of the lesser god. Dropping to his knees, the Deciever watched with a shocked expression upon his dark brow as his even darker blood ran in flowing rivulets across the chamber tiles and into the shadows and cracks of the walls. His blood was the stuff of shadows, and it found its way beyond the window. It trickled outward and downward across the ether and into the creation made by the Father of Man.

The Deciever, kneeling with his sword in hand, smiled and pointed to the earth of blue and green. "Look, look at your children Father." He said, "Look once more, and remember it well. Know that soon it shall be gone, for as you fought me, the gods have been gathering their powers to destroy all that you have made! Soon all that will remain of your creation will be ashes and darkness- and you will have nothing to love but us!"

The Father of Man quickly turned from his foe, and ran to the window in time to see the gods completing their final chants. Words of light and dark, brought together by corruption and envy, swirled in the void beyond the stars. Ancient hymns long forgotten stalked from the lips of the gods, and the Father of God knew fear for the first time.

Gathering His strength, the Father of Man poured His energy towards his earth of blue and green. With great sadness He locked from sight His children and stars. A great veil covered the ether just as the killing blow of the petty, lesser gods raced forth. The Father of Man wept bittersweet tears as the destructive hymn scattered across the void, for while He saved His children, He knew that for eternity they would be lost to Him.

He had one final hope. "Starshaper, my companion and protector, I am afraid that I must give you up as well this bitter night. You are the only thing in all of existence sharp enough to pierce my shield without destroying it. If I cannot be with my children- if I cannot see them- then I must find some solace in the hope that they can in some way see me as they look to the heavens and the stars I made for them.

"Go to them. Be their guide in the times to come, and give them strength and direction. Stand as a testament of faith for them, and be my final gift to them." With that said, He let Starshaper fly, and as it struck the veil, it pierced it and struck deep into the heart of the earth of blue and green.

From behind Him, the Father of Man heard laughter. Turning, he saw the Deciever, clutching his wound in one hand and his sword of darkness and pain in the other. "And it seems you have given your life to your children as well, Father. Know this- my blood has fallen upon your earth of blue and green, and it will destroy it- veil or no. As you took from my heart darkness, so shall I give your children darkened hearts. And as the darkness enters the heart of Man, both they and your precious stars shall know death. And when the last star dies- so too will your children."

The Father of Man threw himself at the Deciever in rage, and the dark god pierced the Father's heart as He ran. Stopped cold, His hands clutching the arms of the Prince of Lies, the Father of Man fell to His knees. Coughing, he looked to the Deciever and spoke.

"You may take away the stars from my children, but know this. You will never take from them the ability to look upward... and forward. You will never take from them their hope, or mine," and with that, the Father of Man, Chief of the Gods, died.

Far below, under a veil of shadows and light, the spear rested in a valley of green. Humanity looked to it in reverence and humility. Along its golden hilt shone the runes crafted by loving hands, and as the first star of the Great Maker faded, they wept- as orphans of a loving Father.


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## clark411 (Jul 22, 2002)

*The Characters*

The Dramatis Personae, in order of appearance:

*Dalen the Spellsword* (Human Fighter / Wizard).
	Born in the cultured lands of the Illuvian Province, Dalen is a man of refined taste and the product of proper breeding and classical education.  After being chosen by representatives of the High Wizard Emrys, Dalen was inducted into his order as an agent of the Council of Nine- a secretive cadre of powerful wizards whose influences extend across the land.

*Rove*.  Dalen’s cat familiar.

*Khamal the Bounty Hunter* (Human Ranger / Rogue)
	Almost the polar opposite to Dalen, Kamal was born and educated in the streets of the frontier city of Taranis.  Armed with his wits and a desire to pull himself from his dark background, Kamal established himself as a bounty hunter that specialized in the capture of the Wildmen of the North.

*Graddock of the Wilds* (Human Barbarian)
	Raised in the frontier lands beyond the shelter of city walls, Graddock grew strong and wild as he lived to hunt and provide for his parents and siblings.  Like Kamal, he too has history with the Wildmen, and this is how the two met.  While hunting in a snow-covered forest, Graddock encountered Kamal, who was being followed by the Wildmen.  Almost mistaken for a Wildman himself, Graddock and Kamal rapidly established comraderie as they fought off their foes.

*Anton of the Forests* (Human Druid)
	While most spend their winter months reading books or telling stories with their friends and families by firelight, Anton wanders the forests he calls home, tending to the sleeping trees and seeking soft soils beneath the snows to place seeds for springtime.  His is a distant life from society, and that distance brings him contentment.

*Charity, Priestess of the Father of Man* (Human Cleric)
	A young and inexperienced member of the Church of the Father, Charity wields her ceremonial spear with an eager hope to do good in the world.  Recently arriving from the southlands, she has found the Church in the Lands of Leel to be as cold as the winter she has arrived for.


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## clark411 (Jul 22, 2002)

*Chapter 1*

It was the beginning of the cold season in the northern lands of House Leel, and as the sublime hues of the evening sky gave way to the dark gray of a winter’s night, snow began to fall.  The stone highway that was blanketed with early day frosts was visible only by the knee-high wooden posts that marked the decimeters of the journey, and a lone man walked between them as his journey led him north.

His breath rose in mists that quickly vanished into the cold wind that slowly was beginning to grow as the snowclouds silently roiled high above the bleak fields of white.  “Although I may have lost count, I think we’re nearly there.”  Toned his voice from beneath the ice covered fur of the wintercloak that hid his face up to the bridge of his patrician nose.  Peering out into the growing dark of the coming night, he saw a group of buildings that was clustered along side the row of road posts that stretched as far as he could see.  “Good, despite the storm we’ve made good time.  With any luck, there will be a bed there for us.”  
Opening his cloak enough to see within, his gaze met the soft green glow of catseyes.    The cat, warm beneath the cloak, extended its claws to strengthen it’s grip on the man’s arm.  Wincing slightly, the man nodded and closed the cloak to keep the cold out.  “Sometimes Rove, I want to just drop you in a snowbank.  You should treat me a little better—there are far more snowbanks in these parts.”  Without a response from beneath his cloak, the man smiled, and continued down along the road and towards the tavern.

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The crisp, pained cry of the wooden stool took the form of a series of cracking noises as an ox of a man shifted his weight to lean his fists on the tavern’s bar.  His cloak doing little to conceal his size or the massive sword that was strapped across his back, Graddock would have been sitting alone if not for his companion Kamal.  Feeling the snap of cold across the back of his neck, the dark-skinned Khamal’s eyes turned to look towards the door.  _Longsword beneath his cloak_, he noted silently before returning to his drink.

The man chose the only available seat in the house, sitting by the large man with the sword strapped across his back.  “Bartender—a glass of brandy and a bowl of milk please.”  He asked, taking from his coin purse three Settorins, more than enough to excuse the presence of the black cat he softly placed on the table before the bowl.  Sipping his brandy, he turned to see the large man staring intently at Rove.  “Is he bothering you, ser?”

The large man shook his head, “No, I just have never seen a black one before.”  He turned back to his drink.

“Fair enough.” The cloaked man nodded, pulling his hood down from his face as it began to drip melted frost.  “I am Dalen, and this is Rove.  We’ve traveled from Illuvia.”

“Graddock.”

“Well met.”  A moment of uncomfortable silence between the two was interrupted as an armored man wearing a bear cloak put his arm between them.

“Bartender, two more for us!”  he said, before returning to his table.

“He seemed dressed for a fight.  Do you know who he is?” Dalen quietly said to Graddock.

The ox grunted.  “That bear cloak is the symbol of House Leel.  He’s a Man-at-Arms of some sort.”

“I see.  You both seem fairly well armed as well.  Could I ask what you do?”

The dark-skinned Khamal leaned forward to meet Dalen’s gaze.  “We’re bounty hunters.  Mercenaries.  Headsmen.  You name it.”  He placed a short chain of long,  rusted, three pronged hooks from his belt and placed them on the table.  “Graddock, remind me later to replace these ones.  Looks like dead wildmen fight us even when they are nothing more than bounty-heads on our hooks.”

“The blood of Wildmen is harsher than acid.” Grunted the ox.

Recalling his lessons, Dalen nodded.  “’Blood will always triumph over steel,’ it is said, ‘and Man shall always reign so long as-‘”

“We are born of the blood of our fathers, and not of their steel.’” Khamal finished.  “I have heard this before.”  He nodded.

Dalen nodded, and finished his brandy.  Rove looked at him silently, and pawed softly at his hand.

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The darkness of the forests to the west of the tavern was pierced by the rapid motions of torchlight moving amongst the weighed down boughs of snow-baring trees.  Twelve riders armed for battle sped out and onto the silent night highway, passing a lone horseman who kept to the foilage of the woods as they moved southward.  Anton, leaning downward to speak to his horse, waited until they were gone before he spoke.

“That was uncommon.”

Pausing to think a moment longer, he pulled the reigns of the horse to move out of the forest and onto the open road.

Far beyond, he watched as the twelve horsemen reached the crest of the hill, and continued southward.  When he was convinced none would see him follow, he pushed his horse into a gallop along the winter road.

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Dalen sat listening to Khamal and Graddock tell their stories of the North and the Wildmen, contentedly absorbing the information in case it could become relevant in the future.  Like any learned in the arcane, Dalen was more than used to learning about accomplishment, failure, and the will to succeed despite the dangers of the unknown.  He smiled at the parts of their stories that contained fights, noting that although their stories were perhaps more simplistic than those of the arcanists he had been taught, they had far more exciting parts to their tales.

“So, you hunt the Wildmen because they’re a danger to the city then?” he asked.

Khamal, putting flagon of mead down, nodded. “Yes.  Well, frankly it’s more about the—” he paused as Graddock, facing the window behind him, put a hand on his shoulder.

“Torches.”

Khamal and Delan turned in unison to look out of the windows of the tavern.  Amidst the reflections of dancing, fiddlers, candles and a softly crackling fireplace, the night air beyond the tavern was illuminated by armored men whose steel glittered with torchlight.  Amidst the dancing ghosts that wavered across the window pane, they stood there motioning to each other, and barking muted orders.  Below the frenzied pitch of fiddle and dancing feet that kept off the cold, Graddock and Khamal heard the solid thump of the tavern doors being barred.

Rising to their feet, the two headsmen unsheathed their weapons at the bar, along with their cloaked friend.  The sounds of merriment shattered along with the windows as thrown torches skittered across the dusty floorboards.  Scimitar in hand, Khamal ran full force at the window, diving through it and out into the bitter cold of the night air.  Rising quickly from the snow, he saw four of the horsemen pointing their swords at him.


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## clark411 (Jul 23, 2002)

*Chapter 1 continued*

As Khamal rose, scimitar bespeckled with traces of winter snow, the heavy tavern doors shuddered from the heavy blows of Graddock.  Dalen, looking about the tavern, saw the commoners shouting and pointing at the smoke rising from the torches.  The Men-at-Arms were on their feet, longswords drawn and looking to the ox, who slammed against the door as hard as he could.

“This isn’t working.  Stay here.” Dalen said to the cat, whose ears were folded back as it looked at the flames.  Without another word, Dalen ran to the window that Khamal had jumped through, and leapt out of it, landing roughly on the snows behind the scimitar wielding bounty hunter.  Standing beside Khamal, he shouted to the four horsemen.

“Drop your weapons and torches and we shall see that you receive a fair trial in accordance with the laws of this land.” He stated clearly.

Khamal’s eyes rolled, as he moved to remove the wagon that was holding the tavern door slammed.  _Like that’ll work_, he thought—his arms knotted with muscles as he strained against the wagon.  Graddock made the tavern door shudder with a loud thump, and the shouts of the Leelmen organizing the peasants to extinquish the fires were quickly overtaken by the screams of fear that attested to the rapidity with which the flames grew along the walls and up across the ceiling.  

Torches thrown on the rooftop set fire to thatching that curved upward into the air as cinders and ash, and from his vantage at the hilltop, Anton could see the ring of horsemen surrounding the tavern.  By the time he reached the outskirts of the tavern grounds, two men had appeared from within the building and were confronting the horsemen.  Reasoning that a fight would happen soon, Anton dismounted and quickly hit the horse’s thigh, which sent it away from the danger.

Hearing no response from the horsemen, Dalen pointed his sword at one of the riders.  “Why do you attack this tavern?  These people are all innocent farmers and commoners!”

One of the riders, sword in hand, responded.  “There are no innocents in the lands of Leel!”  With that said, he snapped the reigns of his horse, and moved towards Dalen, sword raised to attack.

The others horsemen closed to attack, and Dalen dove between the horses, barely dodging one sword, he felt the hot sting of steel slicing across his arm.  Whatever sound he made, it was sufficient to gain Khamal’s attention, who moved from the wagon to slice at the lead horseman with a blow that struck true.  A blood stain formed through the man’s chain armor, and he gathered the strength to return the blow, finding Khamal’s scimitar instead.

Wagon aside, Graddock’s final slam was met with no resistance, and the ox of a man barreled through the door and into the melee, his face dark with the stain of smoke.  Greatsword in hand, he took a second to appraise the situation.  Raising his blade to strike down the closest rider, he paused in surprise.

The grass was moving.  

At the very edge of the line between the light of the fires and the cold dark of night, Anton completed his entangle spell, causing the still living grasses to grow through the snows and wrap themselves around the legs of the horses and Dalen’s boots.  Caught off guard by this development, Dalen found himself unable to break free from the grasses.  Slicing at the nearest rider, he found naught but air.  His attack however, left an opening that the rider took advantage of.  With a swift stroke, a splatter of red struck the grasses, and Dalen fell.  As the flames of the tavern dimmed, and he plunged into nothingness, the spellsword felt the grasses slowly wrapping themselves around his arms, neck, and face.

Seeing his new acquaintance fall to the ground, Graddock roared with anger, and struck one of the riders with a force that felled him instantly.  Behind him, the two Men-at-Arms emerged from the tavern, and found themselves entangled along with the horses as they moved into the fray.

Khamal, finishing the lead horseman, took his net from his belt and attempted to pull Dalen from the fray with little effect.  Dropping the net, he turned to the next foe, who’se blade was quickly dodged by the large Graddock.  From the distance, a sling stone flew from Anton, striking the shield of the third rider.  Seconds later, another found it’s mark, hitting the man’s helm hard enough to make him dribble his front teeth into his armor.

Graddock swung at the final horseman and found only air.  The Leelmen were unable to escape the tangle of grasses that had wound its way up to their knees, and Dalan was bleeding to death as Rove meowed pathetically from the tavern door.  Khamal had to do something, and had no time to think.

From the rear of the horse, he jumped upward, stepping off it’s hindquarters, and planting his left hand on the helm of the rider, he twisted himself to land with his left foot on the man’s saddle, and his right on the horse’s neck.  The startled rider’s sword was half way to a defensive position by the time the curve of Khamal’s blade opened his throat.

As he jumped down, Graddock slapped the thigh of the lead raider’s horse, and as it sprinted away from the combat, the raiders positioned by the back of the tavern and the stables rode to join its side.  One of the Men-at-Arms managed to break free, and moved to Dalen.  Placing his hands upon the wounds, he administered crude first aid.  

“He might live, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”

Anton, who only now chose to approach the tavern as the peasants streamed out of it, stepped forward.  “Allow me to help.”

The druid knelt beside the guardsman, and placed his hands upon Dalen’s chest, chanting.  Beneath the guardsman’s hands, the wound that felled Dalen closed.  After several moments, Dalen’s eyes opened.  The first thing he saw was Anton, and then Khamal and Graddock.  The soldiers were busy moving the tavern-goers to a safe location away from the tavern, which was now a conflaguration of fire and cinders.

“Ladies, Sers, your attention please!  We’re going to take you to one of the military barracks in Taranis- there you will have free lodging.  Unfortunately we’re going to have to walk through a good part of the night to get there.  There’s no other course of action beyond freezing to death out here, and we can’t stay here.”

Graddock offered Dalen an arm, and as he stood, he turned to thank Anton.  Rove, by this point, had managed to perform the “cat-walking-in-snow-walk” (one paw step, shake-shake-shake, one paw step, shake-shake-shake) long enough to arrive at Dalen’s feet.  Scooping the cat up and placing him under his cloak, Dalen looked to the others.  “Well, we should probably follow them.”

Khamal nodded, “A bed’s nice, and a free bed is even nicer.”

With that said, the four of them set off behind the crowd of displaced women and children.  Travelling through the night, they reached the city gates in the bitter, silent hours before dawn.  If Taranis were the Jewel of the North, set upon the strong River Leorrin that Dalen had heard of, it was at this hour little more than a dull piece of glass, set upon a frozen ribbon of still ice.

They marched through the empty night streets, and they marched across the First Bridge, and they marched into the barracks.  Of all the sights that Dalen had seen in his travels to the Northlands, the splintered wood and hard mattress of a lower soldier’s empty bunk was the most beautiful sight of all.


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## clark411 (Jul 29, 2002)

*Chapter 2 Continued*

The light of dawn crept slowly into the room.  It slid across the walls, over the closed eyes of the exhausted travelers, and across their bed sheets.  By the time they awoke, it was a midday sun warming the clean, well-worn barracks floor.  Pushing aside his sheets, Khamal turned to his backpack and opened it.  Procuring a fresh set of clothes, he started to change beside his bed.  The shirt he had slept in was soiled from battle, caked in long dried blood, little of which was his own.  By the time he was tying his bootlaces, the others had awakened as well and were beginning to dress.

When Graddock was finished hastily clothing himself, Khamal chimed “Lets head out.  It was nice meeting you all.”

Graddock looked at the others, nodded his head a bit and turned to Dalen.  “Take care of yourself.”  He smiled and walked out the door after Khamal.

Dalen looked at Anton, then at the door again.  “What was that supposed to mean?” he frowned slightly.

Quickly buttoning his shirt, Anton turned.  “Well, you were the only one of us who…”

“No need to remind me.”  Dalen grimaced.  Looking down, he saw Rove padding across the floor, its eyes intent on a small mouse that was standing stock still underneath Graddock’s bed.

Anton rose, and lifted his spear from the floor along with his pack, and slung each over his back.  “It happens to the best of us.  All that matters is that you can feel the sun on your face today.”  Anton nodded his head with a slight smile, and walked out of the barracks.

Dalen slowly stood up from his bed, and looked at the black cat as it became motionless, feet from the mouse.  “I know you were planning to put it in my bed if I weren’t up so soon.  Give up and c’mon.  We’ve got work ahead of us.”  Rove turned and looked at Dalen with emerald eyes.  With the aloof motions only a cat is capable of, Rove turned from the mouse, and followed Dalen outside.

The chill of a winter breeze was offset by the warmth of the sun as Dalen walked out of the building, and although the barracks yards were full of activity as Leel guardsmen trained and marched, his eyes focused to four familiar men standing together across the training grounds.  Khamal, Graddock, Anton, and an officer were speaking to each other, and as soon as Dalen saw them, they saw him as well.  The officer beckoned to him with a hand signal.

Dalen approached them.  

“Glad to see you up, ser.  I’m Captain Armin of House Leel.” The man stated.

Dalen bowed slightly to show respect.  “Dalen.”

“If the four of you could follow me into my office, we’ve some business to discuss.”  The officer turned.  The four, looking at each other with curious glances and puzzled looks, followed him into a large building, down a hall, and into the Captain’s Office.  Sweeping aside a pile of papers left on the desk by the Captain of the previous shift, Armin gestured to four wooden seats arranged around the room.  “Please have a seat.”

Khamal, Graddock, Anton, and Dalan each found a seat, and looked intently at the captain.

“So, please describe to me exactly what happened last night.”  The Captain requested.

The four men worked together and created a timeline of events from the riders leaving the forest a few miles up the road from the tavern to their eventual escape.  With their story complete, Graddock asked who they were.

“Well, they obviously aren’t as large or reckless as Wildmen.  Based on the outfits of the three riders you killed, we have reason to believe that they are connected to a provincial faction.”  Armin leaned forward.  “Most of the populace is still ignorant of a growing organization that wishes to overthrow House Leel.  They are mostly peasants.”

“They do not fight like peasants.”  Khamal interjected.  “They were not easily routed, and even when wounded, they continued to attack.  They’re either fanatics, have military training, or both.”

Captain Armin nodded.  “Agreed.  Last night we believe they were targeting the two officers who were at the tavern.  I will be frank with you; currently, with the onset of winter, we don’t have the resources to commit a wide scale sweep of the area to root out these traitors.  Everyone is either north guarding against the Wildmen, guarding the cities, or training in Illuvia.”

Leaning back in his chair, Anton chimed in “And why are you telling us all of this, exactly?”

“Well, we want you four to find the remaining riders.  Normally we would post such a thing on headsmen and mercenary boards at the Militia Office, but right now the last thing we want is to bring this faction to the attention of the public.  When it starts getting colder, people stay inside by fireplaces.  They talk, and they talk where we can’t hear what they say.  Secrecy is of the utmost importance, at least until the Thawing—when we’ll be able to send out a contingent to deal with them.”

“Sounds simple enough.  Fine, but I expect we’ll be well paid for our efforts.”

Captain Armin nodded.  “We’ve set the bounty for them at the same rate as Wildmen.  Twenty Settorins each, if brought in alive; unlike the Wildmen, we expect our interrogation methods will work on members of this faction—fanatics or not.”

“Done.”

“For now, simply scout their base, and return with information.  We need to know how many horses they have, and how many men they have.  If they use runners or ravens, we’ll need to know that as well, not to mention what directions their messages head and arrive.  Report back, and we’ll formulate a plan of action.”

Khamal nodded and rose to his feet.  “We’ll set out at once.”  Turning, he walked out of the door with Graddock following closely behind.  Dalen nodded to the officer and bolted out the door behind Khamal.

“What in the Shadow are you doing getting me involved in this?” he asked Khamal’s back.

“Hey, you didn’t have to dive out the window after me.”  Khamal’s responded, continuing to walk out of the militia yards.

“What?”

“Back at the tavern.”

Dalen walked, thinking.  “Well, I…  You should have at least gotten a consensus or something.”  He stopped, waiting for an answer.

Khamal kept walking.  “If you don’t want to come, don’t.  Otherwise, meet us at the southern gate in one half hour.” 

Anton and Graddock walked past Dalen, who stood at the edge of the bustling street that Khamal had finally disappeared into.  Graddock patted him on the back as he left.

Turning, his head and shoulders above most of the crowd, he shouted to Dalen.  “It’ll be fun!”  He laughed, and moved southward towards the main plaza.  Anton vanished into the crowd as well.

Dalen sighed.  Despite himself, an hour later he found himself standing at the southern gate, waiting for the others.  Anton, Khamal, Dalen, and Graddock appeared from the crowds that shuffled through the snow covered streets, and they set off southward along the road.

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By midday, they found the forest that the riders came from.  Horse tracks wound into the barren, icy trees, and the silence of their slow march from tree to tree was broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath their feet.  Putting his hand up in a “Stop here” signal, Khamal moved forward to scout ahead of the group, the steel of his scimitar and dagger glittering from the bright snow.

Several minutes ahead of the group, he came upon one of the riders, who was watering his horse by a partially frozen brook.  Khamal froze in place on the periphery of the rider’s vision, and slowly placed his scimitar in the deep snow beside him.  Reaching to his belt, he produced his bolos, and with a soft thrum they found their target around the ankles of the rider.  Reacting, the rider fell on his back as he attempted to move.  Before he had his sword from his sheath, bits of snow were dripping onto his nose from the tip of a dangerously close blade.  Above him, Khamal smiled, and the rider laid his arms out straight, palms down on the snow as a sign of submission.

“Get up.”

He got up.

Khamal gave a brief whistle that resembled birdcall, and Graddock came with the others in tow shortly thereafter.  By the time they arrived, Khamal had the rider’s hands and feet securely tied.

Anton smiled.  “Impressive Khamal.  So this is a rider eh?  He looks a bit young.”

Khamal took a moment to closely examine the man, who was indeed almost a boy.  He could have been no more than seventeen.  Regardless, Khamal’s blade did not waver from the rider’s neck.

Dalen, stepped beside the rider and put his finger on the side of Khamal’s scimitar, pushing it slowly away.  “What is your name?” he said.

“I’m not telling you anything.”

Dalen put his finger on the other side of Khamal’s scimitar, and pushed it back.  “Let’s try this again.  What is your name?”

“Orren.  I’m Orren,” the young man said, swallowing hard as he strained his neck away from the blade.

“Excellent Orren.  Now tell us—where is your camp, and how many are there?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you, I’ll be killed if I do.”

Khamal moved his blade closer, till it’s sharp edge pushed into the boy’s neck.  “Northwest!  One mile!” the boy yipped with pain as a single, slow trickle of blood crept down the scimitar.

Dalen sighed, and moved for a different angle.  “What do you do when you aren’t burning taverns, Orren?  You don’t exactly look or act like the type to be involved in such things.”

“I’m a farmer’s son.  We have a small plot of land to the south near the border of Illuvia.”

Dalen nodded, and his mind formed a plan even as he spoke.  “So why did you burn a tavern that was filled with farming folk?”

“There were Leelmen in there.  We were supposed to kill them, it’s the only way to bring freedom to the people of this land!”

Graddock grunted, “You kill your own people to bring them freedom?”

The boy opened his mouth, but fell silent—seeming almost disturbed by the actions of the previous night.

Dalen nodded at Graddock.  “Alright Orren, we’re going to give you two options.  You can take off your armor and weaponry, get on that horse, and ride it all the way home, or we can take you and tie you up onto yonder tree until your friends come for you.  Given the fact that your friends will be in chains before night falls, I would not feel too safe with the second option.”

Orren looked into Dalen’s unwavering eyes and shook his head.  “I’ll leave.  I’ll go home and never burn another tavern.  Never look at another tavern!”

Dalen nodded to Khamal, who untied the boy.  “Strip.” He ordered.  The boy complied, and moments later rode off in the farmer’s outfit that he wore under his armor. 

Graddock scooped up the boy’s armor and weapons, securing them to his pack.  That done, the group moved northwest through the forest.  Half a mile later, Graddock stopped and pointed upwards.  “Look.”

Above, empty tree-stands dotted the trees.  Graddock slowly climbed up to the nearest empty stand, and found a quiver with three arrows, each wrapped with oil-soaked cloth.  Sliding down, he presented them to the group.  Anton nodded, “For lookouts.  Good thing these are empty, they’d have spotted us for sure already if they weren’t.”  Scanning the treetops further ahead, he pointed.  “That one’s not unoccupied!”

The four moved to hide behind trees, and slowly worked their way under it.  The man sat in the tree with a shortbow in his hands, looking away from their direction.  Khamal moved under the tree and threw his bolos up.  They sailed past, and the guard looked down with a surprised look on his face.  As Graddock started to climb the tree, the guard was busy lighting the oiled strip of his arrow.  Graddock managed to say “You better not” before the arrow was loosed into the camp.  It embedded itself mere feet from a large metal gong that was in the center of the campsite.

That done, Graddock grunted, and punched the man in the side of the head.  He groaned, and moved to shoot another arrow at the camp.  Below, Anton began to chant, and a celestial eagle appeared before the man, attempting to grab his arrows.  It snatched his arrows, and he tried to hit Graddock with the bow.

At that point, Graddock decided to stop being nice, and took a heavy mace from his belt.  Wood chips showered down to the ground as the guard ducked under the barbarian’s blow, and the man punched Graddock in the head again as he shouted at the top of his lungs to the sleeping camp below:

“FIRE ARROW!  FIRE ARROWWW!”

He was cut off before he could shout again, as Graddock’s mace found his jaw.  The man went limp, and fell into the snow a broken heap, forty feet below.

Anton looked up at Graddock as he climbed down the tree.  “Well, if flight of arrow, snap of tree, cry of pain, and roar of Graddock fail to wake the camp, we should have no fear of disturbing them.”

Despite his optimism, the group crouched in the snow to devise a plan.  At Dalen’s request, Rove moved into the camp and counted tents for them.  They then drew a rough sketch of the camp, and made a plan of action.  It went as follows.

Moving quietly, Khamal hustled to the gong and quickly cut it down, laying it gently down on the snow.  Anton moved to a covering position watching the entrance of the first tent as Dalen and Graddock moved to the tent’s side.  Using his dagger, Dalen poked a hole into the tent, and peered inside.  One of the riders was sleeping inside, unarmored.  Khamal moved in, and without a grunt, the rider moved from blissful slumber to blissful unconsciousness with the promise of a large headache in the future.

The group then moved from tent to tent, repeating the process—slicing holes into the tents to count sleepers, then moving in and knocking them out as the slept, then tying them up.  Within the span of an hour, ten riders were tied in the ropes that had earlier been used to support their own tents.

As Khamal triple checked the ropes, Dalen was busy slicing off a large portion of a tent, and writing words on it with broad strokes of a quill pen.  As the group left their “recon” mission with every rider bound as a prisoner, he stopped at the nearest tree and tied the tent fabric to it, as warning to those who would come upon the broken camp.

“Let this scene bear witness to any who would dare stand in defiance to the sovereign right of House Leel.”  

With prisoners in tow, the group returned to the barracks, greeted by a wide eyed Captain of the Guard.


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