# "An Icy Grave" : A Tale of Two Brothers



## Jon Potter (Jul 31, 2002)

Well, after reading - and being entertained by - many storyhours, I've decided to try my hand at it.

Sort of...

The story I'd like to relate is already written, since it's essentially a transcription of a PBEM game that I'm running. this particular tale is the story of a pair of dwarves on a delivery mission for their king who get a little way-layed on their way down from the mountain. It's also the way in which I introduced two new players to my campaign world - which is the typical blend of D&D, Warhammer, and Palladium Fantasy Roleplaying.

For the pair's introductory exploits, I chose the excellent free adventure, "An Icy Grave", by Mads Hvelplund. I downloaded it for free from somewhere (but I can't for the life of me remember where). I made some minor modifications, but this storyhour will contain MAJOR SPOILERS for "An Icy Grave", so consider yourselves warned. The author's website is: http://www.darknight.dk/~mandrax.

The players both decided to play dwarves and created their characters together. In the end, the pair ended up being dwarven fraternal twins - one a 2nd level fighter and the other a fighter 1/cleric 1.

The story is in 22 parts, and I'll try to post it one chapter per day.

Comments are welcome.


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## Jon Potter (Jul 31, 2002)

*Part 1 - Cold Comfort*

Marglos, the 9th of Rethe, 1269 AE

Malak heard the scraping of stone on stone as the door to the shrine ground open. The flames flickered in the twin braziers, playthings to the breeze from outside.
His brother had opened the portal, but stood in the doorway as if unwilling to enter. 
"Come on, brother o' mine," Karak growled. "Yer Queen will understand that ye kinna pray an' dilly-dally all tha day."
He muttered something else about the goddess' demands on her faithful, but Malak let it go. He stood and bowed his head to the statue of Shaharizod before turning to his brother.
"I was just prayin' for a safe journey, brother," he said.
"Tha mountain pass will soon 'ere be closed an' ye'll be prayin' then I tells ye," Karak retorted. He rested his left hand on one of the throwing axes that he wore tucked into his belt and gestured toward the tunnel that lead, eventually, to the surface. "Now load up. Arngrim says it be time ta move out. He's waitin' at tha gates."
"Best nae ta keep our guide waitin', I suppose," Malak conceded. He cast his eyes once more on the familiar little shrine and a feeling of nostalgia filled him.
"Aye," Karak agreed, thumping his brother on the back with one of his thick hands. "I've nae great desire ta leave tha delve, but it is tha King's will that we deliver his message ta these Grey Lords. I ken nae what tha King's missive be about, but I ken this: it will nae be me what is explainin' ta tha King why we're still 'ere when he wishes us on tha trail."
It was humid in the entry tunnel. The hot air from inside the mountain, warmed as it was by the magma flows far beneath Dwurheim's mines, met the cold air from outside and they found themselves walking through billowing mist that concealed the slick stone underfoot.
In the courtyard, Orin's Shield was shining down, doing its best to combat the chill wind that was blowing up the mountain from the south. A handful of dwarves in chainmail guarded the massive main gate and peered down from the battlements, seemingly oblivious to the freezing gale. Arngrim was standing beside the gate checking the harness on his pack goat. When he caught sight of the pair, he turned his weather worn face to them and scowled.
"Well, 'tis about time ye gibberin', porridge-faced rust monsters got yerselves ready," Arngrim growled. He had plaited his white beard into two thick braids and he wore the ends tucked through his girdle. "Saunterers an' foot-draggers end up walkin' on their knees! Either ye're prompt or ye're left behind. Understood?"
The brothers nodded and their guide's face softened.
"Alright then," he said, checking the clasps on the harness one more time. "If'n we're quick, we'll make it ta Felshiem afore tha next snow flies."

Dormarglos, the 10th - Luglos, the 14th of Rethe, 1269 AE

Arngrim's words couldn't have been farther from the truth.
It took them three days of marching to reach the wooded valley at the base of Mount Hidskalf. They rested there - gathering deadwood, replenishing their water and enjoying some fresh game. The weather in the valley was quite warm, and steam rose off the tiny lake near its center. It was a bitter shock once they climbed up the trail, which led southeastwards out of the valley, and the temperature began to plummet.
For two more days they pressed onward even as the weather worsened. By Luglos afternoon, the sky had darkened ominously and the wind bit at their exposed flesh. The clouds were so heavy and low that they seemed to hang but a few feet above their heads.
"'Tis unnatural!" Arngrim asserted over and over again as they climbed the mountain pass. "I've nae seen weather like this in 100 years!"
They camped that night beneath an overhanging rock that offered them precious little respite from the wind.
"Tomorrow, mayhap, we'll stay with tha monks o' Light's Ascendance," their guide told them as they huddled around a guttering fire. "Their monastery be but half a day's march further along tha trail, and from tha looks o' these clouds and tha feelin' in me bones we'll be needin' more shelter than a tent or this rock will afford."
"We shou' press on," Karak suggested. "Mayhap we cou' outrun tha storm."
Arngrim harrumphed and poked at the embers with the metal point of his ice axe.
"Dressed as ye are? We'll be lucky ta make it as far as tha monastery afore tha snow flies," the guide chuckled, indicating Karak's heavy plate armor. "Nae. I know tha abbot, Alluzin. He may be a 'uman, but 'e's hospitable ta travelers in need. Provided that he ain't out meditatin' in a cave somewhere."
Onto the fire Arngrim tossed a few more of the dried branches they had collected in the valley and the flames licked up. Until they got back below the tree line, the meager bundle of sticks would have to hold them over.
"For now, get what rest ye can," he told them. "Tomorrow promises ta be a rough one."

Valarglos, the 15th or Rethe, 1269 AE

At some point during the night, the snow began to fall. Hard.
Karak and Malak awoke just before dawn to the chilling sound of a dwarven scream. They got to their feet and grabbed weapons at once, but they could see no sign of Arngrim anywhere. His pack goat was nearby as was his bedroll, but the guide himself was gone.
The swirling sheets of snow whipped around them, freezing their breath and painting their beards with frost. It also limited visibility to no more than a few yards in any direction and promised to get worse before it got better.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 1, 2002)

*Part 2: Shadows In the Snow*

They listened intently for another cry, but heard only the howling wind. It shifted for a moment and blew snow directly into their faces. Karak sputtered and wiped the flakes out of his eyes.
"Hrmmpff," he snorted, his frown deepening as he squinted into the whiteout. "I think ye best be gettin' out that prayer symbol, me chalak. Me thinks we's goin' ta be snowed in right short."
"What shou' we do, then?" Malak asked. He clutched his holy symbol with his off hand. "Me must go out an' look for Arngrim, though I dinna think we'll find him. An' we may find somethin' we dinna want ta find!"
"I agree an' fear tha worst for Arngrim," Karak put down his war axe and began to don his plate mail. "Nae Dwarf wou' scream if nae in mortal pain or death. Me thinks he be lost, though I hate ta leave 'im out there."
"My thought is ta look around ta see if'n we find anythin'," Malak suggested as he helped his brother assemble his protective shell. "If we find nothin' - which I think will be tha case - we head toward tha monks o' tha Light's Ascendance. Someone there may be o' some assistance ta us... maybe e'en just for temporary shelter. O' course, we dinna really know where tha monastery is, now do we?"
"Me also thinks findin' this Monk's Temple be tha thing ta do, 'ceptin' for one problem. As ye pointed out, me chalak, we ken nae where it be. That must be why tha Queen picked ye ta be her chosen Guard, an' left me ta scrub Temple tile; because ye's smarter than me. It cou' be just over tha hill, or it cou' be miles from here."
"Shou' we then stay put here until tha weather clears some?" Malak asked, handing over Karak's great helm.
"I'm proposin' this: ye begin prayin', and I will try ta find suitable cover 'ere and we hole up and find shelter," Karak suggested, hefting his huge axe once more. "I have nae been this far out in tha tunnels, but thinks I remember me old Sarge, Tarak, told me our tunnels stretch tha whole world - one end ta th' other. So mayhap there be one near that we can detect."
Malak too had heard the tales told by the older dwarves. Stories had been handed down for countless generations that told of ancient tunnels that extended for leagues underground, some said to go all the way to the heart of Oruene. Malak had always suspected that they were just mere stories, but he had thought the same thing when he'd first heard that human females could grow no beards. That had proven true. Perhaps the world-tunnels would as well.
"Malak, quit yer zonin'!" Karak growled, snapping his brother back to the moment. "Tha Queen did nae take yer natural born ability to detect tunnels did she?"
Malak shook his head.
"So pray then look," the other dwarf growled. "Me wonder's if Tha Queen can loan ye a little heat as I think this fine Dwarven plate mail, if e'er she gets cold, will kill me quicker 'n any foe, I tells ye that!"
"I can pray for elemental endurance," Malak said. "But it will only protect one o' us."
"Save it for now," Karak told him. "If'n I starts ta feel cold in me bones, I'll get back ta ye for some o' tha Queen's warmth. Meantime ye can get that goat under control an' have a look about for any hidden tunnels what might shield us from this 'ere storm."
"Be careful, chalak," Malak said solemnly.
Karak harrumphed and said, "He who fears death invites it ta visit."
Then he turned and stepped out into the storm.

Karak hadn't gone more than ten paces before the campsite was swallowed up completely by the blinding snow. He could dimly make out a feint trail leading downwards from the rocky outcropping toward the main path below. At the point where the smaller footpath met the wider trail was a small stone plinth carved with a diamond-shaped spiral of well-worn dwarven runes.
"belbak=dwar-dwarmer=gulmursar//horlembakthanmorn"
"Above you, dwarf or dwarf friend, is a good, safe high place. Take your rest there."
Apparently it was no accident that Arngrim had found the site for last night's camp. It had likely been used for such by dwarves since before the sundering. It heartened Karak somewhat as well; for where there was one dwarven marker there could be more.
He began looking about in the chilling wind for any other signs of refuge, but found nothing in the immediate vicinity. There was no abatement in the snow. If anything, it was getting heavier as he looked. The wind sent icy tendrils through the many gaps in his armor and froze his breath. The blinding snow was so thick that he almost walked right passed the small footpath that ran parallel to the main trail, but cut away from it up the side of the mountain. If he hadn't tripped over Arngrim's ice axe lying at the foot of the path, he would certainly have bypassed it entirely.
He bent down and picked it up. The axe was undamaged and unbloodied. Whatever had befallen Arngrim - and Karak couldn't now believe that he'd find the hoary old guide alive - had taken him before he could land a single blow. Or else his opponent had no blood to be spilled...
He glanced up the footpath and for an instant he saw a furry shadow, hunched and vague in the blinding snow. It lurked for a moment at the limits of his vision and then bounded off into the storm before he could determine more about it than its man-like shape.

As Karak's figure faded into the blinding whiteness, Malak inhaled sharply and held it a beat, exhaling slowly as he gathered his thoughts. Things were getting a little strange and he thought that perhaps sticking together might have been a better idea. But Karak had always been strong-willed and there would be little use in arguing with him. Malak allowed himself a single small comfort in thinking about Karak's absence: he had always had a "sense" that allowed him to be privy to his brother's most urgent emotional reactions. If something went terribly wrong he felt he would know it. Not that it would do him any good. Whoever came upon Arngrim meant business; they had taken him almost from under their noses and he'd vanished without a trace.
With a frown planted firmly on his lips, he picked up his scalemail hauberk and began to suit up. The metal scales were deathly cold despite the fact that he'd purposefully left his armor near the fire, and he shivered as he worked. It took him, perhaps, a few moments longer than it should have to don his protection; it was certainly far slower than his record from training days.
Despite the armor, it was only when he had his scimitar sheathed at his waist and his claymore strapped across his back that he began to feel safe.
He looked at Arngrim's pack animal and the mountain goat looked blandly back at him. Its breath had painted the hair around its muzzle with frost and it gave the creature an aged appearance. Its great horns curved backward and down like two crescent moons framing the goat's head. It snorted and shifted its hooves in the snow. Malak decided that he should take the goat and search out the tunnels that were supposed to exist underneath the entire land. He doubted that they did, but if ever there were a time to exhaust every option, this seemed it.
Turning his head back toward Dwurheim then, Malak squinted hard into the snow. What was that shape just beyond the outline of Arngrim's goat? Had Karak returned so soon ? No. It was not his brother's shape, he could tell that the manlike figure was larger even though it was hunched and Malak thought he could make out an outline of fur. His hand slid toward his scimitar and slowly he unsheathed the weapon. As quickly as the shape had appeared however, it was gone. Malak stepped into the storm to see if he could catch a glimpse of this creature, but the snow was too heavy. A gust blew hard against his face and Malak refused to turn his head from it, peering instead into the vast whiteness to try to make out any familiar shape.
Nothing. He pushed his scimitar back into its sheath and turned to finish his preparation.
Malak knelt briefly at the makeshift altar that he had prepared, asking Shaharizod to oversee him during his efforts to find the underground passages. He rose to his feet and doused the last smoldering embers of their fire with some kicked snow. Then he grabbed the lead attached to the mountain goat and stepped out in to the snow once more. If he found the caves, he didn't know that they would be any easier to negotiate than the mountain passes would, but they would at least offer both familiarity and some protection from the elements. If not, Malak thought, if they were forced to traverse the rugged terrain and fight the elements, if the snow continued, it might be best to travel at night. Perhaps the night sky would offer some contrast to the blinding snow, allowing them to make their way a little more easily. Light being cast by the torches of a town or village might be more easily seen through the nighttime sky as well.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 2, 2002)

*Part 3: There's No Business Like Snow Business*

Karak's grip tightened on his war axe as he peered into the snow after the shadowy form. It had vanished into the snow, however.
"Hmmphf," he snorted, and began muttering to himself, his voice just audible above the wind. "That kinna be good: Arngrim's ice axe left 'ere an' tha Snow Giant shamblin' away. I be off ta tell Malak."
He wedged the ice axe into his belt, and, taking one last look around, started back toward their campsite.

The footpath from their shelter to the floor of the pass was steep and uneven. Malak found traversing it was all the more difficult because it was covering over with snow. He picked his way downward with the sure-footed goat at his heels. At the bottom, he found a short stone plinth inset with a diamond-shaped spiral of runes that spelled out a message in dwarfish. The runes had been engraved long ago, he judged - wind and weather had worn them down. Doubtless Arngrim had used the site many times during his treks through the mountains. It seemed, however, that the safe haven hadn't served the old dwarf on this visit. Malak feared for Arngrim's well being.
The clanking of metal on metal drew the cleric's attention as his brother lumbered out of the blowing snow. Karak's breath was trailing from his mouth like forge smoke and his beard, like the goat's muzzle, was painted white with frost. His nose showed red as a tomato.
"Malak, this'n nae be good," he growled over the wind. He reached behind his back and drew forth their guide's ice axe. "Here be all what I found o' Arngrim."
Malak took the tool and frowned at it. The axe was in pristine condition. Somehow that seemed more sinister than if it had been bloody and broken.
"Tha snow be gettin' too bad. I can barely see an' coul' barely make me way back here," Karak told his brother. "Also, I saw a Hungroth lumberin' off in tha distance."
"I saw one too," Malak said. He turned and secured Arngrim's axe to the mountain goat's load. "It fled into tha snow before I cou' get a good look."
"An' us with nae sign o' a hole ta duck inta neither," Karak said with a grimace. He rubbed his bearded chin as he thought. "I suggest we start makin' a snow cave against this storm. I'll guard while ye dig. I think we are protected by runes on this site as well as I saw our marker protectin' we dwarves."
Malak pointed to the plinth directly to Karak's right.
"Aye, that's tha one," the warrior nodded. "What say ye ta my plan?"
"I worry that tha snow may nae stop, and before long we're buried here," Malak cautioned. He squinted into the snow; it was really blowing hard. If the wind changed direction, the rocky outcropping that had served as their campsite would be just as cold and wet as any other. For the time being, however, it remained the only viable shelter he could see.
"Hrmmpff," Karak snorted. "I am nae too worried 'bout tha depth o' snow, because we be dwarves so used ta tunnellin'."
"But nae through snow and ice, brother," Malak replied. The larger dwarf waved away that concern as well.
 "Me thinks, our dwarven constitutions will withstand th' elements well enough," he said, puffing out his chest.
He was right, Malak knew; or at least partly right. With their stony constitutions they'd be able to ignore the ravages of the cold far longer than one of the lesser races could. But ignoring the pain of frostbite wouldn't keep their fingers and toes from subcoming to it.
He turned his face eastward. Orin's Shield had risen above the horizon, but was doing a poor job of warming the day and lightening the sky. He frowned.
"Here's what I propose, brother," he began. "It's daybreak now. I say we hole up at tha campsite for tha day with one o' us on guard duty at a time. At nochefall we head out toward tha abbey."
Karak stroked his ice-choked beard and considered.
"If we travel at noche, I might be able ta navigate us," Malak explained. "And we may be able ta see though tha snow a little better."
At last Karak nodded.
"A goodly plan, me chalak," he said. "Let's be gettin' outen this snow lessin' I develop icicles 'pon me beard."

They spent the morning huddled miserably around a small fire that greedily devoured a goodly portion of their remaining wood. It thawed their blood, however, and made the rocky outcropping seem less like a frozen hell as they whiled away the time swapping stories about the ill-fated Arngrim. In true dwarven fashion they honored his memories with tales of his glorious exploits. Sadly, they didn't know him very well; he was from another delve.
They had to content themselves with recounting the past exploits of Arngrim's clan, Barzak, during the Battle of Worlds Edge and the Time of Hammers.
At no time did they see further evidence of the Hungroths they had seen earlier.
It was noontime and Karak was chanting the ancient dwarven dirge called "Greenskin's Folly" that marked the defeat of the Black Orcs during the Time of Hammers.
"Hold, brother," Malak said, silencing his twin. "Look."
He pointed out to the pass beyond the rocks. The snow had slowed considerably. The wind was still blowing strong, but most of the falling snow had stopped.
"What say ye?" Malak asked.
Karak was already standing and gathering his things.
"I say let's be off whilst tha chance be 'ere," he said. "Mayhap we can find this abbey ere tha snows return."

His wish was very nearly granted.
They were able to cover more ground than they had feared they would before the snow began again. The strong winds, while they bitterly stung their chapped flesh, scoured the rocky terrain free of clinging snow and ice. The uneven terrain hampered their journey, not the waist-deep drifts of snow that they saw accumulated in areas sheltered from the wind. The flakes had begun to fall again in blinding sheets when they spotted their goal in just such a snow-choked fissure.
A low wall of fitted stone nearly covered by drifts of snow loomed out of the blinding whiteness to their left. Following it toward the cliff they found a rusty gate standing open into a crevasse in the cliffside. Above the crevasse stood a small monastery. It was a welcome sight despite the fact that no smoke rose from its chimneys and the windows were all dark. It was intact, however, and the structure seemed sound enough to provide shelter from the icy wind.
"Can this be tha place, me chalak?" Karak growled. "It seems abandoned."
Malak examined the symbols wrought into the iron gate. There were the symbols of Orin, Lord of Light, and Merikka, Father of Heaven worked together in a repeating pattern. Both were deities of virtue. Both were associated with the sun. Both were fitting patrons for Monks of Light's Ascendance.
"Perhaps tha monks are nae at home," he suggested. "But it seems likely that this be tha place."
Karak harrumphed, hefted his war axe and waded through the snow that drifted in the gate. Past the outer gate the crevasse widened, forming a small courtyard sheltered from the wind. To the dwarves' ears, deadened as they were by the roar of the storm, the sudden quiet in the courtyard seemed eerie indeed. In the center of the yard were a small stone-ringed pond and a little bench, both half-covered by snow. Across the yard from the gate a flight of stairs led up to a set of stout wooden doors into the mountainside. The cliff face above was carved with weatherworn bas-relief images of the virtuous gods. Orin was there bearing the sun on his arm. Merikka bore him across the heavens. Near them stood Shaharizod and her handmaiden, Meruna.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 3, 2002)

*Part 4: Darkness Falls*

Malak gazed upward at the mountainside, his eyes pausing for a moment at the carvings of Shaharizod and Meruna. He bent to a single knee and bowed his head in prayer. Karak muttered something under his breath as the Battleguard got back to his feet.
"This surely be tha place we be lookin' for, Karak," Malak said. "But Arngrim spoke as though tha monks wou' be welcomin' us when we got here."
"Aye, me chalak, but it seems tha monks nae be here at all," Karak grumbled. "I dinna get tha sense from Arngrim tha' we'd find tha place deserted."
The warrior's grip on his war axe tightened as he looked up at the darkened monastery.
Malak walked ahead toward the stairs a few paces and peered at the heavy doors that blocked the way back into the mountain.  "And it looks like this place has been deserted for some time..." His voice trailed off as he pondered Arngrim's fate.
"I wonder what wou' make 'em leave their sanctuary?" Karak muttered, as much to himself as to Malak. "Else they be barred inside away from this 'ere storm."
The latter thought seemed to hearten the dwarf until his brother pointed to the chimneys.
"If they're within than why have they nae lit a fire?" the Battleguard asked. "Surely nae even monks wou' suffer tha cold when there's warmth ta be had."
Karak harrumphed and nodded his head once.
"A goodly point," he said. "What say ye, we just open tha door and make ourselves at 'ome, eh?"
"At tha very least, we shou' try tha doors, me chalak," Malak replied, his firm voice now betraying the dread he felt for their guide. "This weather will freeze us both before much longer."
Malak tied the mountain goat's reins to the rusty gate and unsheathed his scimitar.
"Lead on, me chalak," he grimly said.
They crossed the courtyard to the front door, their armor clinking and the snow crunching beneath their boots. There were no other tracks but their own to mar the vast white surface. Five wide steps led up to the doors set into the cliffside. Each step was coated with a thin layer of ice that cracked underfoot as they climbed to the ironbound doors.
A simple catch held the doors closed. There appeared to be no locking mechanism.
"You open tha doors while I go in first an' I will set up a small perimeter," Karak said, raising his axe defensively.
"I will check for traps first," the cleric suggested, although he had little experience with such things.
Malak stepped forward, checked the door and the area around it as best he could for any obvious traps, and, once he was satisfied that there were none, grabbed the handle with his left hand. He tried the thumb-latch but it was stuck; it took a few moments of straining to crack the ice that choked the mechanism. A shower of frozen dust fell downward as he finally swung the left door open revealing the darkened room beyond.
The only light came from the open door, but that and the dwarves' darkvision was enough to reveal some details of the hall. The room formed the bottom floor of a high-ceilinged room. A set of spiral stairs that began to the right of the doors led up to the second floor of the monastery. The floor of the hall was of rough-cut tiled stones that had been worn smooth by the tread of many feet. Two low archways led out of the room. One was set into the left-hand wall and the other was beneath the stairs directly ahead.
The air inside was cold as a crypt and just as still.
Undaunted, Karak marched inside, his axe at the ready. Malak watched him from the doorway.
Upon reaching the center of the room, he could see that the archway to the left opened into a large, empty room. The one straight ahead met up with a hallway with another archway directly across from it. Hidden in a shadowy recess beneath the stairs on the right wall, was a small ironbound door.
No sound reached his ears save the faint howl of the wind.
All at once, darkness fell upon him. It was magical, he knew, for it quickly dimmed even his dwarven eyes, which were long accustomed to the darkness of the mines. He was about to shout a warning when something heavy dropped on him like a wet blanket. Only it was a blanket made from flesh and muscle that wrapped itself around his head and shoulders, trapping his cry and threatening to smother the life from him all together.

Only Malak saw the blackness descending. It fell, billowing in the air like ink poured into water and in a moment Karak was enveloped by it. It filled the interior of the hall completely. The doorway through which Malak was watching was filled entirely with featureless darkness. His brother let out no cry of warning or pain, but Malak heard some scuffling and clanking coming from the blackened room.
"Karak!" Malak yelled. "Keep makin' noise!"
The scrape of metal on metal continued straight ahead, and he took a single deep breath before he plunged into the featureless blackness.

Karak heard nothing of his brother's cries. The thing that had clamped itself onto his head muffled all outside sounds to inaudability. His breath and the pounding of blood in his ears were the only sounds that seemed real to him... and the thing was trying to smother his breath away.
He held his breath in and grimly raised his war axe to the leathery side of the thing on his head. And began to saw.

Malak wandered blindly toward the sound of movement with his scimitar held at his side and his left hand outstretched.
"Karak?" he called again before his hand brushed against something most undwarf-like. It felt rather like the flesh of the giant cave slugs that were sometimes bread for food in some of the poorer and more remote delves. He dropped his hand a little and touched cold steel plate. It was a shoulder guard, he realized; the slug-thing seemed to have attached itself to his brother's head.

The thing squeezing his face spasmed as Karak felt his axe penetrate its tough hide and bite into the meat beneath. A hot wetness spattered against his arm and trickled down his chest beneath his heavy armor. The thing shuddered and renewed its efforts to suffocate him. It fought him with a savagery born of desperation.
He knew the creature was near death.

Malak raised his scimitar and hesitated with it poised to strike. It occurred to him that he'd be just as likely to strike Karak as whatever was attached to him. He didn't want to risk injuring his brother, so he lowered the weapon and headed blindly for the far-left corner of the room. He reached it with ease and in doing so stepped out from the darkness' radius. The light seemed blinding after the total blackness, but it was just the light from the open doorway that he saw.
From his vantagepoint in the corner, he could see that the darkness - which formed a hemisphere roughly 20' across - didn't extend far into the room Karak had indicated lay through the archway at his left. He made for it, sticking close to the wall, stepped briefly back into darkness, found the edge of the doorway, and moved hastily through it and into the dim room beyond.

Karak pressed the axe blade against the creature's hide in a new spot and began sawing up and down, careful to cause as much damage as he could to his opponent without injuring himself in the process. His fingers were getting slick from the beast's ichor. The thing went into a wild series of convulsions that almost sent the dwarf sprawling. He righted himself and moved his axe up to renew his cutting but it quickly became unnecessary. 
The thing stopped moving and fell off his head. He sucked in a fresh lungfull of the cold, cold air and heard the thing hit the floor with a wet slap. Darkness was still around him, he saw (or, rather, didn't see) and with his second full breath of the sweet air he bellowed out, "Malak! Be ye alive?"

The room that Karak had described as 'big and empty' was only partially either. It was the same size as the entry chamber and the floor was free of furnishings. A stack of what looked like straw mats was piled in the corner. Shallow alcoves lined the walls; five in all with two set into the wall to the left of the archway and three on the wall opposite. Each alcove held a statue, and small clay bowls have been left in front of them. Another archway led out in the far corner of the right hand wall.
All this Malak saw in the few seconds between the time that he entered the room and Karak shouted for him. At the sound of his brother's voice, the Battleguard spun about and returned the hail.
"Aye, me chalak!" he shouted. "I be here! I be here!"
Karak burst out of the darkness, nearly clipping his shoulder on the doorframe as he came. His axe was dripping with gore, and a goodly amount of noxious black blood was splattered all over his armor.
"There be nae need for shoutin'," Karak grumbled. "I be close enough ta 'ear ye well an' good without ye makin' me ears ring."
"Are ye injured?" Malak asked and his brother shook his head.
"Only me pride," he said. "I walked into that one like a beardless babe."
"What happened ta ye?" the Battleguard asked, indicating the grisly mess on his fellow's armor and axe.
"Some sort o' beastie attached itself ta me 'ead," Karak explained. "Took me by surprise, it did. But I slew it straight away."
Malak started to say something else but Karak waved it off.
"What've ye found 'ere?" he asked, looking around the room.
Malak looked closer at the alcoves and the statues within them. They were each made of wood and seemed to depict several of the gods of virtue. From left to right there was: Merikka, Orin, Ibrahil, Shaharizod, and Meruna. The idols were made of wood that had cracked from moisture and frost. The small clay bowls in front of each statue were empty.
"It looks like a shrine ta me," Malak said. "Here's Merikka, Father o' tha Sky, Orin, tha Light bearer, Ibrahil, tha True, Shaharizod, tha Silver Queen, and finally Meruna, tha Handmaiden."
He indicated each one in turn and then shook his head.
"Tha shrine's been neglected for a good long while," he added. "At least a few months, maybe longer."


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## Jon Potter (Aug 4, 2002)

*Part 5: We Ain't In This Alone*

"Aye, Malak, it seems tha brothers have left an' nae be here," Karak grumbled. "Where ye figure all tha monks be at?"
"I dunno," Malak replied. The Battleguard shifted his scimitar to his left hand and blew hot breath through his right fist. His fingers were getting stiff from the cold and it wouldn't do to have his weapon hand fail him in battle.
Karak nodded at his twin, acknowledging his discomfort.
"Aye, me chalak. 'Tis colder than a tombrapper's pickaxe in 'ere," the warrior replied with a grim shudder. "As soon as that damned darkness runs its course, I say we shou' close tha front door afore we freeze solid."
Malak was pacing the room, looking closely at each of the figurines. Karak took one look at his brother's face and knew that he had a few moments... probably more. He shrugged off his backpack.
"I want ta get this ichor off me armor," Karak said to no one in particular and began rummaging through his backpack.
In it he found: 50" Rope; sealed packages of mutton jerky, and dried mushrooms; and 2 loaves of trail bread; two metal flasks (one filled with water and the other oil), 3 tightly rolled cloth strips good for bandages or wicks; his sewing kit; a good-sized cooking pot; his flint and tinder box; and his pewter mug. Cradling the last in his hand he licked his lips. A pint or three of fine dwarven ale would taste good right about now, but he feared it would be a good long while before he tasted its like again.
"Blast," he said with a resigned sigh, tossing his mug back inside his pack. "I seems ta have forgot me armor cleanin' fluids. Me nae can find 'em."
Malak seemed not to be listening. He was staring at the worn wooden statue of Shaharizod and running his fingers through his beard.
"Malak, did ye pack me fluids? I know how ye are always takin' me stuff," Karak went on but got no response from his brother. "Oh, I figure I will just have ta wipe it clean with yer shirt."
"Try it, me chalak, and ye'll be findin' tha point o' me scimitar planted firmly in yer arse," Malak said with a wicked smile.
"I'm jus' tryin' ta get yer attention," Karak smiled back. He pulled one of the tightly wound cloth strips from his pack, unfurled it and began to clean himself with it as best he could. "What do these statues mean, and why are there clay bowls in front?"
"I think it is a shrine where tha monks wou' receive religious pilgrims," the cleric replied. "None of tha represented deities is given prominence o'er any other. Tha wooden bowls wou' be used ta collect offerin's. Tha straw mats cou' be used for kneelin' in prayer."
"Hrmmpff," Karak snorted. "It seems a good enough explanation."
The dwarf had finished cleaning himself as well as he could without his armor cleaning supplies.
"I reckon tha best course o' action is ta check this whole place out first then we can set up camp," he said as he tossed the filthy strip of cloth into a corner.
Malak scowled first at the darkness that still filled the entry chamber and then at the archway that led off in the far corner. He nodded.
"But we touch nothin' save door handles," he offered. "And then only after we've searched them for traps."
"I take tha point, ye follow me just as we used ta play Fighter and Mage in tha tunnels at th' old hold," Karak said as he hefted his two-handed axe. "What say ye?"
"I say, aye. Just so long as ye dinna start callin' me 'Wizard'," Malak replied with a distasteful grimace.

The archway in the corner opened onto a hallway that ran toward the right. The hallway was empty, but they could see the archway that led back into the entry hall directly across from another archway that led deeper into the mountain. A closed door was set into the left-hand wall about midway between the archway to the shrine room and the others at the far end of the hallway.
They cautiously approached the door and examined it closely. It was latched but had no lock and like all human doors was hinged along its side. Karak stood ready as Malak went about the business of checking it for traps as best he could. When the Battleguard pronounced it safe, he drew it open and Karak went through the doorway axe-first.
A large wooden trough filled the center of the room. It was filled with frozen water through which he could see a few clay plates. The ceiling was stone with two thick wooden beams set with hooks running along it parallel to the trough. Two large ovens were nested into the walls of the room, one to the left the other nearly opposite the door. Tables covered with pots and eating utensils lined the walls. To the right of the door was an open stairway leading down. A railing set into the floor prevented anyone from accidentally stepping into the stairwell. A second staircase led up against the far wall and the area beneath it was inset with cupboards.  A door was set in the right hand wall, between the two sets of stairs.
Malak peered in around Karak's shoulder.
"Which way?" he asked, tilting his head in the direction of the stairs and the door.
"Back," his brother answered and he stepped back into the hallway, forcing his brother's retreat in the process. "We'll search tha whole floor 'fore we go creepin' up an' down staircases."
It was Malak's turn to harrumph now, but he knew better than to argue with his brother on martial matters.
They crept along the hallway, their breath pumping out in silver clouds as they went. Reaching the archway, they looked first right and saw that it did, in fact, lead back to the entryway and that the hall was still filled with a dome of darkness. A look left revealed another room similar to the last.
Where a wooden trough had dominated the previous room, a large wooden table filled this one. Several chairs had once lined the table, but it seemed there had been some sort of struggle here. Now all the chairs were scattered on the floor. The table itself was still set for dinner with ten clay plates but there was no food to be seen and a thin layer of white frost covered everything. A door was set into the center of the left-hand wall, likely leading directly into the room they had just seen.
"Our first sign o' foul play, chalak," Malak said into Karak's ear.
"Aye," Karak groaned. "Me likes this nae at all."


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## drnuncheon (Aug 4, 2002)

Woo! I ran this when I was still living back in Boston, for Dru's player and two of my friends up there. I have a feeling it went a lot less seriously than yours...we used the random height/weight/age tables and wound up with a chubby elven sorceress, a 16-year-old barbarian with spiked everything, and Walker: halfling ranger.  (Walker desperately wanted a riding dog, but could only come up with 3/4 of the money. I compromised and sold him a dog with three legs and fleas.)

Just figured you needed an external 'bump' here.

J


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## Jon Potter (Aug 4, 2002)

drnuncheon said:
			
		

> *Woo! I ran this when I was still living back in Boston, for Dru's player and two of my friends up there. I have a feeling it went a lot less seriously than yours...
> *




Well, I certainly tried to keep the tone creepy and dangerous. Sort of like the movie, 'The Shining'. But it was tough at times considering some of the players' decisions. Reading back over it now I still shake my head in amazement that they made it through this as well as they did.



> *Just figured you needed an external 'bump' here.
> *




Thanks. Perhaps you can be my Horacio. ;-)


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## Jon Potter (Aug 5, 2002)

*Part 6: Oh Brothers, Where Art Thou*

The Battleguard peered in at the disarrayed furniture and scowled.
"Malak, me thinks we best go back ta tha fore o' tha sanctuary now," Karak told his brother and the cleric nodded.
The pair crept uneventfully back to what Malak had called the shrine. There the Battleguard fished into his belt pouch and pulled out a silver karn-a. He tossed the square coin into the wooden bowl at Shaharizod's feet. Before it had stopped clattering there, the dwarf was kneeling in prayer.
"Tha Queen wou' understand if'n ye' made one pass by her without stoppin' ta say 'ello," Karak jabbed as he rolled his eyes.
The Battleguard gave no sign that he'd heard and Karak turned his back on him, staring deeply into the darkened doorway to the main hall. His breath was still pumping from his mouth in great clouds of silver steam and he could see thin eddies of snow moving along the tiled floor borne by wind from the open front door.
"Methinks we best be gettin' tha goat and shuttin' tha door," he mumbled to himself. "I dinna want tha Snow Creature ta shamble in. And tha poor goat must be a might cold about now."
Truth be told, HE was a might cold about now. As he stared at the darkness, his fingers worked at his beard, breaking up the ice that had collected in it. The cold was easy for the dwarves to ignore, but the shroud of darkness that veiled the outer room was not. He started just a bit when he heard Malak's voice from behind him.
"Karak, we best find a way o' shuttin' that outer door 'fore whatever took Arngrim decide to be amblin' in here lookin' for more food" suggested Malak. "It be lookin' like tha brothers already had some uninvited visitors for dinner," he added, pointing back toward the ominously scattered dining room.
"Nae. Ye dinna really think so do ye, me chalak?" Karak snipped sarcastically. "But I tells ye, that darkness nae be liftin' a bit, so I say we heads ta tha door together. But move quick and keep yer hands above ye as we pass through that dark."
Malak looked at his brother strangely.
"That way, if'n one o' them creatures drops we can throw it ta tha ground 'fore it plunks on our heads," Karak explained and pantomimed the action for the cleric.
Malak thought for a moment, he was usually hesitant to disagree with his brother when it came to such issues, but he remembered finding his way through the darkness just after it fell.
"I found me way along tha walls easy enough while ye were playin' with yer slug friend," Malak smiled wryly. "Tha corners be light enough to see where ye be.  I'll head over to tha door, ye just follow me and keep yer axes at tha ready."
Karak harrumphed and was ready to balk at the idea when his brother stepped into the darkness and disappeared.

They followed the right-hand wall, passing into a sliver of light in the corner, back into darkness and finally out through the front door and onto the portico. The storm had gotten worse while they'd been inside and now even the monastery's courtyard was becoming choked with snow. The heavy black-gray clouds seemed to be resting on the roof of the place, threatening to bury anyone who didn't seek shelter.
The black goat was still tethered to the front gate. Its fur was covered with snow and a drift was forming around its feet. It let out a sad bleat as the two dwarves approached. But despite the fact that the animal was trembling from the cold, it took all the pair's strength and effort to force the goat inside the monastery. In the end, it was only the facts that much of the way was slicked with ice and that Karak was strong enough to fully lift the beast off the ground if he needed to that allowed them to get the goat inside at all.
Even so, it continued to bleat with fearful regularity.
Malak tied its lead to the banister that ran along the spiraling staircase. The handrail, he saw, was intricately carved with scenes that depicted Orin's theft of the sun from the demon-ogre Fir Flinderkin.
Karak pushed the door closed and drew a bar across it to lock it from the inside. He was turning back to his brother when he let out a startled, "Oy!"
He'd been too preoccupied to notice that the entry hall was free of the magical darkness. Although now, with the front door closed, the room was almost completely black anyway. Their darkvision could just reveal the same details they had glimpsed upon first entering: an archway to the left which led to the shrine; another straight ahead that bisected the hallway and faced an archway into the disarrayed dining room; a wide staircase that climbed up to a second floor landing; and a small door set under the stairs. In the center of the room was a flat, leathery thing that looked from where they stood like a discarded backpack.
"Have ye any torches, me chalak?" Karak asked, not taking his eyes off the thing on the floor.
"Nae," the cleric admitted. "But I did see something e'en better in Arngrim's supplies."
The dwarf fussed around in the goat's packs and produced a hooded lantern of the sort used by dwarves deep in the mines. It took a few moments with flint and steel to get it lit, but once it got going, it filled the room with a warm orange glow.
Malak stood beside him with the lantern while Karak knelt over the strange little corpse and prodded it with one of his hand axes.
It was a dull gray in color, vaguely conical, with a series of thick tentacles around the wide end. Just above that ring of arms was a ring of what looked like small round eyes. The two ragged gashes he had cut into its hide revealed messy black organs inside its body. It didn't seem to have any bones, being all guts and muscle.
"Have ye e'er seen its like before?" Malak asked and Karak shook his head.
"But mayhap there be a gem inside," the warrior said and began to dissect the creature with his handaxe. It was messy, vile-smelling work, and in the end yielded no glittering bauble. As he wiped his hands clean on a scrap of cloth from their packs, Karak scowled.
"Best be finishin' up with this floor, then move up tha stairs ta scout around up there a bit as well," he said. He angled his head toward the small door set beneath the stair. "An' there be only one door left ta try down 'ere."

They checked the small door as usual and found no traps. It was obvious from the whistling howl they could hear beyond it that the door opened to the outside. Like the front door, it was choked closed with ice, but yielded to Malak's shoulder after a few moments. As soon as it was unlatched, the wind from outside nearly ripped the door from his hands. Snow blew into their faces as they peered out onto a patio that ran the width of the monastery.
Six statues depicting bald monks in various fighting stances were lined up along the opposite edge of the patio. To their right a sharp drop lead to the courtyard in front of the monastery. To the left were the remains of a large garden. Orderly rows of last year's harvest poked up through the snow.
It took both of them pressing against the door to force it closed against the wind.
"Upstairs?" Malak asked, leaning against the closed door.
"Upstairs," Karak agreed.

A narrow walkway ran around the edge of the area, open to the entryhall below with only a wooden banister to keep anyone from falling over. Directly at the top of the stairs was a hallway with four doorways leading off of it - two on the left and two on the right. The first door on the left had been battered down so that it hung on one twisted hinge. To the far right of the stairs was another closed door.
The landing itself was littered with splinters of wood. A door to the immediate right of the stairs had been ripped off its hinges and lay broken against the far wall. It was clear that some effort had been made to board up the door from this side, but that it had failed miserably. They could see that a steep, narrow staircase climbed still higher in the passage beyond the shattered doorway.
"I be likin' tha looks o' this less an' less as we go," Karak muttered.
"Hmmm..," Karak intoned as he eyed the damage and the closed doors. "Twou' seem that th' other doors be tha monks cells."
"A fair guess," Malak agreed.
"Let's use tha same procedure we've been usin'," the warrior suggested. "But now I want ye ta turn 'n' face backward 'n' look up. I will look forward, right, left, and down. Agreed?"
"Sounds like a plan," the cleric replied.
They crept back-to-back across the debris-littered landing toward the hallway that led away into the darkness outside their lantern light. Splintered fragments of the door at the foot of the narrow staircase to their right crunched beneath their heavy boots. A glance up the staircase as they passed told them nothing; it climbed up to some darkened third floor. 
Before they'd even stepped fully into the hallway, the devastation in the room on the left was apparent. The door, as they'd noted earlier, had been smashed open, its latch and hinges reduced to bits of twisted metal. Some furniture - probably a low table and two narrow benches, judging by the fragments that remained intact - had been piled against the door as a kind of barricade. Shredded straw mats covered the floor of the room. Two corpses lay in the middle of the carnage, their bodies broken almost beyond recognition. One corpse's head had been twisted entirely around so that it stared at them even as they stared at its back.
"Gaw!" Malak groaned, hastily making the sign of the crescent moon.
At first, Karak said nothing. He had once seen the remains of a dwarven tunnel warden who'd been surprised by a rock troll while on duty. The huge creature had mangled the dwarf so badly that his clanbrothers needed to identify him by the etchings on his arms and armor.
This was worse.
The two victims had obviously been dead for some time. They were both male and both human and covered with a layer of frost. It looked as though they had been in excellent physical condition before their deaths, but it was impossible to say for certain. The swollen, purple joints and the unnatural position of the limbs made it difficult - and unpleasant - to ascertain details. The skin had split in many places as if something immensely powerful had grabbed each arm and leg and wrung it like a dishrag. Judging by the expressions of fear and pain on their frozen features, most of their injuries had been inflicted while they were still alive and struggling.
"This be nae way for someone ta die," the warrior grumbled. "Nae e'en a beardless human."
As if in agreement, the two corpses began to stir. Their mangled limbs jerked and twitched as the frozen muscles worked to push them upright. Impossibly, they rose, their eyes vacant of any thought, but filled with undead malice


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## Jon Potter (Aug 6, 2002)

*Part 7: Two on Two*

Karak took a step back, jostling his brother in the process.
"This might be a good time ta pray, me chalak," the warrior muttered but the cleric had ideas of his own.
"Ye take tha left, I'll take tha right," Malak answered.
The first of the walking corpses swung its stiffened fist at Karak but the dwarf fended off the blow with his axe. As he swung back, Malak was surprised to hear his brother praying under his breath.
"Shaharizod, guide me axe ta be true," he said, "tha blade sharp, and me swing swift."
The Silver Queen apparently heard his plea, because the war axe bit hungrily into the corpse's groin. It was a blow that would have crippled a living opponent. The walking dead jerked in the doorway and came on, advancing even as Karak fell back.
Malak ducked in behind the animated corpse and swung at the creature behind it. His scimitar whistled through the air near the thing's left shoulder. The undead thing swung back at the cleric, its fist missing the dwarf's chest by a few inches.
Karak held his axe defensively, fending off a blow meant to connect with his head. As his opponent gathered itself for another swing, he struck again with his war axe. The heavy blade severed the creature's right hand and cleaved through its chest in one blow. All at once, the unnatural light went out of its eyes and it crumpled - lifeless once more - to the cold floor.
Malak dodged another clumsy blow and his scimitar flashed out in response. The blade bit through the frozen flesh on the thing's left shoulder. It staggered but seemed otherwise unaffected.
"Step aside, me chalak," Karak called and the Battleguard dodged to the left. His brother took the opening to come back into the room axe first. His footing was poor amid the broken furniture, however, and his great blade missed its target by a wide margin.
Malak's plunging scimitar opened a massive wound in the thing's chest. The blade lodged momentarily amidst the corpse's ribs, making the Battleguard pause to pull it free. The corpse, seemingly unperturbed by the weapon buried in its torso, backhanded the dwarf's head. He staggered backward, freeing his sword as he went.
"For tha clan's honor!" Karak roared, swinging his war axe in a huge arc that took the walking corpse's head from its shoulders. The body crumpled to the floor as the head careened off the far wall and landed with a thud among the shattered furniture in the corner.
The dwarves' eyes met and Malak smiled.
"For tha clan's honor, huh?" he asked, touching the corner of his mouth. His fingers came away wet with blood. "I've nae heard that battle cry since we both took tha Rite o' Leavin' tha Hearth."
Karak looked to make sure his axe was free of gore and shrugged.
"Sometimes tha old words be tha best words," he said. "Are ye badly hurt?"
"Nothin' a dwarf kinna handle," Malak replied and fished out his medical kit. While he attended to his split lip, Karak poked around cautiously through the debris and found nothing. As he looked down at the staring, glassy eyes on the severed head he scowled.
"What do ye think our next move should be, me chalak?" he asked.
Malak glanced up at his brother.
"Let me ask ye this," he said, "how many o' them beasts do ye suppose are walkin' tha halls o' this place?"
Karak looked at the scattered remains on the floor and shook his head silently.
"Surely, Arngrim dinna expect th' brothers would be greetin' us like this, so what be goin' on here?" He applied a bit of styptic to his lip and scowled at the bitter sting. Again his pause was met with Karak's silence.
"We'd best be checkin' on tha weather," the cleric added and went about the process of packing up his kit. "I'm feelin' that we might be overstayin' our welcome here."
"A goodly idea," Karak nodded and grimly trudged back to the hallway.
There was another door on the right hand wall, almost across from the one that they had just exited. It was firmly closed, however and showed no signs of having been battered. Malak approached it and checked it for any obvious traps, found none and pulled it open.
Beyond was a small room, perhaps ten feet on a side. The door was set into the left-hand corner of the room and door was set in the opposite wall. Pegs on the walls held several robes in both brown and white, and several pairs of slippers were lined up beneath them on the floor. As soon as they opened the door, a cold breeze began to swirl around their ankles, howling beneath the door in the opposite wall.
"Outside?" Malak muttered hoarsely into his brother's ear.
"Sounds like it," Karak growled in response.
They crossed the small room to the opposite door and Malak performed his usual checks. The sound of the wind was very loud around the door, and the icy fingers of air clawed at their exposed flesh. With a hesitant glance at Karak to make sure the warrior was ready, Malak pulled the door open.
The doorway was in the back of a small alcove that opened in turn onto a larger room. They walked forward to get a better look at the place. An empty hearth was set directly to their right, forming one wall of the alcove. A closed door and two open windows were set in the opposite and left-hand walls of the room. The windows' shutters were waving back and forth in the wind.
They could see that night had fully settled in outside but the storm seemed just as bad - or worse - than before. If they hadn't gotten to the monastery, dwarf or no, they would have died from exposure if they'd stayed camped out in the weather.
Piles of snow covered the floor of what the dwarves assumed had once have been a library; the shutters of the two glass-less windows must have been blown open by the wind. In some places, the snow had drifted to chest-height in the room. Several tables were visible above the snow and pieces of fluttering parchment poked out in some places. In the far corner of the room, near the door, a crumbled shape was leaning against the wall - the preserved corpse of another monk. Clutched in its frost-covered hand was an unlit torch held out almost like one would hold out a holy symbol to ward of evil. Despite the fact that the body hadn't been ravaged as the other two had, the well-preserved face of the corpse was frozen in a hideous rictus of fear and hatred.
"This just keeps gettin' better an' better," Karak muttered under his breath.
A gust of wind kicked up, grabbed one of the fluttering sheets of parchment, and sent it flying toward the dwarves. Karak raised his axe and caught the sheet on the blade. Whatever had been written on it was smudged into illegibility, but both dwarves could clearly smell the fact that the sheet had been completely soaked in oil.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 7, 2002)

*Part 8: Dear God, It's Me...*

"Hmm, me chalak," Karak groaned. "I nae like tha looks o' this."
Malak plucked the sheet of oil-soaked parchment from his brother's axe and looked at it. Moisture and time had totally obliterated the lines of text written there. The cleric grunted and tossed the sheet aside. The oil had turned waxy in the cold, but it thawed quickly in the heat from his hand. He wiped his fingers dry on his leg of his trousers.
"What was this monk, 'ere, about ta do?" Karak asked and Malak shrugged.
"I dunno," the Battleguard confessed.
"It's seemin' ta me 'e was ready ta torch this place," Karak said.
"Aye," Malak agreed. "That much seems clear."
"But for what?" the warrior asked, stroking his blonde beard with one hand. "What was he lookin' ta protect?"
"Or destroy?" Malak suggested and started to step around his brother. Karak stopped the smaller dwarf with one hand.
"Before we fully investigate, let's 'ave ye stick yer pin pricker in that snow bank there," the warrior offered. "I dinna want a snow crab ta launch itself at me 'ead. Aye?"
Malak nodded once and thrust his scimitar into the snow ahead of them. There were obstacles buried in the snow - overturned benches and ruined volumes - but nothing alive to challenge them. Snow blew in from the unshuttered windows.
"Let's look for a book or scroll what catches yer eye," Karak suggested. "After that I say we check tha rest o' tha monastery, put these dead souls ta rest and wait out tha storm. What say ye?" 
Malak flipped absently through a leather-bound book made fat by moisture and shook his head. He dropped the volume back into the snow.
"There be nothin' 'ere ta find," the Battleguard said with a sigh. "Anythin' worth catchin' me eye's already succumbed ta tha weather."
Karak peered at the monk, frozen with his unlit torch held before him. At a distance, he'd thought the man had died without a mark on him. Upon closer inspection, he found that was not the case. He could now clearly see the imprint of a bony hand frozen across the monk's face in ice crystals.
"Come on, me chalak," Karak muttered. "I want ta finish our sweep o' tha monastery. An' tha sooner, tha better."

They exited the library via the only other door that didn't lead out onto the storm-wrapped balcony. As with the other door, they could hear the wind whistling around it. As before, they found no traps on the door and neither was it locked.
The room beyond was half the size of the library with a single door set directly opposite the one by which they had entered. Shelves lined the walls and a small table sat in the corner to their right. A robed figure was slouched across the table, dried garlic strewn around the table in a semicircle.
Karak raised his axe defensively as the figure began to stir.
It lurched stiffly from behind the table, knocking a bottle of dried ink, a pen, and a scrap of parchment to the floor. Its fist struck only air near Karak's thigh, but the dwarf's efforts to avoid the undead blow made his retaliatory strike go wide of the mark.
Malak maneuvered to get himself into position, giving his brother the time for another swing. It was a well-placed strike; and would have cleaved the thing in half if the dwarf had his full attention on attack. He was so eager to avoid being hit, however, that the huge blade missed the unliving monk's abdomen entirely.
The walking corpse was making no attempt to avoid the dwarves' attacks, but somehow Malak's scimitar missed the thing's ice-choked head. Fortunately for both Malak and Karak, the monk was having no more luck hitting them.
Malak swung his sword, the crescent tore away a scrap of frozen meat from one undead bicep and the creature shuddered from the impact. Karak stepped forward and delivered a killing blow that split open the thing's chest; it fell to the ground in two large pieces.
"How many o' these things must we face?" Malak wondered aloud as he wiped his blade clean on the monk's robe.
"I ken nae, me chalak," Karak admitted. "Perhaps one o' these books or scrolls will tell us somethin'."
Malak picked up a few of the books and cast each aside, one after the other. Like the books in the library, they were hopelessly ruined by exposure to moisture. Only the single scrap of parchment that had been shielded beneath the monk's body was legible. It contained a prayer hastily written in Common:

"Oh lord Merrika, thou who watches over the lands of men with thy golden countenance. Look in mercy upon our accursed monastery in this our hour of need! For we are beset by a nameless evil against which there seems no defense. It comes at the stroke of midnight and kills without discrimination. Only four of us remain now. Brother Cook and brother Apothecary have retreated to the meditation room and seem resigned to death. Only brother [and here, the word 'brother' was scratched out] abbot Zeal still works feverishly on a solution. I, lord Merrika, put my fate in your hands and repent my sins in the name of Orin who was lifted up to bear your shield across the heavens. I wren -

- He comes!"


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## Jon Potter (Aug 8, 2002)

*Part 9: It's Not Lonely at the Top*

Malak rubbed his beard as he looked back toward the library door. "There be nothin' here what answers a single question, me chalak. In fact, quite tha contrary, it be seemin' more and more like everywhere we turn we find more questions."
"Better ta find it than wait for it ta find us, whate'er it be, chalak," Karak replied. "I like nae what tha signs o' this 'ere struggle indicate."
"Aye," Malak agreed, his eyes moving from one piece of the twice-dead monk to the other. "There be nothin' here what looks good at all."
"It be seemin' t' me that tha sutmagmornder likes ta come out an' play aroun' near tha midden night hour," the warrior said, flexing his hands on the haft of his axe.
"Ye be thinkin' 'tis tha undead we face 'ere abouts?" Malak asked. "Aside from tha unfortunate monks, I mean."
"I do," Karak said and then he shrugged. "Now, I be nae Cleric as ye. And apparently I was nae graced with tha brains ta figure stuff out like ye. But I figure this. I nae want ta be unprepared when tha sutmagmornder 'ere comes."
Malak looked again at the hastily written prayer to Merrika.
"Aye, chalak," he said at last. "But a moment o' prayer before Shaharizod might be in order before we go wanderin' too much further."

They exited the room via the opposite door and stepped out into the hallway. To their right was a door that obviously led out onto the snow-covered balcony that seemed to circle the second floor of the monastery; they could feel the wind pressing in around the doorframe. A single closed door was set across the hallway - the only door off it that they hadn't yet opened. Malak eyed it and angled his head questioningly in that direction.
"Nae," Karak grumbled. "We're wastin' time with all these doors while tha midden night hour draws nearer. I say we brace for battle and take tha upper stairwell, ta see what these 'ere monks be fortifyin' against."
They proceeded back to the landing that looked down onto the entryway. There, Karak indicated the dark staircase that led to the third floor. He examined the splintered wooden boards that had at one time been nailed over the portal.
"Now I must say, if'n it was nae shabby 'uman fortification, it might 'ave 'ere held," the warrior said, shaking his head in disgust. A dwarf not a decade past the Mother's Rite could have produced a better barricade. "As ye well know, a dwarven one wou' 'ave held against a corporal beast."
At the sound of Karak's voice, the goat tethered to the banister downstairs let out a loud bleat.
"Come on," Malak urged. "Let's say a few words before tha Silver Queen."
Karak nodded and the brothers turned and started down the wide staircase, heading back to the shrine room and the statue of the goddess there. They walked in silence, both on edge, and both with a hand very close to their weapons. 
The pack goat turned toward them eagerly as they came down the stairs. They each patted the beast reassuringly as they passed it.
As they entered the statue room, Malak again fished into his bag and retrieved a coin and dropped it into the clay bowl where it clinked against the other he had left. Even the sound of the coin, which had fallen from his own hand, hitting the bowl caused him to start a bit.
Karak harrumphed and looked around cautiously.
The Battleguard knelt and looked up at the wooden statue. Even though it was badly damaged by water and cold, a sense of calm swept over him at the sight of it. He knew that the goddess would protect him as best she could, and he even wondered if this might be a test that had been prepared for him. He had followed his brother into adventure with little knowledge about what lay ahead, questioning his own readiness. But Arngrim had come with the King's message and Shaharizod seemed to be telling him to go. So maybe this was a test, something to steel his will to continue, something to assess his readiness and allow him to prove to himself that he was ready. The King's message...
"Karak, where be tha message from tha King?" Malak asked. "Still on that infernal, smellin' goat?"
"I nae have it," his brother replied. "Unless ye took it, there it be."
"Then tha next thin' we ought ta do is go find it an' put it in a secure place, which nae doubt means in me pack," Malak jabbed as he got to his feet. "From there I put me trust in ye ta lead tha way. Ye be tha fighter... I nae b..."
Malak stopped himself there. If this was a test, he was not going to doubt his abilities. That wouldn't be what Shaharizod wanted.

With the heavy scroll tube secured safely in Malak's pack, they once more climbed the stairs to the landing. They crossed it to the narrow doorway. There was another closed door to the right, but they ignored it in favor of the stairs. They climbed into darkness with Karak in the lead.
The stairs led to what was undoubtedly the top floor. They arrived in a large, mostly-barren room with the open stairwell emerging in the center, surrounded by a protective banister. The roof of the room was steeply sloped. Near the right and left walls the roof was so low that Malak would likely have scraped his head, and in the center, where they emerged, an ogre could not have reached the ceiling beams. There were no windows that they could see, but their darkvision revealed all they needed to know. To the right and left of the stairs were two stone statues in the shape of stern men in monks' habits. Two doors were set behind them on either side of the stairs. There was no immediate sign of any undead.
Karak indicated the door on the left and they crept toward it as quietly as they could. Given their armor, that wasn't very quiet at all. Malak went about the business of checking the door for any obvious traps and listening for any sounds of movement behind it. He found and heard nothing. He tried the handle and found it locked.
As he turned to indicate as much to Karak, he heard a scraping sound and saw movement over his brother's shoulder. Karak whirled and the pair saw the danger as one.
The two stone statues had walked stiffly off their pedestals. Their fists were raised and their faces - which had been simply stern before - now were fixed in exaggerated expressions of rage.
They approached the dwarves haltingly.


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## drnuncheon (Aug 8, 2002)

Ahh, the walking statues. I can't even remember how my players got past them (if they even did.  They did a lot of running away, as I recall.)

Very nice. And I see you're picking up the bad habit of cliffhangers...

J


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## Jon Potter (Aug 8, 2002)

*Eh?*



			
				drnuncheon said:
			
		

> *And I see you're picking up the bad habit of cliffhangers...
> *




BAD Habit? Whatever do you mean?


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## Jon Potter (Aug 9, 2002)

*Part 10: Rockin' Role*

"Malak, mayhap these be protectors o' this 'ere monastery and confuse us as robbers; ken ye talk ta them?" Karak asked.
The two statues were advancing slowly but inexorably.
"I nae speak Terran or statue or whate'er these 'ere things speak," the cleric grumbled, readying his scimitar.
Karak harrumphed and cleared his throat.
"Stop, Golems," he said in loud, clear Common. "We are missionaries come 'ere for respite."
The statues gave no indication that they understood and Karak nudged his brother.
"Head for tha stairs," he whispered in Dwarfish and Malak started to edge in that direction.
"This 'ere be a Cleric o' Shaharizod and me a simple Guardian on a mission o' peace an' great import," Karak said as the two dwarves moved sideways toward the stairs. "We have given tha proper offerin' down below what allows us 'ere ta pass.  We dinna mean ta disturb yer master where'er he may be. We will go now, back down tha stairs."
The two had maneuvered themselves around the slow-moving statues and arrived at the top of the stairs. Their animated opponents, however, were close enough that there was no way they could both make it down without suffering attack from one or the other of them.
"Get down!" Karak commanded, pushing Malak in the chest nearly hard enough to send the cleric tumbling down the stairs.
The nearer of the two statues swung its large fist at Karak's head, but the dwarf raised his axe and drove the blow away with the handle of the great weapon. Another fist came in and he deflected the blow from his chest with the haft of the axe.
Then he was out of the statues' reach and he chugged down the narrow stairs as fast as his short legs and heavy armor would allow.
The statues followed.
"What now, chalak?" the Battleguard asked and Karak narrowed his eyes.
"I will take tha one ta tha right, ye tha left," he said as the stone creatures stepped out onto the landing.
"I suggest ye use, 'Sand over Stone'," the warrior added. "I will use 'Hammer with Pole'."
Malak came at his target fast and on the left. The creature had barely turned its head to regard him before his scimitar struck. The blade clattered ineffectually against the thing's abdomen.
It swung its fist in retaliation, but the Battleguard was easily able to avoid the blow.
Karak waited until his own statue had taken its swing and then he thrust the head if his axe outward and up, striking the statue in the throat. The attack seemed to have no effect.
Malak ducked under his opponent's flailing fists and slashed out with his scimitar. This time, his strike chipped away a small amount of stone from the thing's left thigh.
Karak and his own statue danced around each other's attacks, neither able to get passed the other's defenses until he heard his brother cry out, "Oy!"
Malak realized that the blow was going to go bad as soon as he swung, but he didn't realize how bad until the blade shattered against his opponent's right forearm. A tremor from the impact traveled up his arm making his teeth chatter for an instant before the statue struck him in the chest.
"Chalak!" Karak bellowed as he dodged beneath his statue's attack.
He swung the huge axe in a massive sideswipe, landing a solid blow with the flat of the blade. Cracks formed across the surface of the stone arm and rock dust fell to the floor. He was able to disengage from his opponent and move toward his brother.
Malak held his chest. He didn't think anything was broken, but internal bleeding wasn't entirely out of the question. He let the useless handle of his scimitar fall to the floor and reached over his shoulder to where he strapped his claymore.
The statue advanced, its fist drawn back to strike...
...and stopped.
The one that had been fighting with Karak did the same; it stood frozen in mid-step.
Their faces had returned to the stern expressions they had both worn before.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 10, 2002)

*Part 11:  Skeletons in the Closet*

"Malak," Karak began, helping to steady his brother. "Aye, finally all that prayin' seems ta've worked as ye were able ta stop tha golem's 'ere."
The two dwarves eyed the unmoving statues suspiciously, each expecting the constructs to reanimate at any moment.
"Twasn't me, chalak," the Battleguard admitted. He could taste blood in the back of his throat. "Though mayhap tha Silver Queen had her hand in it."
Karak said nothing to this, but looked intently at the sharp blade of his axe. His gaze shifted between the weapon and the stone creatures while his brother got out his healing kit.
"I say we take a quick look see at tha rest of tha monastery what we have nae searched," the blonde dwarf said.
Malak swallowed back the coppery taste of his own blood and scowled up at his brother. Karak was leaning on his war axe, his eyes still warily studying the two statues for any signs of movement and Malak nodded.
"I'll be ready in a moment," the Battleguard replied and got about the business of patching himself up.
Malak could call on his Goddess to heal his brother if need be. And were there another Battleguard present the two clerics could heal each other with impunity. But the strictures of his faith prohibited Malak from using Shaharizod's healing graces on himself. Such tenants had long ago produced a strong tradition of mundane healing amongst initiate Battleguards, and few left the training hall without a healing kit and the knowledge of how best to use it. Malak was no exception.
He produced a vial of henbane paste and smeared a dollop on a strip of mutton jerky from his rations. He put the jerky in his mouth and began to chew, letting the bitter-tasting anesthetic trickle down his throat. He could feel the numbing affects almost at once and the taste of the medicine - while not pleasant - masked the metallic taste of blood. The medicine would only last a few hours, but he could take a tincture of adder's tongue when he bedded down for the night that would speed the healing process further.
He put away his supplies, picked up Arngrim's lantern and got to his feet.
"I be ready," he told Karak and his brother nodded.
"From now onward, ye'll check tha door as ye 'ave been, then I go in, an' ye watch behind," the warrior said hauling his axe up into a defensive position.

They went first to the only door they hadn't yet opened along the length of the hallway. It was situated at the far end of the hall in the left-hand wall, opposite the door by which they had exited the library. Beside it, set into the very end of the hall was a door that opened onto the balcony; wind howled around the jam, and the door itself rattled with the force of the storm outside.
Malak performed his check on the door they had chosen then stepped back, holding their light source high. Karak opened the door, and braced himself, but nothing sprang from the darkness. He saw some loose sheets of parchment fluttering in the breeze from the door leading out. There was a loose stack of them on a small table between the door and the narrow bed. One by one, they went tumbling on the wind, but other than that movement, the room was still.
The place had clearly once been the room of someone important in the monastery. Although it lacked any ornamentation, the furniture of the room was obviously of good quality, and the cold floor - which was bare everywhere else in the monastery - was covered with woven carpets to keep out the chill.
Karak took a few steps into the room and grabbed at the sheets of fluttering parchment. They were covered with horizontal lines of human runes, but the oil lamp on the tabletop had cracked from the cold and leaked oil onto the stack. Only one sheet remained legible and the warrior handed it to his brother while he continued his search of the place.
The parchment seemed to Malak to be a page from a diary written in a forceful hand using a stick of charcoal.
He cleared his throat and read the note aloud:

"Starday, the 18th of Fireseek, 1268 AE
I know him for who he is... Merikka have mercy on my soul, for it is I who have brought this curse upon our house. Thus it is up to me to save us... those who are still alive... whether it is the light or the heat of it he fears I ken nae, but my trap shall give him plenty of both tonight."

Malak did some quick translations of dates from human to dwarvish and grimaced.
"Almost a year ago ta tha day, me chalak," he told Karak. "What do ye make o' it?"
The larger dwarf harrumphed.
"Nae time ta worry on that jus' now," he added, rattling the small locked drawer in the table. "Me thinks it ta be near midnight an' I propose we open tha top door 'fore then. We'll think on tha clues once we've searched tha place from helm ta boots."

"That'll nae hold back an angry kobold," Malak chuckled at the flimsy barricade that Karak had erected in front of the doorway at the bottom of the narrow flight of stairs to the third floor. A goodly portion of his improvised obstruction consisted of the very door that had been wrenched off its hinges in the first place.
Karak scowled at his brother and placed the last piece of wood on the barricade.
"'Tis nae meant ta hold back anythin' at all," he told the Battleguard. "I only build it so that if'n somethin' comes down we'll know 'bout it by them havin' ta crash through tha door."
The Battleguard had to admit that it made a fair bit of sense.
"Now let's hurry on," the warrior added. "We've one more door ta go through 'fore we tackle tha room upstairs."

As usual, Malak found no traps on the door. Karak opened it and his brother shown the lantern light into the chamber beyond.
The room looked like it was a workshop of sorts. A large loom stood in the left rear corner still threaded with coarse fibers of the sort used in the making of monk's habits. A workbench and several wood working tools filled the other part of the room. A half-finished chair of the sort they had seen elsewhere in the monastery lay atop the workbench amidst a drift of wood shavings. Four bony figures were sprawled on the floor. Three of them seemed to have gone down fighting while the last skeleton lay crumpled in a corner grinning merrily at its dead friends.
Karak had time to see this much before the piles of bones rose up into menacing skeletal assailants.
"Watch me back," he growled to Malak and the skeletons were upon him.
Standing as he was in the doorway, he presented a target to only three of the skeletons. The fourth hung back behind the others, waving its arms madly above its head. The other three slashed and clawed at Karak with their fingers curled into bony hooks. The sound of bone clattering against metal filled the dwarves' ears as the warrior's platemail deflected the skeletons' attacks. Only two blows found their marks - one on his right shin and the other on his left shoulder.
They were too close for Karak to swing the war axe effectively. He brought the butt end of the weapon down against the knee of the skeleton on his left and was pleased to see the lower half of its leg fall away. Its kneecap pinged off the doorframe and the skeleton fell over backward, shattering into several hundred pieces.
Of course, this victory allowed the fourth skeleton an opportunity to move in for the attack. As it did so, the dwarf spun his axe around and brought it upward. The weapon cleaved through the skeleton's pelvis. Its right leg fell to the side, but for a moment, the skeleton hopped about on its left leg before it toppled and broke apart on the floor.
He allowed the upward momentum from his attack to bring the haft of the axe upward. He meant to strike the jaw of the skeleton on his right, but the axe blade struck the lintel above his head and he missed his target entirely.
His other two opponents wasted no time mourning the loss of their compatriot; they slashed at Karak with unabated fury. His mail saved him from the worst of it, but the bony fingers managed to somehow find their way beneath the armor on his left thigh and right bicep.
As he struggled to free his embedded weapon, the skeleton he'd been aiming for raked its claws across his abdomen.
He bellowed in pain and pulled the axe free with a mighty tug. The wide blade of the weapon shattered the skeleton's right thighbone, causing the undead thing to collapse into a pile on the floor.
Unperturbed, the last skeleton struck outward at his opponent. Its fingers clawed open a wound on Karak's right shoulder; the dwarf could feel blood flowing hotly beneath his armor.
He swung his axe upward, cleaving through the skeleton's left shoulder. Its left arm fell to the floor, but it slashed at Karak with its right. His downswing finished the undead thing by separating its head neatly from its body. It collapsed atop him in a shower of loose bones.
Breathing heavily, Karak backed onto the landing.
"Are ye alright, chalak?" he asked the Battleguard between pants.
"Are ye?" Malak asked in turn and Karak grunted.
"'Tis nothin' a dwarf kinna handle," he said with a sardonic smile.
In truth, while none of the blows had been particularly damaging, the cumulative affect had taken a toll. He was bleeding from a half-dozen scratches


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## Jon Potter (Aug 11, 2002)

*Part 12: If I Had a Hammer...*

"We'll need ta get ye outen that armor so's I can tend ta yer wounds," Malak said as he began to fumble with his medicine kit. There was more than a hint of concern in the Battleguard's voice.
Karak harrumphed.
"Chalak, I have nae time for a full inspection," he growled. "So let's salve up what we can 'fore tha invisible sprites seep in ta prevent healin'."
Malak smiled to himself. Invisible sprites, indeed! What rubbish. If Karak had made it further in his training, he would know what every Battleguard knew: it was an imbalance of elemental humors, not faerie creatures that caused the problem. As he worked on his brother's wounds, he checked each for telltale signs of trouble. There was neither the excessive heat of a fire imbalance nor the excessive sweating of a water imbalance; the wounds weren't hard and swollen such as they would have been if Karak was leaning too far toward earth and his breathing was fine so air was not a problem either.
None of Karak's injuries required stitches. Malak applied bound poultices of garlic and sphagnum moss to the worst of them and a light smear of St. Lendor's wort ointment to the others.
"How do ye feel?" he asked as he put away his supplies.
"Me thinks it be about time ta head upstairs," Karak replied, flexing his muscles experimentally.
"Aye, tha rumblin' in me belly says that it be well past supper time," Malak said. "But I'd guess we've a few hours 'fore midnight. What say we check tha downstairs?"
Karak considered this and then nodded.
"Before we go, I want ta dispatch tha Golems," he said. "I dinna want ta face this thing what killed tha monks while stone Golems be smashin' our backs."
He handed his war axe to Malak and unslung the heavy warhammer from his pack. It felt light compared to his weapon of choice, but he clutched the haft of it with both hands as he approached the nearer of the two statues. It took two solid blows from the steel hammerhead to reduce it to a broken pile of rubble. The second statue required three before it too succumbed to the inevitable and fell apart into several chunks.
"There," Karak said as he secured the warhammer to his back again. "I be feelin' better already."
Malak approached and handed the war axe back to his brother. As he did so, he noticed a scrap of parchment amongst the broken pieces of statue. He picked it up and frowned at it. On one side were a series of glyphs written in the Vebar tongue - an ancient theological script used in the performance of certain complicated religious ceremonies. Malak had not yet learned to decipher them, but he could recognize them well enough. On the other side were written a few words in the human tongue: "To my little brother - May these stalwart companions guard yer sleep now that I cannot".

The goat began bleating at them as soon as they came into view on the steps.
"He's probably as hungry as we be," Malak said and began rummaging amidst their gear for the animal's feed.
"Aye," Karak agreed. He unslung his pack, pulled out a strip of mutton jerky, and began chewing on it furiously. He handed a strip to Malak who chewed it as he placed some feed in the goat's bag and secured it over the animal's muzzle.
"While we're 'ere fumblin' about in Arngrim's packs, let's take a look-see if'n there be any torches amongst 'em," Karak said around a mouthful of leather-tough meat. "I've been thinkin' on that note we found. It seems ta say that whate'er did all this killin' is afraid o' fire or light. I'm thinkin' it'd be right smart ta light up a torch or two 'fore we 'eads up."
"It kinna hurt," Malak agreed.
He found a bundle of twelve torches, a spare tinderbox, and a skin of lamp oil inside one of the bundles.

From the entryway, they retraced their steps through the hall of idols to the kitchen with its two sets of stairs.
"Up or down?" Malak asked, holding the lantern high enough to illuminate both sets of stairs.
"We've nae seen any matchin' staircases on tha floor above, so this must lead directly ta tha creature's lair at tha top o' tha place," Karak surmised, indicating the stairs up with his axe. "Let's save that for last."
Malak nodded and they descended the stairs into the basement.
The staircase opened into a narrow room - little wider than the hallways above -that trailed away to the right. The ceiling was low, and a human would have needed to stoop his head to avoid striking the rafters. They could just see a door at its far end. Bundles of javelins and other more exotic-looking weaponry lined the left-hand wall. Three suits of studded leather armor were mounted on pegs set into the wall itself.
The armor was sized for humans, and although dwarves rarely worked their protection from leather, it was obviously of a very high quality. Most of the weapons were of a type neither brother had ever seen. Some consisted of chains and wooden clubs, others were of oddly curved and weighted blades, while still others looked like normal pole arms until one noticed that the shafts of the weapons were far too flexible to stop a charge. A vast array of what looked like polished steel snowflakes were mounted to the wall around and between the other weapons.
They checked the door at the far end and, finding nothing, proceeded on to the next room where large barrels and sacks of supplies were stacked to the ceiling, dividing it into narrow corridors between the aisles. It took them a few moments of searching to notice the door in the opposite wall. A musty smell was very prevalent in amidst the containers, and Karak found out why when he cut open a sack. The grain that had been stored within had been exposed to moisture and was covered with a bluish mold. The barrels of salted meats and fish had kept well in the cold, however.
They found nothing to further threaten them in the room and after a less-than-thorough search, they proceeded to the next door.
The room beyond was the largest of the basement rooms, but it felt cramped. A great stone furnace dominated the area and numerous bronze pipes led upwards from it, disappearing into the ceiling. The doors of the furnace stood open but no fire burned within. Drifts of coal filled the corners of the room, and a filthy shovel was propped against the far wall. 
Both dwarves had seen such devices before, of course; the furnace was a dwarven design after all. They were used to warm the drafty upper halls of the largest delves, powered sometimes by a carefully routed lava vent or a creature of elemental fire. Sometimes - as was obviously the case here - they were fueled by coal.
"It seems what these monks 'ave had more than a bit of dealin' with tha dwarven folk," Malak said, taking a step nearer to the furnace. "This be o' our design, ta be-"
The clatter of coal falling off the pile as a broken, ash-covered corpse pushed its way to the surface cut off his words.
Malak had time only to move away from the thing and put down the lantern. He reached for the handle of his claymore.
Karak reacted at once, however, and swung his axe, being careful to avoid hitting the ceiling. He had spent more of his youth running from the tunnel wardens than he did training with them, so he never learned the finer points of close-quarters fighting. The swing was clumsy and missed by a wide margin.
The undead creature had it worse than both of them. Its broken limbs and long burial had taken their toll on its coordination. It slipped on the coal, tripped over its own feet and fell face first to the floor. Its head made a wet thwacking sound against the stone.
It was a simple matter then for Karak to split open its skull and stop its movements.
"How many monks did Arngrim say were here?" Karak asked, wiping frozen brain off his axe blade.
"I dinna think he-" Malak began and then stopped, his head cocked.
A sighing sound was coming from upstairs, drifting down through the bronze pipes to their ears. The sighing grew louder, like the rush of wind, and along with it came the sound of smashing wood.
"I fear it may be midnight," Malak said as the goat above began to bleat with fear.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 12, 2002)

*Part 13: The Lord of the Manor*

"What, by Grungi's beard, is that?!" Karak growled. He gripped his war axe tightly, wringing his hands nervously around the handle. "I nae be likin' tha sound o' that, chalak."
"Whate'er it be is about ta make itself known," Malak said with a note of apprehension.
"If'n we stay here an' let it come ta us," Karak planned, "then at least we know tha battleground we be fightin' on. 'Cept this infernal ceilin' be so low it be impossible for a dwarf ta swing an axe o'er 'is head."
"Which is it, chalak?" the Battleguard asked. "Stay or advance?"
The goat's wailing was a horrible sound. They could hear the animal's hooves stamping against the stone floor of the foyer. It sounded near panic.
"What say you, we advance slowly - I ta tha fore ye ta tha rear? But 'ave yer claymore at tha ready," Karak suggested, and turned to catch his brother's acknowledgement. Malak was bowed in prayer and for a moment, Karak thought about chiding him. He quickly caught himself, however; this was a time for prayer if ever there was one. 
Malak had been concerned about his brother's condition for a while now, Karak had taken a number of minor blows, none too serious unto themselves, but their cumulative effect was getting more serious than Karak would let him see. Now, with this 'unknown' letting itself free, he thought it to be the best time to go about asking Shaharizod for a healing hand -
"O' Queen of Silver, 'tis I yer humble servant, beggin' for yer hand in repairin' Karak's injuries." the Battleguard prayed. "His wounds 'ave grown more serious with each foe's lashin' weapon, and many a blow 'e has taken ta shield me from 'arm. We face an uncertain moment ahead and would be greatly humbled by yer greatness ta see 'im enter this time free o' his wounds."
Malak felt the tiniest spark of Shaharizod's power fill him and he stood. Karak saw the moonlight spilling from his brother's eyes, saw glittering silver drip from his brother's hands and for a moment, he could do nothing but stare. Malak laid his hands upon Karak's chest and the warrior felt a tingling warmth travel through his body to each of his injuries. It passed quickly, but left an invigorating strength in its wake.
Karak was somewhat ashamed of the pang of jealousy he felt at his brother's connection to the divine.
The Silver Queen's power left Malak and the light drained from his eyes. He looked at his brother and nodded.
"Me chalak, ye lead and I will follow," he said. "But best ye remember: I have a weapon and I can handle it. Ye needn't take all tha blows ta protect me."
He pulled a torch and a tindertwig from his pack and struck the twig against the tunnel wall. It hissed and burst into a very bright white flame. He touched it to the torch and the brand caught, flooding the furnace room with a warm glow.
"If'n fire and light be o' any use in protectin' us, we best take every measure possible," Malak said, handing the lit torch to Karak and repeating the process.
Karak fumbled his shield and warhammer from his back, replacing them with his war axe. He could carry the torch in his shield hand and swing the hammer with the other. The war axe was a two-handed weapon, so he'd have no place to carry a torch if he wielded it in combat.
"Aye, ye may be on ta somethin' here, chalak," Karak agreed with a smile. "I will lead ta tha front, ye ta tha rear and advance slowly out o' this room and upstairs."
Malak, who carried his own torch in his shield hand and their lantern in his other, nodded. Like Karak his own weapon of choice (at least now that his scimitar had been destroyed) was two-handed. He planned to set down the lantern at the first sign of the thing that had spooked Arngrim's goat so badly, possibly hurl his torch and drop his shield before drawing the claymore and going toe-to-toe beside his brother.

They made it to the kitchen before the goat's terrified bleats ended in a wet grunt. The sighing sound they had heard earlier had grown to a roar. The sound was all the more horrible now that the goat's cries of fear had stopped.
It took them only a few moments to race from the kitchen into the entryway, and they arrived in time to see the goat's broken body go sailing across the room, slam into the wall beside the front door and fall to the floor in a boneless heap.
Then their eyes were drawn to the thing beside the stairs. It looked like a tall, emaciated man dressed in the rags of a monk's habit. But no living man ever looked the way it did. Its withered flesh was the color of snow and black veins were clearly visible through its translucent skin. Its fingers ended in razor sharp claws that glittered like icicles. Fanglike teeth fill its snarling mouth and its eyes were empty sockets as black as the pit of Anvil's Echo in the lost delve Azul-Varn. Two pinpricks of malevolent light the color of witchfire flickered coldly within those black sockets.
A swirling mass of wind and ice crystals whipped around its body, holding it a half-foot of the ground. It made no sound other than the sound of the winds that surrounded it, as it started moving toward them.
Karak had been cold since they left the warmth of Dwurheim, but the cold that he could feel coming off this thing was glacial. He began to shiver as soon as it moved within weapon's reach.
He didn't let the opportunity to strike go by, however, and he swung the warhammer at the thing. The steel hammerhead thudded into the creature's left bicep and it howled. Or rather its mouth opened in the action of howling but no sound other than the swirling wind reached their ears.
Malak put down the lantern and switched the torch to his right hand.
The ice-cold creature reached out to Karak, its arms spread, and before the dwarf could do anything, it had him in its grip. One hand clamped down on his right bicep, the other locked onto his left, and he couldn't feel anything but a numbing cold sinking into his bones.
Malak came at the thing's back and swung his torch like a club. The firebrand struck one of the creature's pale, withered legs and it let go of Karak immediately, whirling on the Battleguard with unnatural speed. It swiped at the dwarf with bony hands, trying to grapple him as it had done to his brother, but Malak was able to thwart the attacks with his shield.
Karak could feel nothing. His arms were nerveless and threatened to drop his hammer, torch and shield. An unthinkable coldness has sunk into his very bones. The chattering of his own teeth was maddening. It was the sort of attack that would have likely paralyzed one of the lesser races, but Karak was a dwarf, by Clangeddin's axe!
He staggered forward and swung his warhammer, but the chill made the blow clumsy and he missed entirely. He recovered quickly, however and brought the weapon around again, delivering a solid blow to the thing's leg in virtually the same spot that Malak had burned it with his torch. The creature swayed in the air and turned on the source of its pain.
As soon as it spun, the Battleguard struck it across the back of the head with his torch.
Only Karak was in a position to see the look of pain and rage that twisted the thing's features, but it made the dwarf feel heartened that they were causing it injury. It took one more half-hearted swing at the warrior before it turned and glided across the foyer, its feet never once touching the floor. As it approached, the front door swung open of its own accord and the thing fled out into the savage storm that still held the monastery in its grip.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 13, 2002)

*Part 14: Fire!*

The brothers stood and stared at each other in awe for just a moment. Whatever had just fled the monastery was now outside in the storm, but for some reason neither of them took much comfort in that fact. Malak rushed to the front door and threw himself against it. It slammed closed, holding back the storm's fury for the time being.
"Ch-chalak, th-that was a c-c-close one 'ere," Karak stammered, his armor rattling and clinking as he shivered. "Me arms are like c-cold st-t-teel after a l-long day a 'hammerin' at tha f-forge."
Malak removed the healing kit from his pack once again.
"Are ye' needin' any o' this me chalak?" he asked, holding up the satchel.
Karak shook his head. He looked down at his numbed arms and could clearly see the creature's bony handprints etched in frost on both his upper vambraces. It reminded him of the mark he'd seen tattooed into the face of the corpse in the library.
"S-seems ye had tha right idea with tha f-fire," Karak added. "I guess me little ch-chalak can handle himself in a f-fight, eh? I guess all that p-prayin's nae made ye t-t-too soft."
"As I was sayin' before, chalak, I-" Malak started to say when the warhammer slipped from his brother's nerveless fingers and clanged against the stone floor.
"Are ye sure ye need nae healin'?" the Battleguard asked as he stooped to pick up the fallen weapon.
"N-nae," the warrior said again. "An' n-next t-time ye lay yer hands o' m-moonbeams on me, m-might ye give me a warnin'! I ab-bout j-jumped out o' m-me armor."
"We need fire, Karak. And nae just ta warm yer bones," Malak asserted. "That's tha best chance we got against this thing."
"Ag-g-greed," Karak chattered.
"If'n it means burnin' this forsaken place ta tha ground, well then, I say we've done it a favor. Ain't nothin' 'ere but evil and death," the cleric continued. "What say we pile up whate'er wood we can find - doors, chairs, tables, everythin' what burns - right 'ere in tha middle o' this floor and set it ta blaze? When daylight comes I dinna think we'd ought ta stay 'ere a moment longer."
Malak turned to scan the room for wooden objects that could be carried to the center of the room and Karak just sputtered, "Let's s-see what comes with th-tha day."

There was nothing worth burning in the foyer, and Malak hauled the broken furniture from the dining room and piled it in the center of the room. Using the woven straw mats from the idol chamber as kindling he was able to set the jumbled pile ablaze. Once it was burning well enough, the Battleguard left his brother huddled beside it and went to offer a prayer of thanks to Shaharizod for her healing.
The Silver Queen offered no further guidance to her disciple however, and when the cleric returned to the entrychamber, he found Karak staring forlornly at the bloody remains of their pack goat. It lay heaped against the wall like a discarded fur-covered rag.
"Tha poor goat," the warrior intoned solemnly.
"Aye," Malak agreed. He went to the remains and stripped off what gear seemed recoverable - tents and bedrolls, the last of their firewood, and some other miscellaneous gear. As he dragged the supplies to the fireside, he found Karak stripping off his armor.
"What are ye supposin' it be?" the warrior asked and Malak knew what he meant.
"I dunno," the Battleguard confessed. Certain types of undead were easy to distinguish. Others - like this thing - were not so easily categorized.
"I ken this," Karak said, "that thing was nae a mortal creature."
"Aye," Malak agreed. "That much seems plain."
"Did ye see it float though? That was might impressive." Karak seemed genuinely impressed with the creature from a purely martial standpoint. He had stripped down to his undertunic and as he rubbed his arms to get the blood flowing, he seemed to be going over and over the battle in his mind. "It had a rudimentary way to fight, but it was sure effective." 
"I wonder what it be doin' now out in tha snow," he added after a pause.
"Neodig knows," Malak breathed, casting his eye at the front door and shuddering.
"Say, chalak, do ye think that was what met our unfortunate guide out there?" Karak suggested. "It be seemin' that tha cold dinna effect it."
"Aye," the Battleguard agreed. "'Tis heat what does tha trick."
"Me thinks, like cold metal what meets tha fires o' tha forge too quickly, if'n we douse tha thing in heat, me thinks it'll crack," Karak said, shaking his clenched fist for emphasis. "What say ye we look for more oil as we saw in tha library, chalak?" 
"If'n it burns, we can use it." Malak replied.
"I have but one flask o' oil in me gear," the warrior said, tossing the metal flask to his brother. "I wou' like ta find some rags, dip them in oil, wrap it round me hammer, light it and have a flamin' hammer head. Then, when ere we strike it shall affect it doubly."
"Aye," Malak agreed, nodding his head approvingly. "That might be a useful plan indeed - if'n we find more oil."
Karak flexed his arms. Feeling had returned to them completely thanks to the warmth of the fire, and there seemed to be no lasting damage. He grinned and began donning his mail shirt.
"Let's look about for some more oil, 'fore this thing returns," he said. "And then I fear I'll be needin' some sleep."

They searched until they were too tired to search any more. In one of the cupboards under the stairs in the kitchen they found eight sealed earthenware jugs containing cooking oil. There was perhaps a quart of oil in each jug. On its own, the oil didn't burn well, but it flared to life when they poured a tiny bit on the existing fire in the entryhall.
Malak's henbane paste analgesic had worn off by this time, and a dull ache had begun to spread through his chest from the golem's blow. He took a swig of adder's tongue tincture to aid the healing process and a single dose of Quilarri for the pain and stared at Karak.
It would likely be sunup in a few hours at which point the two of them would have been without sleep for a full day. It was unclear which would admit the greater need for sleep: Karak had suffered more injuries, but Malak would be unable to seek divine aid without his mind properly rested.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 14, 2002)

*Part 15: Nobody's home*

"Ye shou' rest, chalak," the Battleguard advised. "Yer injuries are worse than mine."
Karak harrumphed and shook his head.
"Me thinks ye shou' give me a draught o' some elixir," the warrior replied. "I need a little more spring in me step."
"What ails ye?" Malak asked as he began rummaging through his medicine kit.
"I still feel tha chill," Karak told him, stretching his tired limbs. "And I feel slowed."
Malak eyed his brother and closed his bag.
"It's lack o' sleep, chalak," the cleric explained. "There's naught in me bag what a few hours' rest won't cure. Lay down an' I'll take first watch."
"Nae," Karak countered. "I say we up ta tha top and dispatch o' this 'ere thing. Then we can get some rest."
The cleric looked at his brother and the expression on Karak's face told him that there was little point in arguing.
"Let's prepare tha weapons as ye suggested," Malak said, drawing his claymore from the sheath on his back. "I'll start soakin' rags in oil."
"Ye read me mind, chalak," the warrior smiled. "Ye read me mind."

They prepared their weapons with care, but also with haste. The howling wind outside kept sounding to them like the return of their opponent, and neither wished to be caught unprepared. They were, however, able to successfully wrap unmolested the business ends of their weapons in rags soaked with the oil Karak had brought with him in his pack. Carrying their weapons in one hand and a lit torch in the other, they climbed the stair to the landing and then up to the top of the monastery.
The room at the top was as they had last seen it except for the fact that where the two statues had once stood guard now stood only empty pedestals. There was little else to see and they turned their attention to the two doors. Again, they approached the door on the left and Malak performed his usual checks while Karak stood vigilant, his warhammer at the ready. Finding no traps, the Battleguard opened the door. There was no light in the room beyond other than the orangey flicker of the dwarves' torches. Nothing sprang at them immediately from the darkness, and Karak walked hesitantly inside until his torchlight picked out the shadowy details of the place.
It was in utter disarray.
Like the antechamber, the large room had a sloped roof, higher in the center and lower to the left and right walls and it comprised the remainder of the monastery's third floor. The opposite wall of the room was occupied with an uncomfortable-looking bed carved from a rich, dark wood neither of them had ever seen before. Overturned tables, half-buried beneath piles of shredded and crumpled paper were strewn about the room. A fireplace on the right, which like the others they had seen was likely vented directly to the coal-burning furnace in the basement, was choked with ice. A drift of snow covered the floor around the hearth and a deathly cold filled the room.
Their breath puffed out in silvery clouds like furtive ghosts that slowly faded into the chill blackness pressing around them.
There were no windows in the place, but outside, the full strength of the storm seemed to have turned its attention on the monastery. The roof and walls creaked and groaned with the roaring wind. There was an air about the room that they didn't belong - a sensation that they were trespassers in the place. As dwarves, neither brother had ever been bothered by tight places, but there was something about the room that made even them feel claustrophobic.
Karak swallowed thickly and when he spoke, his voice sounded very small and hollow. "There be nae sign o' tha beastie, hereabouts," he said. "But I likes this place, nae at all, me chalak."
"Aye," Malak nodded. "On that point we agree."
The cleric raised his torch higher in an effort to dispel the shadows but succeeded only in causing them to slide across the wall and pool up in the corner. At last, he leaned his rag-cloaked claymore against the wall between the two doors and looked meaningfully at his brother.
"Stand ready, chalak," the Battleguard instructed. "I'll see if'n there's nae somethin' here what can explain what's happened."
Karak nodded and Malak began rummaging through the paper and debris. The sheets of parchment were covered with nearly illegible human characters. What little Malak could read seemed to deal with the day-to-day running of the monastery. There was nothing dated more recently than a year ago.
In one corner, he found a bundle of 40 dusty crossbow bolts. Above the fireplace hung a finely wrought light crossbow, and on the mantelpiece lay a leather quiver with another 10 bolts. The crossbow was carved with dwarven runes that spelled out the message: "To Alluzin, the most steadfast of dwarf-friends. From Vithar of Niddlein. I am in debt to you and your progeny."
Niddlein, Malak knew, was a dwarven delve many leagues to the northwest. Who Vithar was, he couldn't say.
Beneath another mound of papers, Malak found a stout ironbound chest. It was latched but not locked and held several hundred gold pieces worth of mixed coinage. He spied a few square bronze karns and karn'as and a silver dikarn or two amongst the human coins.
Two other chests contained clothes, all of them sized for a male human. One chest contained a fine black monk's habit with carved wooden slippers. The other contained more mundane clothing: short breeches, hose, two doublets, a heavy woolen overtunic, and a light gray cloak embroidered along the hem with a repeating leaf pattern.
There was nothing there to explain the presence of the bizarre creature they had fought, nor any sign when it might return.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 15, 2002)

*Part 16: Sleep Tight*

Frustrated, Malak tossed down the clothing that he'd been looking through and turned back to his brother.
"Nothin'!" the cleric huffed. "There be naught 'ere ta explain tha presence o' this creature we fought."
"Nae explanation, perhaps. But we might be learnin' a bit o' how it moves about," Karak replied. He hauled himself across the room to the fireplace and kicked at the snow with his boot. As he had suspected, he could see the grate-covered shaft set back in the hearth that lead downward to the furnace far below. "Think ye that mayhap tha beastie is able ta enter through tha vents o' tha fireplace?"
"I dunno, chalak," the Battleguard replied with a weary shake of his head. "There's nothin' o' this creature what is sure 'ceptin' that it's a cold-blooded killer."
"Aye," Karak nodded. "But if'n he be able ta move through tha vents, then I wonder if'n he'll be returnin' via tha front gate or nae."
"Meanin' that tha front hall is as safe a place as any ta bed down?" Malak asked and Karak nodded, tapping his nose with his forefinger.
"Ye got it, chalak," he said, "Right on tha nose. I say we wait out tha night an' tha storm an' head on our way ta deliver tha King's message come mornin'."
"I second that," Malak agreed. He started for the door saying, "We'll sleep tha night in shifts and-"
"Hold up a moment 'ere," his brother said, looking up at the light crossbow hanging above the fireplace. He peered closely at the dwarven runes inscribed on the weapon's stock and plucked once at its taut bowstring. "Hmm, this crossbow seems ta be very finely made, by dwarves o' course. I wonder if'n these bolts be magical?"
He picked up the leather quiver that rested on the mantle and showed them to Malak.
"These ten 'ere," he said. "Well what say ye?"
"I dunno, chalak," his brother said again. "I know little o' enchanted arrows."
"Did tha faerie clerics teach ye how ta shoot or just sing songs?" Karak grumbled and the Battleguard shot him a menacing look.
"I'd be holdin' me tongue were I ye," Malak said. "Twasn't me what mother always said cou' chant like Vergadain hisself, I'll be remindin' ye!"
Karak scowled and lowered his head.
"Dinna be bringin' mother into this," he grumbled and grabbed both the crossbow and quiver. "I'll carry these."

Marglos, the 17th or Rethe, 1269 AE

Malak took first watch, and he tended the fire and meditated on Shaharizod to keep himself awake while his brother snored beside him. The sun was not yet up when he woke Karak and changed places with him. The warrior donned his armor and began fiddling with the crossbow to keep himself awake.
It didn't work very well to stave off slumber, and he was awakened sometime later by an icy cold wind blowing through the front door as it opened and shut quickly and quietly. In the brief moment that the door was opened, he could see that it was full daylight outside and that the snow still fell in buckets full. Karak, who sat facing the door across their makeshift bonfire, watched as a shaggy, snow-covered shape stood stealthily by the front door, surveying the dwarves' campsite. The warrior pretended for the moment to still be asleep at his post, and peered at the figure through his bushy eyebrows.
It was man-sized and man-shaped, with long black hair and beard both crusted over with snow and ice. Its face above the beard was darkened by lengthy exposure to the sun. It was dressed in pelts of various types sewn together with sinew. Bone ornaments were strung on a thong about its neck.
It sniffed at the air and began to creep quietly toward them.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 16, 2002)

*Part 17: Meet the Neighbors*

The shaggy man crept toward the dwarves' campsite, his eyes darting from the two dwarven forms to the archways leading out of the room to the mangled goat corpse to the stairs up and back again in a constant cycle. His head twitched nervously as the fire popped and he seemed ready to flee at the slightest provocation. His eyes - which were a shade of blue that verged on white - seemed wild as they peered about in the semi-darkness.
He approached Malak, who was nearer the door than Karak, and hovered near the sleeping dwarf. He studied him intently, and Karak saw one mittened hand slip beneath the fur shawl the man wore. Whether he was reaching for a weapon or not, Karak couldn't wait to see.
He stood up all at once, his armor clattering loudly in the entryway, and the scraggily man fell backwards onto his behind. He began scrambling on the timeworn tile floor, looking fearfully at Karak as he did so.
"Hold," the dwarf said in the Common tongue, laying a hand on one of the throwing axes tucked into his girdle for emphasis, "before ye make a mistake what'll have ye wishin' yer mother had tha foresight nae ta e'en meet yer father."
The man stopped moving, and Malak began to stir. The Battleguard peered wearily up at his brother through one squinting eye.
"We've a visitor, me chalak," the warrior told his brother and angled his chin at the man.
The cleric rolled over, looked at the man and got hastily to his feet.
"Who are ye?" he asked with a scowl.
"Who are you?" the man responded his head cocked back so that he looked at them down the length of his face. His nostrils flared rhythmically.
"I am Malak, son o' Kignar, faithful Battleguard o' Shaharizod. I journey south with a message from me king," Malak said.
"And I am Karak, son o' Kignar, loyal warrior o' clan Stoutgut. I journey with me brother ta deliver our king's message," Karak said.
"Now tell us yer name and yer business with us," Malak added, glaring fiercely at the man.
"I am Kairem," the man said, getting slowly to his feet. "And no business have I with you."
Malak could see now that the man's leather clothes, while certainly primitive in their construction, would likely serve the man as effective armor. He carried a hatchet in his belt much as Karak did, but the man's weapon was obviously hand-made with a chipped obsidian head lashed with sinew to a bone handle. In fact, the only object that showed any craftsmanship at all was the round buckler he wore on his left forearm. Kairem kept that arm beneath his furs, so Malak had only a glimpse of it, but it appeared to be made of steel.
"Come, Kairem," Karak said, indicating that the man should sit beside the fire, "why be ye here on a day such as this?"
"Why are you here?" Kairem asked warily. His eyes kept darting about as if he suspected that the dwarves were laying some kind of trap for him.
"We be takin' respite from this storm. Are ye?" Karak told him.
"Then know you nothing of this place?" the man asked and crept a little closer to the fire.
"Nae much," Malak told him, "but what our guide said we might find respite here."
"Guide?" Kairem asked, his head swiveling about in search of the guide. "Another is with you?"
"Arngrim was our guide," the cleric said. "But he disappeared yesterday when tha storm started. We've nae seen him since."
"Mmmm," the man intoned, seeming to relax a little. "Dangerous places are the mountains. Much bad can befall the uncareful."
"Are ye familiar with th' area?" Karak asked. "Know ye much o' this 'ere monastery?"
Kairem shook his head quickly and crouched down beside the fire.
"Much I do not know," he said. "But a little I do. Evil, these men were - witches working terrible magics. All dead they are. A great and hungry spirit lives here now. Kill you both, he will if you stay."
"We've seen this spirit," Karak growled, his frown deepening as he remembered the thing's chilling touch.
"And alive you are," Kairem said, sounding impressed. "Mighty warriors must you be."
The man smiled at them and Malak noticed that his teeth were all wrong for a human. They were all sharply pointed, even those in front which should have been flat along the bottom like a dwarf's. The man caught the cleric staring at his teeth and raised his hand to his mouth.
"Here, not much grows," Kairem said. "But meat there is. Eat meat to live. Sharp teeth work better for meat." 
Malak began to study their new acquaintance with renewed interest.
"Do ye know this part o' tha mountains?" Karak asked. "We'd like ta be away from this place, but ken nae tha way."
"Oh, yes," Kairem said and stood up. "Know the way, I do. Nearby is better shelter. There no spirits live. There I have food."
Malak caught enough of a look at Kairem's buckler to see that it was indeed made of steel. Its edge was engraved all around with what looked like dwarven runes. What they said, Malak could not say as he didn't get a good enough look at them.
"Follow me to better shelter now?" the man asked, gesturing toward the door. "To stay here is not safe."


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## Jon Potter (Aug 17, 2002)

*Part 18: A Perfect Storm*

Karak and Malak exchanged a look during which they both decided that following the man out of the monastery was preferable to staying in it. No matter what awaited them outside, it had to be better than what they already knew existed in this evil place.
"Aye, Kairem," Malak said to the man. "We'll follow ye. Let us gather our gear an' we'll be ready."
The man nodded and smiled broadly at them.
 As the brothers walked toward the cluttered pile of provisions they had retrieved from the remains of Arngrim's goat Malak spoke quietly to his brother.
 "I definitely mistrusts this human, me chalak," the Battleguard muttered in dwarfish. "If'n 'e knows how evil this 'ere place can be, why wou' 'e enter it and find us? And 'e must 'ave crept up on us rather quietly for ye nae ta notice 'im while ye' were on guard."
Karak nodded his head, color creeping into his cheeks.
"Aye, he crept up right quiet, a'right," the warrior said. "I'm thinkin' 'e may be dangerous, but hopefully nae somethin' we two kinna 'andle."
Malak nodded as they stuffed gear into their packs.
"Those things aside, that buckler 'e's wearin', well best I can tell - 'e got it from a dwarf," the cleric said. "There be runes along th' edge what I kinna make out, but trust me, me chalak, they were dwarven."
"Mayhap 'e got it for helpin' a dwarf or two," Karak hypothesized. "That'd explain why 'e trusts us so much. Why wou' 'e go an' bring two strangers ta 'is shelter? He dinna seem wary o' us in tha least."
"Well, we last saw that evil spirit make its way out that same door 'e came in," Malak countered. "How do we know that's nae him come back as a human form?"
Karak harrumphed and cast a glance at Kairem. The stranger stood beside the door staring at them silently.
"Tha' may be," Karak answered in a soft voice, "but 'e might be th' only chance we got ta get out o' this 'ere place ta somewhere less... uh... evil."
"Indeed, me chalak. Ye be right with that, but we best nae be lettin' our guard down at all whiles we travel with 'im." Malak said.
"Agreed," Karak nodded and hauled his pack up onto his shoulders.
The cleric took a last look at the gear that they would be unable to transport because it just wouldn't fit. He sighed.
"We be ready," Malak told Kairem, as he turned and headed for the door.

When they had discovered the monastery almost by accident the day before, the weather had been severe. It had worsened during the night.
As before, the wind bit at their exposed flesh and froze their breath to their beards, but it no longer served to scour clean the rocky path. Too much precipitation had accumulated during the night, and its surface had frozen to a thin glaze of ice that wouldn't support their weight, but made wading through it even more difficult. The blinding sheets of snow cut their visibility more effectively than darkness ever could have, and they hustled to keep the shaggy shadow of their guide in sight.
Karak, in his heavy armor, soon began to lag behind. Malak turned back and could barely see the shape of his brother amidst the swirling white. He stopped and turned back toward Kairem. His shape was indistinct, obliterated almost entirely by the snow.
"Oy! Kairem!" Malak called into the wind and waited for Karak to catch up.
Kairem seemed to be waiting for them as well; they could just make him out at the extent of their vision. Once they started moving again, so did he - staying close enough always for them to see him.
They marched along that way, struggling to keep up with their guide, for what seemed like hours. They lost sight of him at times, and of each other a time or two as well. It was unclear where they were going and at no point did the weather improve. The cold continued to work against the two dwarves, however.
At last, Malak stumbled, slumping forward onto his hands and knees. Karak hustled to his brother's side and lifted him upright.
"Malak," the warrior cried. "Can ye stand?"
"I dunno, chalak," the cleric responded, breathlessly. "I canno' feel me feet."
Grunting, Karak hauled his brother upright and put the cleric's arm around his shoulder.
"Mayhap me constitution's met its match," Malak chuckled sardonically. "I'm feelin' a wee bit numb."
In truth, it was a great deal worse than that. His limbs felt like lead, and it was all he could do to keep his head up. His fingers had begun to develop a painful tingle similar to the one that had settled into his feet a short while before.
"Where be tha' moss-covered, anvil-droppin' rock runt o' a guide?" Karak growled impotently into the storm. "Do ye see 'im?"
"Nae," Malak muttered. "But methinks it dinna matter, chalak. I think 'e's been leadin' us 'round in circles."


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## Jon Potter (Aug 18, 2002)

*Part 19: Between a Blizzard and a Cold Place*

Malak slumped limply back to his knees and Karak bellowed into the storm once more, hoping to see Kairem's shape appear in the snow. But all he saw was the sheet of white he had been squinting into since they left what now seemed to be the peaceful shelter of the monastery.
"I cinna go on, me chalak," Malak determined, as difficult as it was for him to admit.
"Aye, ye can!" Karak assured him. "Remember tha tales o' Clanggedin! There be nae room for surrender!"
The cleric shook his head miserably.
"Me feet are gone, me legs are gone, me 'ead be full o' confusion," he said, looking at his brother with eyes full of cold-induced apathy. "It be tellin' me what a grand idea it be ta lie down ta sleep right 'ere, right now. But I know better."
The warrior hooked his hands beneath his brother's arms and tried hauling him to his feet once more. But Malak's groan made him stop.
"Ye' have ta go on," the Battleguard said. "Ye' must try ta catch up with that hairy, pointy-toothed, dwarf killer an' put an end ta 'im. I'll huddle up 'ere and wait for ye ta find shelter. Shaharizod will surely take care o' me until ye come back."
To Karak's ears, it seemed like just another excuse for his brother to lie down and die. And much as he would like to bury his war axe in Kairem's skull, Karak knew better than to leave his brother there alone. He would never do it.
"Well, it seems what either way tha cold'll be tha death o' us. But I for one've nae give up hope yet," Karak told the cleric. "Any dwarf worth 'is gold knows how ta make a snow cave."
The Battleguard harrumphed and made a weak gesture with his hand.
"I can nae build anythin'," he admitted. "Me arms be too heavy ta e'en hold up."
The only chance they had was to make a crude shelter and hope it would protect them. He'd heard tales o' dwarven outriders protectin' themselves in such fashion, but had secretly hoped that his brother would know more about the details of such a project than he, himself, did. He thought for a moment and shrugged out of his pack, not sure exactly what he was to do, but knowing it was the only hope they had.
"Well, Malak, I suggest ye start a prayin' whilst I get ta work," Karak said. He was surprised to hear himself add, "May Shaharizod be with us."
As his brother began packing the snow into a pile, Malak closed his eyes and began to speak to the Silver Queen.
"'Tis I once again, Malak tha humble servant o' Shaharizod," he prayed. "Havin' given so much o' me life ta yer duty me Queen, I ask yer now for all tha help ye can bestow. A break in tha storm so's we can make shelter, for surely without such, I'll nae be able ta work yer word 'ere any longer. Me feels th' end approachin', and begs yer help, O' Queen."
Malak felt the touch of the divine, and feeling began to seep back into his numbed body.
Karak labored furiously to pile and pack the snow into a wall, but the material was most unlike working in stone, and it seemed to collapse almost as quickly as he could build it. He wouldn't give up, however, and each collapse pushed him to work harder and faster. He redoubled his efforts despite the fact that the wind-driven snow seemed more intent on burying him than it did on forming one wall of a shelter.
Malak opened his eyes and watched Karak scramble about in the snow, futiley trying to shore up his snow wall. The cleric's few moments alone with Shaharizod had cleared his head as well as return sensation to his extremities, and he had an idea.
"Karak!!" he shouted into the storm. "Come close, I've an idea!"
The warrior cleared the snow around his waist and knees and dropped to where Malak sat, now nearly chest deep in the heavy, frozen powder.
"What say ye, chalak?" Karak asked. "Was tha Queen o' some help ta ye?"
The Battleguard nodded and held out his hand to his brother.
"I need ye' ta right me. 'Elp me get ta me feet," Malak said, hoping that his brief rest would help him find his ground again.
Karak helped him to his feet, and marveled at the improvement in his brother's physical condition.
"Ye can stand," he said and Malak smiled back at him.
"More than that, me chalak," he said. "I may have found us a way outen this."
The Battleguard knew without thinking about it that both of Shaharizod's mirrors were at the half. Great Celune was on the wane, while Meruna, the Handmaiden, was waxing toward full. Even now, he knew the Handmaiden was above the horizon, but it would be hours before Celune made her appearance. He looked to the sky and tried to divine where Orin's Shield lay. If he could find it, he might be able to determine where Celune would rise into the heavens and from that, navigate them to shelter. He would have to rely heavily on Karak to help him move through the snow, but at least
Shaharizod had heard his plea and graced him with a respite from his descent into numbness.
Malak's spirits were buoyed by his plan and he hoped that it would have the same effect on his brother.
"What be yer plan, me chalak?" Karak asked. "I be willin' ta try anythin' ta get out o' this infernal blizzard, but if'n we're ta do somethin', it best be soon. Elsewise let me get back ta buildin' me snow cave."
The Battleguard didn't answer immediately, but tried desperately to see any sort of lightening in the dismal gray cloudcover that pressed down above them. At first, it didn't seem likely that he'd be able to discern the sun's location; the clouds were so thick and heavy. But at last he shouted, "There! Methinks Orin's Shield shou' be that-a-way"
He pointed into the whiteness Over Karak's left shoulder. The dwarf looked in that direction and shrugged.
"What o' it?" he asked.
"If'n that be tha Shield an' Meruna be there," the cleric pointed excitedly in the opposite direction, "then Greatmoon will rise just ta tha west o' her Handmaiden an' tha monastery be that-a-way!"
Karak hadn't progressed nearly far enough in his training to predict the phases and positions of Shaharizod's Mirrors, but he knew well enough that it was a skill Battlegaurds honed keenly. He trusted his brother to be able to tell him what either moon's phase was at any given time of day, but wasn't so sure about the other stuff. Still, at least Malak had come out of his near fugue state.
Karak hauled himself to his feet and grabbed his pack.
"It seems what I'm havin' a wee bit o' trouble with me snow cave anyway," the warrior said grimly. "So let's be tryin' yer plan."
He placed his arm about his brother's shoulders, and hoped for the best.

They pressed on into the storm, with Malak leading a pace or two ahead. Karak's movement was still slowed by his armor, but Malak was now weakened so by the cold that he could move little faster even given his less encumbering protection. The Battleguard stopped often - every couple dozen paces - to make certain that they were still on the correct approach to find the monastery that had gone from potential tomb to their only hope of survival in half-a-day.
As they walked, Karak began to sink into the same funk that had nearly overtaken his brother earlier.
"I dunno, me chalak," he grumbled. "I'm a gettin' pissed on by tha Gods again, I figure."
"What are ye talkin' 'bout, Karak?" the cleric asked.
His brother looked at him and began counting things off on his fingers.
"First I gets our guide killed, then we ends up in a haunted monastery," he explained. "I about get frozed ta death by some ghost, and then, ta top it off, I decide: 'Hey, chalak, I got an idea, let's us go for a nice walk in tha middle o' a blizzard'. Let's face it; I was meant ta be a forge singer, I guess, an' that's it."
He dropped down onto his butt in the snow, his pack overbalanced him and he went sprawling on his back.
Malak turned to his brother and shook his head.
"Ye're a great fool, ye know that?" he grumbled. "Ye've left out tha part o' tha story where ye fought off skeletons, an' zombies, an' golems, went toe-ta-toe with an ice ghost, an' saved me life."
The Battleguard bent over and grabbed Karak by the wrist.
"On yer feet, now," he commanded. "Remember tha words o' our ancestors: 'victors stride ever forward'!"
Karak harrumphed but struggled to regain his footing.
"When did ye start quotin' clan lore?" the warrior asked once he was standing.
Malak shrugged and said simply, "Sometimes tha old words be tha best words."
Karak shook his head and smiled, recognizing his own words come back to haunt him.
"I still think I was meant ta be a forge singer," he said as they fell back into line and began trudging toward the monastery.
As if to prove the truth of his words, the warrior proceeded to bellow out a deep-throated, resonating chant detailing Clanggedin's first victory over Grolantor, god of the Hill Giants. He'd almost finished the recitation, reaching the point in the tale where the Lord of Battles imparts his knowledge of giant fighting to the First Dwarves, when he collided with Malak.
"Oy!" he sputtered and nearly fell over.
"There it be!" his brother said, pointing ahead at a dark fissure that was dimly visible through the sheets of driving snow. He turned excitedly toward Karak and said, "There it-"
Behind the warrior, Malak saw a hunched, furry shape moving swiftly and silently toward them through the snow. A glimpse of the obsidian and bone axe in the man's hand, told the cleric everything he needed to know about Kairem's intent.
"Karak! Behind ye!" Malak warned and his brother turned to look over his shoulder. Karak saw Kairem closing on them rapidly and shrugged out of his backpack.
"Prepare yerself, chalak," the warrior said. "This ends now."
The Battleguard knew from Karak's tone of voice that there was no room for argument and he wriggled free of his own pack.
Karak hefted his war axe and rolled his shoulders to work the fatigue out of them. As their former guide drew to within two axe lengths, the dwarf felt the last of the tension drain down his body and into the earth beneath his feet.
"As Shaharizod is me witness, I vow this: with Her Strength, I will hold an' me blade will swing true," Karak cried in Dwarfish.
Malak was surprised by his brother's proclamation; it was rare to hear the Silver Queen's name pass Karak's lips as part of anything other than a curse. Apparently, Shaharizod chose not to bear witness to the warrior's oath, however. Kairem's weapon came in low, just beneath the great curved blade of Karak's war axe and struck the dwarf on the left elbow with enough force to drive him to the ground.
Karak's blood - which looked very red indeed against the stark white that surrounded them - began to stain the snow.
Malak swung his claymore at Kairem, but he was distracted by his brother's condition, and the blow was clumsy. The shaggy man was able to easily avoid it.
"Pushed you into the chasm like th' other, I should've!" the guide ranted. "Long climb to fetch you after, though!"
Malak gritted his teeth and slashed outward with his blade and this time, it swung true. The point of the claymore cut across Kairem's chest, rending the leather armor and the flesh beneath. The guide cried out and tried to fend off the cleric with a wild swing of his hatchet.
Karak felt sure that he was dying, but he wasn't ready to accept that fact easily. He struggled to clear his mind of the weakness that seemed intent on keeping him sprawled in the snow. He saw the haft of his war axe rising out of a drift nearby and reached for it with a hand stained red with his own blood.
The Battleguard pressed his attack, savagely swinging his blade. The cold and the snow continued to work against him, and the claymore couldn't find its way through Kairem's defenses. The shaggy man, who seemed indifferent to the weather, was having little trouble landing blows on Malak, however; the hatchet struck Malak a glancing blow to the abdomen.
Karak grabbed his war axe and hauled himself unsteadily to his feet an instant before a hatchet blow struck the snow where he'd been lying. Another hairy shadow loomed suddenly out of the snow, and the warrior swung his axe at it without success.
Malak and Kairem traded blows, with neither hitting. It was obvious that, while the man had the advantage of terrain, the dwarf was better versed in combat.
Karak and the newcomer to the battle attacked as one, but only the dwarf's weapon struck true; the obsidian hatchet dinged harmlessly off Karak's helmet. The war axe bit hungrily into the man's left thigh, opening a wound all the way to the bone.
The man cried out and pressed his hand against the horrid gash. He started to turn and Karak's backswing caught him on the right knee, dropping him unceremoniously into the snow.
Malak and Kairem continued to seek an opening in each other's defenses, but neither was willing to yield. Time and again, Malak's blows clanged against the man's buckler. At last, as Kairem brought his hatchet down toward the cleric's head, Malak's claymore rose to parry, but met the man's forearm rather than his weapon. Hot blood spattered down on Malak's face and Kairem squealed in pain, nearly dropping his axe.
The Battleguard had found his weakness, and he pressed the advantage, striking the man's weapon arm again. This time Kairem did drop his axe and staggered backward into the snow. He raised the shining buckler to ward off Malak's advancing claymore, but he saw nothing of Karak's war axe.
The great weapon struck him in the back, cleaving through his spine and killing him instantly.
The two brothers stood facing each other over Kairem's corpse, their teeth bared in a grimace of fury, their breath pumping out of their lungs in great clouds of steam.
Malak wiped blood off his lips and looked at his brother. Karak's left arm, from the elbow down was glistening red. Blood dripped slowly into the snow at his side.
"Chalak, ye need aid," the cleric said.
"Aye," Karak agreed. "But nae here. Let's be gettin' outen tha snow, 'fore I freeze well an' good."
Malak nodded and went to retrieve his pack.
Karak reached down and wrestled the buckler free of Kairem's dead limb and looked at it. It was, indeed, a fine artifact of such high quality that even if dwarven runes hadn't encircled it round about, its manufacture by dwarves would still have been clear. On the outer face of the small shield the runes read:
"Good runes give aid in the river of axes."
And on the inside rim were etched the words:
"This shield was forged by Thurgood for his thane, the noble Arngrim Barzak of Taerdal."


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## Jon Potter (Aug 19, 2002)

*Part 20: Some Well Deserved Rest*

Karak shoved the buckler into the wide band of his girdle and moved to the second corpse. The body looked very similar to Kairem, right down to the sharply filed teeth; the two men could have been brothers. The dwarf knelt down into the snow and checked the man's throat. There was no lifebeat. He had bled to death from the two wounds to his legs.
Karak spied a bulging pouch at the man's belt and ripped it free with a single tug. It jingled in his hand - full of coins from the sound of it.
He slung his war axe and picked up a handful of snow. He pressed the snow against his left elbow, working the stuff in between the plates of armor there so that it made its way to the injury sight.
"Let's go, chalak," he grunted as Malak approached with his brother's pack in his arms. "I am right about tired o' this miserable snow."
The Battleguard nodded.
"Aye. We best be gettin' ye' ta some shelter," he said. "Ye looks ta need more than just a wee bit o' healin'"
Karak harrumphed and they trudged toward the cleft in the cliff face.
It seemed ironic to Malak that he had shuddered at the sight of the place a few hours before, and now, looking up at the figures of Orin and Merikka in the iron gate, a sense of calm fell over him. He knew better than to feel too at ease with the place, there was certainly enough evil there for a hundred men, but it provided shelter and a place to shake the bone-numbing cold that had clung to him for much too long now. Besides, the figure of Shaharizod in the room of statues would be a most welcome sight.
Karak gave a futile tug at the gate as they passed, trying to pull it closed behind them. It was too firmly anchored in place by snow and ice to budge, however, and he soon gave up the effort.
Nothing more assaulted them as they waded through the snow to the front steps and entered the building itself. The fire that they had lit in the front hall had burned down to a bed of smoking coals, but the heat that it put out settled over them like a welcome blanket. Once the door was closed and they heard the latch click into place, they shrugged free of their packs and moved eagerly toward the warmth.

Malak attended to his brother's injuries once his own fingers had warmed enough to permit him to work the healer's craft. The wound to Karak's elbow was a savage one and it required stitching up in addition to the application of salves and clean bandages. The cleric offered a swallow of Quilarri to his twin for the pain.
"Nae too much," he warned," lessin' ye want ta find yerself addled if'n that ghost wraith attacks us again."
In truth, his healing supplies were rapidly dwindling. Less than a week out of Dwurheim and already he'd used up more than half his kit.
"Aye," the warrior nodded grimly, handing back the tiny flask of liquid. "Malak, I now fear that while we were gone tha ghost wraith could have made its way back in 'ere. What say ye, after ye fix me arm we go up and check his room? Then we can 'ole up ere again and get some rest."
"A goodly plan," the Battleguard told him. "Once that be done, I thinks ye're right - lets go lookin' for that spirit before it starts lookin' for us. Daylight is on our side. Let's nae waste any."
As Malak carefully stitched up his left arm, Karak held up the buckler he'd taken off Kairem's corpse and looked at it in the firelight. Malak's claymore had struck it solidly more than a few times, but it showed not so much as a single nick in its polished surface.
"This is one fine buckler given ta a thane," he told his brother. "Ye be tha one who noticed it and fought well against tha beast even though ye be a soft miracle worker."
Malak harrumphed and tugged a bit at the thread, making Karak wince a little.
"I think ye've earned this battle honor," the warrior went on. He looked at it longingly for a moment, appreciating its martial value and fine dwarven make before he added, "Beside, it'd just get in tha way o' me swing."
"That's right kind o' ye," Malak said as he snipped the thread with a small pair of scissors and began to bandage up the wound. "I'll gladly accept such an honor though me own weapon requires two hands for tha time bein' as well. Truth be told, I'm nae near as fond o' me claymore as ye are o' that axe!"
"That axe has saved both our lives a time or two, chalak," Karak grumbled and put down the buckler. He picked up the belt pouch he'd taken off the other corpse and worked the drawstring loose with his free hand. Inside were some bronze karns and dikarns and an electrum pekarn or two - perhaps 50 gold worth in total - and three severed dwarf fingers.
"Gaw!" Karak hissed. Sharply pointed teeth had obviously gnawed on one of the fingers rather extensively.
"Sharp teeth are better ta eat meat," the cleric repeated what Kairem had told them. "He was tellin' tha truth, it seems. He jus' dinna mention what kind o' meat 'e was fond o'."
A clear and disturbing picture was beginning to develop in Malak's mind about what had happened to Arngrim. He wished it wouldn't. Such a death was unfitting any dwarf, and unfitting especially a dwarven thane. No dwarf worthy o'-
Karak's head began to slump; his eyes had already closed.
"Chalak!" the Battleguard said and his brother jerked his head up. "I warned ye ta go easy on tha' Quilarri."
"I'm jus' a wee bit tired is all," Karak explained, blinking his eyes. "I'll be fine."
"Ye'll get yerself killed is what ye'll do," his brother corrected. "Ye get some rest an' I'll take first watch. We'll worry about our friend the ghost wraith after we've 'ad a bit o' sleep."
Karak wasted no effort to discourage his brother, but simply gathered his sleep gear and lay down near the fire.
The Battleguard fished in his medicine satchel and produced a vial of juniper berry distillate. With any luck, the stimulant would keep him awake long enough for his brother to regain some of his strength.

It worked and he instructed Karak to drink some of the juniper berry once it was his turn to sit watch.
Malak feared that he stimulant might keep him awake, but he sank into slumber as soon as his head touched the floor. Karak sat watch as the night wore on with no sound reaching his ears except the raging howl of the storm. He checked the oil-soaked rags they had bound round their weapons, and added some to his war axe. The rest of the time, he tended the fire and cleaned both their suits of armor. He had just finished with Malak's scalemail when over the sound of the wind outside, he heard the distant sighing sound that they had heard before in the furnace room. The sound began to grow louder.
"Chalak!" the warrior said, nudging his brother out of sleep with his steel-shod boot. "It comes!"


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## Bob Aberton (Aug 19, 2002)

Great story hour d00d.

I like the premise, about the two dwarf brothers and all.  Keep writing; this story hour has real good potential.

Plus, I like the way the cold weather actually seems to be a danger in this storyhour.  I haven't seen the heroes worrying about the weather hazards in any other 'hours but this one, and it adds depth.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 19, 2002)

Bob Aberton said:
			
		

> *Great story hour d00d.*




Thanks. I'm glad to hear that someone is reading and enjoying this.



> *I like the premise, about the two dwarf brothers and all.  Keep writing; this story hour has real good potential.*




Sadly, there's not much left of the tale. This particular adventure ends after part 22. There's a bit more detailing the preliminaries of the next adventure, but both players decided to switch characters before completing it. some I'm hesitant to post an incomplete story that leaves the pair standing outside their objective.

And as far as the dwarven brother concept goes, that was entirely a player decision. They worked on rolling them together and creating their intertwined histories. Then they started calling each other 'chalak' and the rest is history.



> *Plus, I like the way the cold weather actually seems to be a danger in this storyhour.
> *




SEEMS to? Malak very nearly died during their little walkabout. And, as Karak would say, "freezin' ta death  be nae fit way fer a dwarf ta die!"


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## Jon Potter (Aug 20, 2002)

*Part 21: Lord of the Manor*

Malak needed no further prompting. Instantly awake, he rolled out of his blanket and grabbed his scaled hauberk. As he worked to don his armor, Karak outlined some tactics that might aid them in the coming battle.
"We know that tha Frost Wraith be harmed by fire and I think light," the warrior said. "We cou' jus' defend ourselves from it with a ring o' fire or torches an' wait 'til tha storm blows out. But I thinks we need ta dispatch this thing for once and all."
"I agree, chalak," the Battleguard said. "But we ought ta stay very near th' fire for th' moment. It'll offer us an advantage over this Wraith."
Karak nodded.
"We've another advantage," he said and indicated the clay jugs of cooking oil. "I'll fight it an' lure it ta tha fire. Then ye hit it with tha oil and mayhap a torch as well if'n I gets into any trouble."
Malak smiled at his brother.
"I'm glad we're clanbrothers, chalak," the cleric said. "I'd nae want ye as me enemy."

The sighing sound that heralded the Wraith's approach grew as it came, and by the time Karak could see the blizzard white thing moving down the stairs from above, the sound was a full-fledged roar. The warrior clutched his war axe defensively and set his feet at the base of the stairs. The Wraith drifted slowly down the stairs, its face set in an undead grimace of hatred, its eyes glowing with cold rage. The snow and ice billowing around it whipped the Wraith's hair and habit and ruffled the dwarf's beard as the thing descended eagerly.
Midway down the stairs, it stopped and looked skeptically at the fire burning in the foyer below and at Malak standing behind it.
Karak shifted his feet and sneered up at the thing.
It sneered back but did not advance toward the fire.
"Come on!" Karak growled at the Wraith. "Ye want me? Here I be!"
The light in the Wraith's black eye sockets flared and it started to turn back toward the upper floors.
"Face me, Alluzin!" the dwarf cried out, testing his theory that the Frost Wraith had been the Abbot in life.
The floating thing spun violently toward Karak, its face stretching and twisting into a mask of hatred so terrible that it turned the dwarf's gut to ice. It gripped the railing, and a spidery layer of frost began to spread from its hand, covering the images carved there of Orin and Fir Flinderkin. For a moment it hovered on the stairs and Karak could hear the banister creak as the Wraith's unliving grip tightened on it.
Then all at once, it came at him. Its mouth yawned wide in a soundless roar. Its glittering ice claws slashed savagely at the air.
Karak held his ground, lowering the head of his axe into the flames behind him. He kept his eyes on his opponent however, waiting for the Wraith to draw nearer to the fire. He was hit by a wave of bitter cold an instant before it was upon him, and at that moment he dodged. Its claws split the air to his left as he moved right, ducking beneath its skeletal arms.
He had hoped that the creature would simply blunder headlong into the fire, but it stopped short of that and turned on him abruptly. The dwarf swung his war axe in a vicious arc that struck the Wraith a bone-crunching blow to the head. Black mist began to leak from the thing's broken skull and it swooned backward into the fire.
It began at once to writhe and twist amidst the conflagration.
Malak heaved one of the pottery jugs of oil into the fire where it shattered amidst the coals and burning wood. The flames at once roared to twice their height, obscuring the Wraith's pain-wracked form. Both dwarves were obliged to back away from the fire. Malak singed his beard in the process. The fire was so bright and hot that they couldn't see the humanoid shadow moving in its midst until the charred remains of the Frost Wraith fell unmoving onto the floor beside it. Tendrils of black energy rose smokily up off its withered bones.
Before they could gloat in the Wraith's demise, however, a low rumbling began to move through them. The chandelier above their heads tinkled and they heard something glass shatter against the floor in another room.
They both knew what that meant.
"Earthquake!" Karak bellowed as the rumbling grew louder.
Malak looked at the staircase. It was undulating up and down like a serpent's body - mere moments away from breaking free of its moorings.
"We must get out!" the Battleguard said and gathered up a double armload of his gear.
For a moment, Karak stared at a crack forming in the rear wall. It grew upwards from the floor, becoming wider and deeper as it went. When it reached the ceiling it would send the whole thing down on them.
"Come on!" Malak roared as chunks of plaster rained down around him.
Karak grabbed his things from the fireside and made for the door.
Outside, they found that the storm had stopped and stars crowded the night sky. They had only a moment to take assessment of that before the cliffside above the monastery split with a resounding CRACK! The huge sculptures of the gods began to break apart and rain down onto the portico. Karak and Malak staggered halfway across the courtyard before they realized that they had moved beyond the scope of the earthquake. It seemed centered on and only to affect the monastery.
But that wasn't the most bizarre thing.
They stood there dumbfounded as a slow procession of shadowy figures dressed in dark robes filed out of the crumbling front door of the monastery, moved down the stairs and across the courtyard. They passed the two dwarves without acknowledging them and moved through the gates into the pass beyond. Only the last figure in the line was different; it was a dwarf carrying an ice axe. His beard was woven into two fat braids and the braids were threaded through his wide girdle. Like the others, he paid neither Karak nor Malak any mind.
When all the figures had passed the gate they turned and looked back. The twins followed their gaze toward the monastery. On the rapidly disintegrating portico stood a tall dark figure that returned the shades' stares. After a moment that seemed to last all night the figure bowed its head towards the gathering of shades, turned and walked back into the monastery an instant before the shattered torso of Merrika sealed the front door forever. With that solemn farewell the shades at the gate turned and faded into the night.
An instant later, the wind picked up, and for a moment the view of the monastery was entirely obscured by blowing snow. When they could see again, the monastery was gone, leaving only a cold pile of rubble on the mountainside.


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## Jon Potter (Aug 21, 2002)

*Part 22: Aftermath*

"Mayhaps," Malak thought aloud."Do ye suppose..? Nahh... couldn't be."
"Spit it out, chalak !" Karak returned. The warrior's tone was perhaps gruffer than he intended; the supernatural events they had just witnessed had shaken him.
"It seemed to me a queer thing that our guide knew well o' this 'ere monastery, but knew nothing of its current state," Malak explained. "He even knew the lay o' the land like it was 'is own."
"An' what of it?" Karak asked.
"Do ye suppose that Arngrim once called this 'ere place 'ome?" Malak asked and Karak harrumphed.
"I do no' think 'e was a prior monk but that's just what I think," the warrior admitted. "All o' this seekin' after oneness an' enlightenment seems an awful 'uman thing to do, if'n ye ask me. And Arngrim seemed every bit the dwarf through an' through. I think 'e knew these ways an' knew of the monastary from 'is travels is all."
"There 'as to be a connection 'tween him an' the monastery somewhere," the cleric asserted. "Or between the Hungroths and the Ice-Wraith."
"Hmm... the whole thing seems most unnatural" Karak said. "Despite yer abilities to commune with the Gods, it's unsettlin' to see 'em directly. And it was unsettlin' to see our guide again. But truth be told, I'd been feelin' as if we 'ad abandonded 'im too easily before. But now it seems all right after destroyin' Alluzin."
"Aye," Malak agreed.
"What says you we 'ole up 'ere an' finally get ourselves some rest," the warrior went on. "We'll wait until first light and see if ye canno' find us the way. 'Tis strange tha' the storm 'as suddenly stopped as well, no?"
"Strange indeed, me chalak. But no more strange than fits with all else we've encountered 'ere." Malak spoke, nodding back toward the now crumbled monastery. The entire facade was gone, reduced to a pile of broken rubble. The only indication that a crafted structure had once existed there was the disembodied stone head of Orin that stared solemnly from its place atop the shattered remains.
"But what o' those Hungroths we dispatched of," Malak asked at last, patting the buckler on his arm "Do ye' suppose we've seen the last of 'em?"
The warrior shrugged his armored shoulders.
"Shall ye sleep now, or take first guard?" Karak asked, conveying to Malak that although he hoped they had seen the last of the Hungroths, posting a guard would still be best.
Malak nodded his agreement.
"Let's us first find a place to keep for the night. Sleep ye first an' I'll keep watch. I'll wake ye so's I can sleep 'til first light." Malak said, looking toward the sky to get some bearing on direction. He spotted Meruna, the handmaiden in the sky to his left and a pale glow behind some mountains a bit to the right of her position marked the sliver of Great Celune that remained. Her path through the heavens at this time of year was shallow and kept her hidden behind the high peaks of the Thunder Mountains. With the positions of Shaharizod's Mirrors thus fixed in his mind, he was able to trace an imginary line across the dark sky through the constellation, The Rings of Beronnar. From that he knew which direction was north and which direction would lead them southeastward into the human land of Haven.
"Come mornin' we'll 'ead off for Felsheim," the Battleguard said and placed a stick of firewood in the snow pointing southeastwards. He pointed toward the horizon in the direction the stick pointed. "Tho' I've no idea how far aways off we are, methinks it should be off that way."
"Fair enough, chalak," Karak said. "Let's shelter 'ere 'neath these cliffs an' get a fire started. Come the 'morrow, we can set off for the human lands."

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This marks the end of the first (and only) completed adventure of Malak and Karak. There are three more turns chronicling their first encounters with humans and their problems, but the players decided to switch gears and roll up new characters before their further adventures really got started.

If there's an interest I can post the remaining three portions so long as everyone realizes that it ends in a most unsatisfying place.


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