# Greyhawk: The Divinity Maneuver (A Menagerie of Perspectives, 8/9)



## ForceUser (Jun 5, 2003)

Travis shifted his weight uncomfortably and looked down at the table.

“Yes, that’s him.”

The priest nodded and draped the sheet back over the body. He was a short man with wispy strands of iron-gray hair sticking out over his ears. Candlelight reflected on his bald pate. He wore rust-red robes over a black cotton knee-length shirt, and around his neck lay a wooden mask painted white, which bore an expression of serenity. Travis idly wondered if the face was meant to be male or female. Male, he decided. He was pretty sure Rao was male.

Not that it mattered, of course. The gods could be whatever they wanted. They probably transcended something as trivial as gender, if you really wanted to get down to it. Transgender gods. Hmmm. Travis imagined Hextor in a corset and had to stifle a giggle. It came out as a snort.

The priest looked at him as if he were trying to decide if Travis was truly as upset as he’d led the acolytes to believe. After all, he had come in from the street early that morning claiming to be a close friend of the dead man. 

Understanding the cleric’s scrutiny for what it was, Travis decided he’d better put a little effort into the act. On cue, his eyes filled with unshed tears. He hunched over and wrapped his arms tightly about his chest. As a finishing touch, he sniffled, as if to ward off unwanted emotion. 

The priest relaxed and smiled understandingly. That’s better, thought Travis. “Unfortunately, Pelor’s church does not extend this far into the north. If you wish, however, we can bury this man as is fitting a servant of the gods. There is a representative of that faith, a Reverend Falco, who has offered to perform this man’s last rites in accordance with the traditions of that order. If you wish.” The cleric, radiating compassion, waited patiently.

Travis appeared to struggle with ordering his thoughts, then appeared to nod reluctantly. “Okay,” he said, “Rakahn would want that.” In truth, he couldn’t care less what became of Rakahn’s remains. The archer-priest had been stubborn and brash, and he’d been shined for it. 

Moderation. That was the key to survival. Find a middle ground and stick to it. Rakahn hadn’t understood that and, well, there you go. There’s always a bigger fish. 

Travis choked out a thank-you and turned to leave. “Wait!” exclaimed the priest, “your friend’s possessions. Do you want them?” Inwardly grinning, he turned around slowly, as if he had not considered what to do with his companion’s worldly things. “Well,” he began hesitantly, “I hadn’t really considered that.” He appeared to consider it. In truth, Rakahn’s money was already spent. It’s not like he needed it where he was. Wherever that was. 

“Why don’t you keep his things, oh, except for the bow. It’s magic. I did speak to Reverend Falco earlier; he suggested that it could be donated to the Church of Heironeous.  You know, for the war effort.” Travis had wanted to sell it, but couldn’t think of a good way to convince the others to do so. They were all mourning the fool. Oh well.

The priest nodded approvingly. “Of course, that can be done, if you wish it.”

“I do.”

“Very well. Will the departed’s coin also be donated?” The question appeared innocuous enough, but Travis saw a gleam in the man’s eye. Ah ha. Yes. He’s human after all. 

Travis lied smoothly. “I’m sorry, no. Rakahn made me swear that if ever he were to fall, his money would be returned to his brothers’ pig farm in Keoland.” He appeared regretful.

The priest nodded, “Of course,” and placed a small, heavy bag in Travis’s hands.  He chuckled to himself at the sigh hidden in the cleric’s words. Pig farm. As if. Rakahn had been Flan. They were hunters.

Thanking the clergyman again, Travis left the ruddy cell, following an acolyte back down to the street. The dazzling sun of Furyondy was particularly obnoxious that day. He pulled his hood down low and stepped out into the flow of carts and people along the busy temple lane. 

As he wove his way back out of the crowded temple district of Chendl, he regarded his performance. Psychically, he drawled, _”Pretty good for off the cuff, eh?”_

_”No,”_ came the sullen reply from his psicrystal, which sat in his coat pocket. Since it was a liar, he knew the opposite to be true.

_”The sky is a brilliant shade of blue today.”_

_”The sky is gray.”_

_”That harlot is lovely.”_

_”She’s a hag.”_

_”I am concerned by my methods sometimes.”_

_”You are a wonderful person.”_

_”True,”_ he replied. Content, he patted his pocket and carried on about his day.


***


The following day Travis joined his companions to witness Reverend Falco perform Rakahn’s funeral ceremony. It occurred precisely at noon in a sunny atrium in the heart of Rao’s temple. Attending, in addition to the company, were several priests and acolytes of the Serene God, and even a paladin of Heironeous, presumably as a gesture of respect for the donation of the dead man’s magic bow. Never let it be said that the Heironeans did not observe protocol. The service was short and meaningful and left Travis with a vague sense of hope, which annoyed him. He hated being preached at. 

After the body was sanctified it was cremated, and the observers retired to an inner chamber laden with refreshments while the priest of the sun god collected the remains. The conversation was subdued; those present who knew Rakahn had not known him well, and the truth was that nobody knew where his family lived or how to contact them. That sort of put a damper on things. After a respectful amount of time the knight of Heironeous courteously excused himself. Most of the priests did as well, claiming duties they must attend to. A couple of the acolytes stayed, more for the food than anything else. 

As usual it was Dera the sorceress, ever prim and proper, who asked him, “So, Travis, did you donate Rakahn’s things to the church?” 

Irritated but refusing to show it, he smiled and said, “Yes. That knight came to say thanks for the bow.”

“I see.”

“Great!” Ignoring her, he turned to Garlok, the dwarf, and struck up a conversation about Rakahn’s fighting prowess. Garlok regaled him with the story of Rakahn’s part in Dera’s rescue some months ago from slavers, as if Travis hadn’t been there. No, wait. He had been Valentine back then. Or was it Gerome? Whatever.

The new guy, Erak something-or-other, scratched his mithril breastplate and laughed nervously at whatever prim thing Dera had just said. He had insisted on wearing it to the funeral. In fact, he wore it everywhere. Even to bed. Travis appreciated the man’s taste in armor but his personal habits were, well, strange at best. He didn’t sleep well and kept jumping at shadows. There was something off about Erak, but Travis was no judge of people; he spent too much time in character to analyze others. At least the man was good with a blade.

Mordecai, the druid from the Vesve, stood apart from the others and appeared deep in thought. No doubt wondering how he’d ended up in Chendl and taking work with a merchant lord who was decidedly working toward the cause of Good (with a capital “G.”) That probably went against some of his secret druid vows of noninterference. To his credit, though, Mordecai knew when to act and when to abstain. He was patient and cautious, and carefully weighed each situation before deciding where he stood. Travis admired that. Too bad he talked to trees.

Hearing footsteps coming from down the hall, Travis turned to notice that Dera had allowed her familiar, an owl named Tiki, to get into the punch. He was about to say something when Reverend Falco walked into the room carrying a small clay urn. Conversation stopped as everyone looked at the priest. 

He smiled in a friendly sort of way and said, “Whom should I give this to?” Everyone looked at each other. Nobody said anything. Garlok decided that this would be a good time to dig for gold in the back of his trousers. 

“Ah,” said the priest.

“Well…” someone began.

He held up a hand. “It’s okay, I’ve adventured before. You didn’t know him very well.” 

“Not really,” said Mordecai.

“He was a brave warrior!” exclaimed Garlok, apparently satisfied with his pants. He stretched theatrically so he could sniff his hand without being obvious.

“I could ask Cardinal Tilmec if we could inter him here, in the catacombs.”

Dera wrinkled her nose in distaste. Travis said, “Sure, that sounds good.” The reverend nodded and turned to leave.

“Um, reverend?” Dera ventured. Seemingly without guile, she fluttered her eyelids and adopted a beseeching poise. She was a comely young woman, with radiant golden tresses that shimmered in waves down her back. To Travis’s knowledge, despite the fact that she had been betrothed three or four times, she was still a maiden. Right now she affected that popular maiden persona, the Damsel in Distress. Subtle, he thought wryly.

Reverend Falco met her eyes, lingered a bit too long, reddened, and said, “Call me Jon. What can I do for you?”

“Well, Jon, we were wondering…” she began. She wrung her hands together, glanced at the others, then back to the priest. “We have need for one who can heal. Our employer wishes us to travel to some far-off place for him. He says it’s necessary, but very dangerous. Do you suppose…perhaps you could come with us?” She finished brightly, upbeat like a schoolgirl, and Travis groaned to himself at the naivete. 

“Well,” said the priest, “I don’t know. There’s the matter of Rakahn’s killers, and truthfully, I am on a quest of my own.”

“I see,” Dera replied, sounding crestfallen. She sighed loudly, and parts of her jiggled exquisitely when she did so. She wore white and beige silks, which clung in the right places about her lovely form. 

The reverend reddened further and addressed the wall behind her head. “There’s no harm in speaking to your employer, I suppose. Perhaps it would be worth my while.”

Travis raised an eyebrow. Some men can’t say no to a pretty face, he decided.

They gave him the merchant’s name and address in the city and the priest agreed to meet them for dinner that evening. 

_”That went better than I expected,”_ Travis mused.

_”He’ll betray you all,”_ declared the psicrystal. 

Travis grinned and patted his pocket.


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## Morte (Jun 5, 2003)

Liking the look of this....


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## Indigo Veil (Jun 5, 2003)

Ditto. Nice introduction! Looking forward to seeing more. ^_^


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## Hjorimir (Jun 5, 2003)

Ah Travis...he makes me want to cry at times. ForceUser (I was going to shorten that to FU but that just doesn't come out as intended), thanks for shouldering this labor. As always, your writing is top-notch.


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## Manatee (Jun 7, 2003)

A very good start.  I feel sorry for poor Rakahn, dying among comparative strangers.  On the other hand, at least his troubles are over; maybe I should be feeling sorry for Falco, instead.


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## ForceUser (Jun 7, 2003)

*-Mordecai-*

The estate of Parv Delorn sat atop a low hill amid the houses of old money families and hereditary nobility. Although Lord Delorn’s fortune was new, his home was not; ancient iron gates opened to a cobbled drive with stones worn by the passage of a thousand highborn carriages. The grounds were expertly manicured and lush, and even now a troupe of gardeners discreetly worked their green art. Mordecai was not impressed. To bend the earth to your will to raise crops to feed your family, or to master sheep to shear wool to clothe you body – these were worthy tasks. To sculpt the landscape to suit your aesthetic desires, however, was a shallow pursuit invented by the wealthy so they could express their wealth to their neighbors. It reminded him again that by entering the Circle of the Vesve he had made the only sane choice in a world of madmen and misdirected fools. 

The thought didn’t comfort him, however. There were too many madmen and misdirected fools running things. He had yet to decide which category Lord Delorn belonged to. Mordecai had listened intently while the merchant explained his plan to the party the day before. He had kept his own counsel regarding the idea; the others were too wrapped up in phrases like _noble quest_ and _wilderness expedition_ and, ah yes, _profitable venture_ to be clear-headed enough to think things through. They were still getting over the “honor” of being chosen for the task. Mordecai began to wonder how many other fools had marched gallantly to their deaths with visions of saving Oerth, but that train of thought led to morbidity, and there were enough things wrong with the world without inventing more to brood over. 

Mordecai was a tall, reed-thin man with leathery skin and a naturally dark complexion. He wore his earth-toned druid’s vestments proudly, which while in civilization often caused confusion in passerby because nobody could tell at a glance what religion he was supposed to represent. Mordecai was mostly oblivious to this scrutiny, however, and if anyone asked he’d give him a puzzled look and reply “Beory” as if it should have been obvious, which of course then led to him being confused with a cleric of that faith. If it bothered him, he never let it show.

What did bother him were the unknowns. What awaited them beneath the Clatspurs? What was this _living spell_ supposed to do? Were they truly capable of finding the _Oerthnode_? Could he trust Lord Delorn and his wizard, Aelic? There were too many unanswered questions. He suspected that if he knew the answers he wouldn’t like them. 

Mordecai sighed as he trudged up the walk to the manor house. He was no crusader, but the hierarchy of nature was badly off. A chaotic super-being beget of an extraplanar sire was systematically corrupting the natural order with no regard – no, make that a brazen disregard – for the consequences. Mordecai was a realist; the problem was far too large at this point for any one group to solve, and yet…

 And yet. 

The Circle thought in terms of containment and retribution. Mordecai, through Lord Delorn, saw a greater possibility. As long as he is not a madman or a fool, he thought darkly. We shall see.


*** 


Dinner was a grand affair. The meal began with a course of garlic-stuffed brussel sprouts sautéed in a light walnut crème sauce, and buttered black bread. Following that came baked duck with apple and celery stuffing, eggnog soup, truffles-with-goat-cheese, and finally the main course, a lavish arrangement involving a spit-roasted lamb basted with a dark orange-and-poppyseed cream that made the mutton simultaneously tangy, musky, and light. Several vintages of quality wines were offered as well as dwarven ale for the lone interested party, who swilled enough for four guests but held his liquor like a veteran. Mordecai wondered in passing if Garlok felt any remorse for taking advantage of Parv’s hospitality so vociferously. He suspected the dwarf had been tossed from his fair share of taverns. At least he wasn’t an angry drunk.

Ironically, most of the party ate little. Dera nibbled at her food like a lady, Erak begged off, complaining of a sore stomach, Travis had a full bowl of soup but little else, Garlok drank far more than he ate, and Mordecai, feeling guilty for partaking of such an unnecessarily overdone meal, consumed no more than a bite or two of each course. The good reverend seemed to have no such problems with the dinner and thus ate with appreciation, while the one-armed wizard Aelic quietly enjoyed the lamb as Lord Delorn rattled on about the wars, oblivious to his guests’ appetites. For some reason, that bothered Mordecai more than the lavishness of the meal itself. 

“Of course, with the incursion into the northern reaches of this country, little could be done to aid the Shieldlanders. It was all King Belvor could do to keep the Old One’s forces at bay here. Eventually we drove him out, but the border has been, shall we say, mutable ever since.” Aelic nodded as Lord Delorn finished up. He spoke with the confidence of one who had discussed the same subject hundreds of times. 

Reverend Falco considered Parv’s words for a moment then said, “But what of Veluna, my lord? Surely the Canon’s forces could have bolstered the Shieldlanders.” Aelic was already shaking his head. 

The merchant gulped down a drink and explained. “That would have been ideal, of course, but it wasn’t until the Old One moved into Furyondy that we realized the fullness of his power and depravity. Through his clerics he had summoned untold numbers of fiends with which he commanded his armies. When they swarmed over Greatwall it was said one could hear the death throes of the citizens as far away as Lansfurd.”

Dera shuddered.

“By the time word arrived here, most of the Shield Lands had already fallen. Furyondy was still largely intact. The Canon’s army was small, so he made a decision.” Silence fell upon the table, and the lord set down his empty glass. A servant whisked it away. 

Minutes passed. Finally the priest said, “So. Tell me why I’m here.”

Instead Parv asked, “What have you found out about Rakahn’s murderers?”

The reverend looked surprised but replied, “They were agents of the Scarlet Sign. I know that much.” 

Parv nodded. “Were they looking for something?”

The cleric blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know. Maybe. Rakahn didn’t seem to be the secretive sort; perhaps he stumbled across something he wasn’t supposed to see. Or maybe they just killed him for who he was; Pelor’s followers have long opposed the Brotherhood. I’ve informed the churches of Rao and Heironeous of everything I saw. Perhaps they will make some use of it.”

Softly, the lord asked, “Did you witness it?”

The priest shook his head. “No. I found him after.”

Parv nodded again. Mordecai swallowed uncomfortably. He had last seen his companion alive three mornings past. Like Mordecai, Rakahn had been an early riser. A man of few words, he had nodded solemnly as he walked out to the yard to practice his archery. He had been a trustworthy person, and honorable. Mordecai had liked him.  Across the table, Dera dabbed at her eyes with the corner of a napkin. Garlok clumsily patted her hand and said, “There, there, lass. There, there.”

“Travis,” of course, was inscrutable. Mordecai sighed and, elbows on the table, ran his hands through his tangled black mane. When he looked up, Parv was gazing at the reverend. 

“What would you say,” he began slowly, “If I told you that a way had been discovered to destroy the Old One forever?”

The cleric at once appeared taken aback. Good, thought Mordecai, it’s not just me. 

Lord Delorn studied him intently. “I would say,” replied the reverend cautiously, “that I have heard that tale before.” 

Parv nodded, “Yes. What if it were not legend, but fact?”

“I would say that it would be a miracle.”

Parv smiled at that. “Of course. Miracles are your profession, are they not? Perhaps such a miracle exists.”

Reverend Falco digested that. After a moment, he asked, “What does the King say of this?”

“He will not take my counsel.”

“And the great houses?”

“They believe it wrong.”

“Hmmm.”

Parv waited. At length the priest spoke, “You believe this?”

“Yes.”

“You are commited to this?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you want to destroy Iuz?”

At that, Aelic hissed and pointed a finger at the reverend accusingly. “Not in this house!”

Falco nodded, “Forgive me. But why?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Please.”

Parv pushed back his chair and stood. “His domain has been a blight on our northern border all my life, and the lives of my father, and his father, and his father’s father. He has wreaked havoc upon us. His shadow grows always stronger, spreading across the northern Flanaess like a cancer. He has murdered thousands of my countrymen. He has brought suffering to hundreds of thousands more. An age of darkness is upon us such as has never before been seen in all of history, and he is the cause.”

Falco studied him, “Yes. But why?”

The lord closed his eyes and shuddered. He opened them, looked at the cleric and whispered, “Because I hate him.”

The priest held his gaze. Minutes passed as Mordecai watched. Finally, Falco nodded as if waking from a reverie. “How do you intend to accomplish this?”

At this, the wizard spoke. “Oerth is old, and harbors power from before the creation of time. There are places and things left over – echoes of creation, if you will – that yet possess control over certain…primeval forces.” Aelic rubbed the stump of his right arm, which ended just beyond the joint of his shoulder. “I lost this in the war, using the Art to defend my country. Others have lost more. I did not regret my sacrifice, but all the same I wondered if there was a different way. I studied for years and discovered something significant: even though the Enemy is both cambion and god, he is as bound to this world as any of us. He was birthed of the same elements of creation that forged us all, and he can be unmade by them.”

Lord Delorn began to pace as Aelic continued. “There is a place in the northern reaches of the Clatspur Mountains that was once a citadel of dwarves. Below it, deep underground, is a locus of elemental earthen power. Some adventurers I once knew discovered it and relayed to me the tale. They told me that the stone there was as no stone they had ever seen. They told me that it formed a wall, and suspected that something lay beyond it. They discovered no more than that. This locality intrigued me and helped form the basis of a theory, one which I have since proven.” The wizard paused to take a sip of wine before continuing. Behind him, Parv chewed on a fingernail and cast nervous looks at the cleric. Reverend Falco, for his part, gave the wizard his full attention. Mordecai had heard all this already, so he watched the cleric for his reactions instead. 

“There exists in the world four elemental artifacts of great significance left over from the age before ages; one, of course, for each domain. It is my belief that the Heart of Oerth lies beyond this divine barrier below the Clatspurs. It is my belief that he who possesses these four elemental powers can use them to annihilate the Old One. What I want from you,” at that, he gestured at all of the adventurers, “is to enter this _Oerthnode_ and recover the Heart. With it, I will be able to locate the other artifacts.”

“How do you expect us to move past this barrier of stone?”

“We have a key,” he gestured at Dera, who blushed. Falco looked at her, then back at the wizard questioningly. “I have placed within this young woman a thing of special significance called a _living spell_. It is not quite sentient, but alive in its own way; it seeks to return whence it came, which is beyond the barrier. When Dera approaches the _Oerthnode_, the spell will open it.”

“Hmmm,” said Falco.

“If it helps to think of it as such, you could say that Dera is a scroll upon which the _living spell_ is recorded.”

“I see,” said Falco, and then he lapsed into silence. Mordecai sympathized. He hadn’t known the purpose of the _living spell_ until that moment either.

A few minutes trickled by. Parv said, “Well?”

“I’ll have to think about it.” Reverend Falco appeared distracted as his eyes darted from place to place. He appeared to be thinking rapidly. 

Deflated, Parv offered, “I understand. Take some time to consider it. But let me know soon. The expedition leaves in two days.”

The priest stood up and nodded absently, and a servant materialized with his coat. As he shrugged into it, Dera asked, “Didn’t you say you were on a quest of your own, Reverend? I mean, Jon?”

“What? Oh…yes. That’s what I’m considering. My quest is, hmm, open-ended, for lack of a better word. And this could be it.”

“Huh?” she said, perplexed. Mordecai shared her confusion. Perhaps he misspoke; he had a lot on his mind just now.

Falco shook his head. “I’ll give you my decision on the morrow, my lord. Thank you for dinner.”

Parv inclined his head. After the priest concluded his courtesies he departed.

“So,” burped Garlok, “Anyone want to go drinking?”


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## Morte (Jun 7, 2003)

Still liking the look of this... 

Are we going to see all the perspectives?


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## Vymair (Jun 7, 2003)

Mordecai here.

One of my favorite Travis/Jerome/Barus moments was right after poor Rakahn died.  We were trying to find out what happened to him and came across a bum in the alley who told us he had seen red-robed blond men near the body when he died.  

Of course, upon telling us this, he collapsed into tremors and immediately died.  Obviously, we got out of there very quickly.  Fearing the worst, we asked Travis to see if he could find more out about the Scarlet Brotherhood activity in the area.  We had already come to rely on Travis' ability to ferret out information in a city environment and expected some news upon his return.

So , Travis headed out into Chendl.  

The DM looked at him and asked "So you go around and ask questions about the Brotherhood's presence here?" 

To which his player replied "Of course not.  I just wander around the city for a few hours, then go back to the party and tell them I couldn't find any clues about their presence here."

We all broke up laughing at this point...


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## ForceUser (Jun 9, 2003)

Morte said:
			
		

> *Still liking the look of this...
> 
> Are we going to see all the perspectives? *



Probably. I haven't decided.


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## ForceUser (Jun 11, 2003)

*-Dera-*

The next morning Dera awoke earlier than usual. After availing herself of the privy she went back to her room and settled cross-legged on the soft feather bed provided for her by Lord Delorn. Shades drawn and eyes closed, she began to methodically stroke her long locks with an ivory-handled brush. The rhythmic motion soon fell into the background, and in her mind’s eye rainbow visions danced. From a wellspring deep within her she felt the power slowly rise and wrap around her, an old friend, a persistent lover. Beside her on the bed Tiki cooed and ruffled his feathers. He became it with her: a surge of knotted muscles, wind whipping beneath leathery wings, and far below, tiny people dashing for cover amidst a rolling green landscape. She craned her head toward the sun and cried out in delight; from somewhere below wafted terrified screams, but she ignored them. All that mattered was the sun baking her scales, the wind buoying her powerful form, and the transcendent thrill of flight. 

Fleeting images. Tingling with power, Dera awoke from her reverie and sighed. The brush lay in her lap. Muscular orange light now forced its way into her room, a fiery window-shaped corona masked by the thick curtains. She stood, wrapped her robe about her, walked to the window and threw back the drapes. Dawn sauntered through the floor-length panes triumphantly. Below her stretched the lord’s garden, and beyond that squatted a low stone wall green with ivy that marked the boundary of the estate. Light-blinded, she squinted and turned her head away. Tiki squawked in irritation and dove beneath the cotton sheets. 

“Oh hush, you,” she said.

_“You could have warned me,”_ came the mental response, reproachfully.

“I’ve let the light in every morning since we arrived,” she replied aloud. She washed her face and hands in the fresh bowl of water a servant must have provided while she’d been meditating, then walked to the armoire to begin dressing. She chose white cotton trousers, baggy in the southern style, a voluminous silk shirt the color of the open sky, and a sleeveless cotton floor-length coat, also white. Her hair, shiny from brushing, framed her face in luxurious waves of molten gold; she tied it back with a discreet black cord. As a finishing touch she selected a long silver chain with a crystal pendant that dangled artfully between her breasts. 

She studied herself for a moment in the floor-length mirror, decided she looked presentable, then left the room in search of breakfast. In the hall she passed a serving man, to whom she smiled pleasantly. He gaped at her, blushed, and almost dropped the linen he’d been carrying. Dera continued on past and down the grand staircase, where she fell under the sour gaze of the head maid, Matilda, who glared at her from below where she was dusting a small table. Pretending not to notice, Dera bade her good morning and swept by, conscious of the woman’s grudging response. In the dining room she met the lord’s castellan, Rodger. 

“Good morning, Rodger,” she said brightly. He had been arranging the morning’s selection of fruits on the long oak table. When she spoke he looked up in surprise, then smiled faintly and bowed from the neck, “Lady Alvett. I trust you slept well?” 

“I slept wonderfully, thank you.” Dera liked Rodger. He was tall and thin, in his middle years, with graying hair retreating from his forehead. His manners were impeccable, as was his sense of discretion, and he handled the party’s oddities with grace and charm. Dera wished she had a grandfather like him. 

They spoke of pleasantries as she ate slices of pear and apple and washed them down with milk. As she was telling him of her home in the City of Greyhawk, Erak and “Travis” walked in – she had liked the name Valentine better, why couldn’t he have kept it? – speaking rapidly about something in low whispers. When they spied Dera and Rodger in the hall their conversation abruptly ceased, and Erak had the look of a thief caught with the family jewels. Travis, of course, was unreadable, and that annoyed her. What kind of person opened and closed their emotions like a fortress gate? For a moment he stared at them impassively, eyelids heavy like a lizard’s, and then his plain face lit in a convincing display of good humor and he smiled and said “good morning” like any normal person would. A shiver ran up her spine, but she suppressed it and returned the smile. It felt as genuine as his. 

Erak edged his way down the long table and sat the far end, alone. Travis joined Dera and Rodger and engaged the older man in a discussion of Furyondy’s financial system. Dera quickly got bored, so she picked up her plate and joined Erak, who seemed to retreat into his breastplate like a turtle when she approached. 

“Lady Dara,” he misspoke as he half-stood in a poor imitation of courtly manners. She grimaced at the way his mithril carapace scraped against the expensive table as he sat back down. 

“It’s Dera, Erak,” she reminded him gently, and not for the first time. He nodded vigorously as if to say “right, of course.” She knew that he wasn’t much older than she was, but lines of worry creased his brow like a man ten years his elder, and streaks of gray shot through his rich auburn hair. Beneath his bloodshot eyes lurked dark circles, and his whole demeanor spoke of weariness and resignation. Dera felt sorry for him.

“Have you been sleeping well?” she asked, knowing that he hadn’t. 

He shook his head distractedly and pushed around the fried potatoes and sausage on his plate. He seemed embarrassed.

“Erak.”

He glanced up askance, as though unable to look at her directly. 

“If there’s something wrong, you can tell me about it. I’ll listen.” She meant it. She didn’t like it when the people around her were unhappy. 

He appeared to struggle with something then, and closed his eyes as though in fierce concentration. She noticed that he was sweating. Finally he looked at her and shrugged, a nervous gesture. "I…well…”

“Yes?” she prompted.

He swallowed and stood abruptly. “Thanks anyway. There’s nothing you can do.” 

“It might help if you talked to someone,” she tried.

“Thanks anyway,” he said again, and left.

As she watched Erak hurry out of the hall, she saw Travis regarding her. She turned away, unwilling to meet his eyes.


--


Reverend Falco didn’t return until the morning of the expedition’s departure. Dera had despaired of his acceptance of the mission, and she could tell that the rest of her companions were tense. They had found no other healer willing to go, and Mordecai had warned them that he was no cleric. Parv seemed nervous as well, and he spent the morning talking with the druid, Rodger and Aelic about various aspects of the trip. 

When the priest arrived Dera let out a breath, releasing tension she hadn’t been aware she’d carried. Jon wore a fine chainmail hauberk over homespun traveling clothes, and upon his belt lay a worn flanged mace. He carried a plain walking stick in one hand and reins in the other, and wore a weather-beaten wide-brimmed straw hat. Behind him trudged a pony laden with provisions. Around his neck rested a simple impression of the sun god, Pelor, blocky and carved out of wood. The holy symbol was the size of a plate. 

The priest was a handsome man with even features and a square jaw. He was tall and fit, though he didn’t have Mordecai’s spindly height and was not as well muscled as Erak. Sandy blond hair poked out from under the hat, and he looked upon the world with clear blue eyes framed in crow’s feet. He smiled at the assembled adventurers and their patron, and raised a hand in greeting as he came slowly up the drive. Garlok returned the gesture with a cry of “A ha!” that scattered pigeons. 

Parv strode down to meet him, followed by his wizard and castellan. The four of them spoke at length, Falco leaning on his stick and nodding from time to time, and at other times glancing toward the morning sun. Dera wasn’t really curious what the conversation was about. She knew the cleric was coming with them, and that’s all that mattered to her. He seemed like a nice person, and she was looking forward to having someone to talk to. Her other companions were poor conversationalists to a man. Mordecai was interesting enough, but oblique and disinclined to chat. All Garlok spoke of was beer and war, Erak avoided her, and she didn’t want to talk to Travis unless she had to. There was always Tiki, of course, but Tiki had the brain of a bird. 

_”Hey!”_ came the indignant thought in her head.

“Sshhh,” she whispered.

Their conversation concluded, the four men walked up the path to the circular end near the manor. Rodger spoke to a servant, who hastened toward the stables, and Aelic went back in the house. A few minutes later a groom emerged with a brown mare already saddled. He gave the horse to Falco and withdrew. 

“I’m so glad you’re coming!” Dera exclaimed to the priest, bouncing on her heels. He blushed and spoke to the horse behind her, “I believe my path lies with you. Er, all of you, I mean. Not you personally. Not that there’s…I mean, I’m sure you’re a lovely woman.” Falco turned quickly, apparently embarrassed, and began to adjust his horse’s saddle. Dera smiled and allowed Parv to help her onto her own steed. This was going to be fun. 

Tiki projected the mental equivalent of a sigh. _ “This is why you have no mate.”_

“Oh, stop it,” she rebuked.

“What?” said Falco.

She smiled sweetly, “Nothing.”


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## Hjorimir (Jun 11, 2003)

Watching you breath life into events that happened well over a year ago is very entertaining for me, ForceUser. =)


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## Malachai_rose (Jun 11, 2003)

The characters in this story are exceptional down to the last. Travis, Falco, Dera and the rest all have their own quirks and mannerisms that make them seem much more fleshed out than your typical story hour characters.

Even if you dont rotate the perspective throughout the entire story hour doing it for each character in the beginning is a great idea. It gives each character a chance to shine and allows the reader to get to know each one at least a little.

Great stuff Force User, I am putting this one on my list of must reads  By the way I love the title very catchy, its what got me to read the story. I guess a snappy title can make allt he difference, heheh.


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## Morte (Jun 11, 2003)

If I say it a third time, will it keep you posting updates?

But seriously, I really like the look of this. Good writing, interesting characters, your Vietnamese SH was fascinating which bodes well, and rotating the perspective is giving them personality that large party SHs often seem to lack.

A few dozen more updates will be very welcome.


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## Hjorimir (Jun 12, 2003)

I liked the name so much I started using it on my PC files in which I organize the game. ForceUser is very good at this kind of stuff, no doubt!


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## Welverin (Jun 12, 2003)

Hjorimir said:
			
		

> *I was going to shorten that to FU but that just doesn't come out as intended*




Ah, but it's funny. Good work as always FU!


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## Justinian (Jun 12, 2003)

Very interesting beginning. It's joined my list of subscribed threads.

Are these characters at level 1 or higher? The (possible) PC death at the start implies a higher level, I suppose, but with the background so far I'm not entirely sure.


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## ForceUser (Jun 12, 2003)

Justinian said:
			
		

> *Very interesting beginning. It's joined my list of subscribed threads.
> 
> Are these characters at level 1 or higher? The (possible) PC death at the start implies a higher level, I suppose, but with the background so far I'm not entirely sure. *



At the start of the story hour the PCs are around 5th level. The campaign started at 1st-3rd, and currently the PCs are knocking on the door of 7th-level spells, so there's a lot of story to tell to get us from here to there. 

Regarding Rakahn, he was my original character whom I decided to retire because I felt the party could use a cleric. The DM ran with it and killed him off, which he used as the plot device to introduce my new character, Falco, to the group.


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## Broccli_Head (Jun 12, 2003)

M. Rose suggested this story to me and I took a look. I think I read you stuff long ago...did you write a Star Wars story?

Anyway, I really like the characterization done from the point of view of each person's perspective. It is also unique to see how the three members of the group you've written from so far, see the other party members. 

also...I can't wait until the party tackles the forces of Iuz!


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## ForceUser (Jun 12, 2003)

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *M. Rose suggested this story to me and I took a look. I think I read you stuff long ago...did you write a Star Wars story?*



Yes, almost two years ago at this point. It was a short-lived campaign that ultimately flopped; we just couldn't get into d20 Star Wars. I chose the handle ForceUser because I figured I'd be writing a SW story hour for a while.


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## Hjorimir (Jun 13, 2003)

> Regarding Rakahn, he was my original character whom I decided to retire because I felt the party could use a cleric. The DM ran with it and killed him off, which he used as the plot device to introduce my new character, Falco, to the group.




I'm never one to miss the opportunity to kill off a character!


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## ForceUser (Jun 13, 2003)

*-Falco-*

The weather favored them as they journeyed west from Chendl and passed through the headwaters of the river Att. The land around sang of misty mornings and bright afternoons, and flocks of anvilheads and cranes lorded over the shallow, burbling waters of their summer home. Shreds of white cloud clung here and there to the vast blueness above, and watching over it all sat the Shining One on his fiery throne. For a brief moment Reverend Falco glanced at the orb overhead, then quickly away; mortal eyes cannot long endure the sun god’s radiance. He smiled and thought, “From time to time, we’ll try anyway.”

Mordecai led them along a dusty road rutted with wagon-tracks and hardened mud divots shaped like horseshoes. They passed few merchants; the aftermath of the Greyhawk Wars had steadily eroded trade in the region. From time to time they glimpsed a hamlet or thorp in the distance, often enclosed within a precarious wooden palisade, and occasionally the ruin of a roadside inn. Furyondy’s loss of prosperity saddened Falco, though he was no stranger to such troubles. In the north Iuz, in the south the Scarlet Brotherhood and their allies, what was the difference? Evil forces craved dominance everywhere, and good men must oppose them. 

When the sun climbed to its zenith Falco rode up to the druid. “Excuse me, Mordecai. Can we bide here a while? I must seek Pelor’s blessings for the day.”

The druid looked surprised. “Right now?”

Falco nodded.

“It’s midday. You don’t pray in the morning?”

“No. Do you?”

“Er, yes.”

“Interesting. Among the blessed of my faith, we renew our vows when the Shining One is highest in the sky.”

“Huh.” Mordecai stared out across the rolling hills. He seemed bothered.

“Is it a problem?” 

“Well, no, I guess. It’s just…strange.”

“Is it?” Falco asked, genuinely curious. 

“Everyone I know prays for spells at dawn.”

“How unusual.”

Mordecai gave the priest an unfathomable look, then slowed his horse and announced, “Reverend Falco needs to pray. Let’s rest in that copse ahead.”

“Right now?” exclaimed Dera from the rear of the column, “It’s midday.”

Mordecai shrugged. 


--


The day had marched on into early afternoon when Falco completed his preparations. He could tell that his new companions chafed at the journey’s interruption, and he imagined how he’d feel if his mornings were put on hold for an hour every day. A bit irritated, he decided. Falco was an early riser and usually spent the time before breakfast helping the novitiates with their lessons, or attending to administration duties, or teaching the history of Sunndi to the children at the orphanage. 

On the other hand, if Mordecai and Dera were going to spend an hour every morning preparing their spells, Falco could use that time to update his journal. There’s a thought. Happy with himself for the neat solution, he collected his things and walked to his horse. The other adventurers were already mounted and waiting; he could feel their eyes upon him as he swung up onto Lord Delorn’s mare. Undaunted, he smiled pleasantly and said, “Shall we go?”

They went.

Eight days later they arrived at the Free Town of Highfolk, nestled comfortably against the foot of a mountain range called the Lortmils along the banks of a wide, lazy river known as the Velverdyva. The free town – in truth, a city – lay on the far side of the glittering brown waterway, but an outpost on the eastern bank provided lodging and provisioning at a fare rate, in exchange for news from Furyondy. As Falco listened to Mordecai exchange information with a local trader, he surveyed the black line of forest to the north that the nature priest called the Vesve. Dense, he noted.

An unfocused shape approached him from the riverbank, and he looked away from the horizon to see the voluptuous young sorceress, Dera, drifting toward him. He muttered, “Pelor,” in a desperate sort of way and hesitantly returned her fey grin. Several times she had engaged him in conversation during the trip, speaking at length about her home, her adventures and, ah yes, her many suitors. Most of these “conversations” were one-sided; he nodded a lot and weighed in with an occasional “yes” or “of course” when he sensed that she sought an affirmation of some kind. He suspected she knew quite well the effect she had on men, which made her attention all the more uncomfortable. While he felt they had little in common intellectually, his body responded to her nearness with a shamelessness that embarrassed him. Although the clergy of his faith were not forbidden to marry, they were held to a high moral standard in every aspect of their lives. One did not engage in wanton behavior, no matter how lovely the temptation. 

After the second day on the road, Falco began to realize why the other men spoke with her as little as possible. By then, of course, he was trapped. He took to sleeping in his armor so the discomfort of it would occupy his nights instead of inappropriate dreams. 

However pleasurable they might be.

When he awoke the morning after the first miserable night spent sleeping in his hauberk, he overhead Garlok mutter, “Great, now there’s two of ‘em.” 

Falco braced himself as Dera skipped up to him and said, “So, Jon, what was your quest? The one that brought you here originally?” She asked with apparent curiosity, but he was distracted for a moment by the way her hair fluttered across her face in the breeze from off the river. He tore his gaze away and answered.

“The head of my order had a prophetic vision about a danger to the Flanaess. She couldn’t interpret it, but she felt a sense of urgency so profound that she trusted the oracle despite its vagueness. Acting on faith, she sent three others and me to the four cardinal directions to find whatever we may find. I was sent west, but on foot from Sunndi that’s more of a northwesterly direction. I considered buying passage on a ship across the Azure Sea to Keoland, but the journey seemed to be what was important, so I walked.”

“Is she pretty?”

“What?”

“The head of your order, is she pretty?”

Off-guard, Falco returned, “Um, I don’t look at her that way. She’s a Reverend Mother…”

“Oh, so she’s older?”

“Well, I mean…”

“She has gray hair? And wrinkles?”

“Dera. Reverend Mother Diesa is a legend among those of my faith. She’s a paragon of virtue and an example to all who would walk in the Light of Pelor. I’ve never regarded her on a, a…personable level. That’s not what’s important.” 

Archly, Dera replied, “I see. So she’s not really a person to you?”

“What?”

“Never mind. We’re used to it.”

“What?”

Dera strode off.

As Falco struggled to discern what exactly they’d been talking about, Mordecai approached with Garlok in tow. He said, “Don’t try to understand. Just accept. It’s easier that way.”

Falco sighed and doffed his hat. The breeze felt deliciously cool upon his sweaty head.

The druid held a hand up to shield his face from the glare off the river. “I don’t see much point to lingering here. There’s been little word out of the Vesve for some time, so there’s no telling what the situation is.”

“Ah, right,” said Falco. Mordecai had warned them previously that parts of his forest were overwhelmed with the Old One’s minions, as well as various and sundry other humanoid tribes. 

Garlok growled and spat a glob of greenish phlegm into the dirt. It squatted there like some oozy beast. “If we find any orcs, they’ll meet the sharp end of my axe.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” countered Mordecai. “There are far more of them than us.”

He continued, “I think we should make for Verbeeg Hill. It’s an elven community deep in the forest, and members of my circle pass through from time to time. Also, we’re going to need directions on the best way to approach the part of the Clatspurs where we need to go. I suspect the entrance to our dwarven hold is in a fairly inaccessible place.”

Garlok nodded, “Aye, if they were smart about it.”

“Do you know the dwarves who built the place, Garlok?” asked Falco.

“Nay, I know little of the northern clans.” The dwarf hooked his thumbs into his thick leather girdle.

“Oh. Where are you from?”

“Sterich. We’ve troubles enough without worrying about far-away relatives.”

“Orcs?”

“And giants down from the mountains, may the Allfather curse their beards.” He spat again.

“Anyway,” continued Mordecai, “there’s no reason to lodge here. We can make another two leagues or so before nightfall.”

“Let’s be on our way, then,” declared Garlok.

“Two leagues?” opined Falco. “We’ve made as much as four in the afternoons since Chendl.”

“Yes. However, I think we should leave the horses here in Highfolk. They’ll have a rough time of it in the deeper parts of the forest. The ground is uneven and the trees are densely packed, so in many places it’ll be easier to go on foot. I suspect we’ll make better time without having to backtrack for the sake of our mounts.”

“Ahh,” said Falco. He knew enough to leave the wilderness planning to the druid.

It took them a while to track down Travis and Erak, who they found in a seedy riverside alehouse. Once reassembled, Mordecai explained the plan, and there was a general agreement that whatever he thought they should do would probably be in their best interests. They paid in advance for a month’s worth of stabling for their steeds and set out by mid-afternoon toward the dark expanse of trees that stretched across the northern edge of their vision. By nightfall, the High Forest of a thousand tales had welcomed them coolly, like a former lover you’d rather have not seen again.


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## drschroeder (Jun 14, 2003)

*Travis*

Travis is by far my favorite character of this story hour!  He's honost... very open with his thoughts... and all around, a likable guy.  Sure, you don't know why you like him, but you like him!


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## Vymair (Jun 14, 2003)

*Re: Travis*



			
				drschroeder said:
			
		

> *Travis is by far my favorite character of this story hour!  He's honost... very open with his thoughts... and all around, a likable guy.  Sure, you don't know why you like him, but you like him! *




  Nobody likes you !

and welcome aboard Travis....your insights will be...um...welcome?


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## Hjorimir (Jun 14, 2003)

Oh Travis! That is rich!


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## ForceUser (Jun 14, 2003)

*-Erak-*

The party walked for days under a canopy of massive oaks, elderberry, ash, and maple. Dim strands of light filtered down to the mulch-strewn forest floor, and many times they stumbled on gnarly roots lurking like goblins under the leafy terrain.  Erak, in particular, felt increasingly anxious at the foreboding gloom surrounding them like a veil. Okay, go hack down some trees, sure, everybody’s got to have wood. But live here? What kind of nut lives in the depths of a forest?

He spied Mordecai passing smoothly through a knot of ferns. Oh yeah. 

Behind nature-boy, Travis swore as he tripped and banged a knee on a rock obscured by the fan-shaped plants. Mordecai threw a look at the…well, whatever Travis was, as if to say “You dare hurt the plants?” Travis stood up and winced as he straightened his leg.

Erak slapped at a fly and ducked a misty puff of gnats that whirled erratically in front of his face. This was absurd. What were they doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Saving the world from Iuz? Delorn was off his rocker if he thought Aelic’s little plan was remotely coherent. There were a lot of gaps in his carefully scripted story. But hey, the pay was good, so whatever. And after a day of hard trekking through this misbegotten forest, he hardly dreamt. Always a bonus.

After an interminable amount of time spent sweating and climbing hidden gullies and tree-lined switchbacks, the priest Falco called a halt so he could beg for his daily spells. Thank you, sun god. Erak groaned as he slowly slid down against a mossy oak to rest his legs. His mithril breastplate dug painfully into his left side, so he leaned forward and adjusted it. Then he spent several minutes in the diluted daylight carefully inspecting the armor – he found no less than four scratches, three dings, and a layer of grime than dulled the sheen. Obsessively, he took out a special wool cloth and began the familiar ritual of cleaning and polishing. Sadly, the dings would have to be pounded out the next time he passed an armorsmith. He caressed the mithril like one might stroke a favorite pet. Left circle. Right circle. Left circle. Right circle. Even here under all these trees, the metal shined softly. It fascinated him. 

Finishing up, he noticed that Falco was still praying. He dug into his backpack and pulled out a square leather tome locked with a silver clasp. Ornate symbology graced its cover. He unlocked the book and lost himself in study. Several minutes passed in blissful seclusion, then a plop sounded from beside him and a gruff voice intruded. “Whadda ya readin’?” 

Erak glanced up. “My spellbook.”

“Yer a wizard?” asked Garlok.

Still trying to read, Erak nodded absently.

“Then what’s with the hand-and-a-half?”

Exasperated, Erak looked up from the book. “I am trained in its use.”

Garlok eyed him skeptically. “Never known a wizard to be any good with a blade.”

“I manage.”

“Hrmm,” replied the dwarf. “Are you as good as Dera?”

“She’s not a wizard.”

Garlok wiggled his thick fingers in a clumsy imitation of spellcasting, “Same thing.”

“Not really. Wizards prepare their spells based on arcane formulae that they spend years learning to properly execute. Sorcerers, however, have some sort of spiritual connection to magic that comes from within. It’s been rumored that some of them have draconic ancestry. What’s really interesting about sorcerers when compared to wizards, however, is…” Erak had begun to warm to the conversation but stopped when Garlok started scratching his crotch with one hand and holding up his empty wineskin with the other. The dwarf was eyeballing the flaccid bag wistfully. When Erak stopped talking Garlok noticed. “Sorry, what were ya sayin’?”

“Forget it.”


--


Later, they found tracks in the loam. Garlok was on all fours in the dirt, carefully examining them. Erak hadn’t figured the hard-bitten dwarf for a woodsman. It made him seem oddly canny. 

“Troll piss,” Garlok swore.

“Trolls?” asked the cleric, alarmed. Erak shared the sentiment.

“Worse. Hill giants. And they’ve got orcs with ‘em.” He stood up and paced around an imaginary perimeter. “See here, look at this. Four sets, one thumb deep…three hands wide. Barefoot, thick soles. This one’s probably the leader. See? The biggest one always leads.” The dwarf seemed to know what he was talking about. All Erak saw was dirt and dead leaves, but then, it was getting dark.  The trees were gray shapes on black. Between the branches overhead, the sky was gradually deepening to indigo. They had been seeking a good spot to camp when they found the tracks. Garlok continued, “’Bout a dozen orcs.”

Mordecai looked thoughtful. “Are they traveling at night?” 

How could he be so calm! Erak had never seen a hill giant, but the way Garlok casually referred to their size made him shudder with apprehension. They sounded big. Really big. 

“I reckon so. Giants can see in the dark as well as any orc. Hard to say, but I’d guess these tracks’re recent. Day at most.” 

Mordecai nodded. “They’ll have their own trackers.”

“Yeah. The trail’s goin’ northwest from here. We can cut east, then head north again once we pass this flat. Doubt they’ll backtrack, unless they’re just looking for trouble.”

“I don’t want to risk it,” the druid responded. He dug into a pouch on his hip. “Everyone come close to me,” he said. They huddled up. 

Mordecai closed his eyes, stretched his arms over his head and breathed a word: _”elshanlidel.”_ Then he touched everyone on the forehead, one at a time, pressing the knuckles and thumb of his left hand against their skin. In his right he held a twig. When the druid touched Erak he expected to feel something mystical, and was a bit disappointed when he didn’t. He had reflexively closed his eyes during the ritual; he opened them once he realized it. 

Garlok was grinning. “We all druids now?”

“For a time,” came the reply. “Let’s go. If they find our tracks they’ll wonder why they stop so abruptly. It won’t take them long to fan out.” 

Late in the night, miles away from where they stumbled across the humanoid trail, they settled into a quiet unlit camp amid a crowded thicket of old ash. Uncomfortable in the humid warmth of the summer evening, Erak laid out his kit over the hard earth and sat down to dig for a biscuit. Beside him Dera lay fast asleep. In the tree above her he saw the eerie eyes of her familiar glinting in the filtered moonlight, watching. “Shoo,” he whispered. The owl ignored him. 

Garlok stood the midwatch, and quietly woke Erak in the deep of the night. “Your turn,” he grunted. Erak rubbed sleep from his eyes. Had he been dreaming? Familiar, horrific imagery flittered at the edges of his consciousness and dispersed before he could grasp their meaning. Beneath his breastplate he was slick with perspiration.

“I’m up,” he whispered. The dwarf nodded and returned to his post on a smooth, low rock. Erak sat up with difficulty, then reached for his waterskin. Wet coolness slid down his throat and he drank rapidly. He always awoke thirsty. He relieved himself, then grabbed his bastard sword and shield and approached the dwarf-shaped shadow across camp. Garlok said, “Hush, now,” and held up a hand.

“What?” said Erak lowly. 

“Just listen.”

The warrior-mage stood in the dark for several minutes, straining to hear whatever it was. He heard crickets chirping softly, slow winds rustling leaves, the creak of shifting trees…and from somewhere far away, the faint sound of savage drums. 

“They found our tracks.”

“Yeah.”

“What now?” Erak’s palm was slick on the pommel of his sword. 

“Now,” replied the dwarf, hopping off the rock, “I get some sleep.”

“That’s it?”

“They won’t find us tonight unless they have a shaman with ‘em.”

“What if they do?”

“Then we’re screwed. G’night.”

Erak sat quietly for the duration of his watch.


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## Broccli_Head (Jun 15, 2003)

ForceUser said:
			
		

> *
> “They won’t find us tonight unless they have a shaman with ‘em.”
> 
> “What if they do?”
> ...




Heh, heh...

I think they're screwed.


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## Welverin (Jun 16, 2003)

I liked the bits of funny in the last two updates (Falco-Dera and Garlok-Erak in particular).

All in all more good stuff. Hmm, I think I'll have to make a stock comment to save on typing.


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## ForceUser (Jun 22, 2003)

*-Garlok-*

By dawn, no attack had materialized. Garlok awoke with a sharp pain in his back; he rolled over, cursing sleepily, to find a fist-sized rock lodged under him. How’d he miss that? Thirsty, he reached for his wineskin only to remember that he was dry. 

Dry.

_A dry wind blew across the battle-plain, swirling up dust and carrion stench. He lay under the body of an orc, pinned by the savagery of his own killing blow. Weak from blood loss and spent fury, he had given up on trying to move. The dagger in his bowels throbbed distantly as a slow coldness crept up his limbs, stalking his heart like a predator. 

He knew he would die soon.

Some men, it is said, feel peace in their final moments. Instead, he felt hate, a vast cold rage that screamed against the irony of dying trapped under the bodies of his enemies. He prayed to the Allfather, the Soul Forger, to give him the strength to live a bit longer, to defeat them by not following them into death. To spit in the face of evil. 

He felt the rustle of hot wind; in his ears he heard the flapping of vultures’ wings. Harbingers of inevitability. 

Surely someone would come._

Reverend Falco clumsily dropped his darkwood shield on a rock, startling Garlok from his trance. He smacked his lips and looked around. Ah, yes. This is a different place.

With renewed purpose, he dug into his pack for his special reserve of dwarven ale. Just for emergencies, you know? Deep within the Vesve, hundreds of miles away from civilization and pursued by savages - this qualified. From the bottom of his backpack he produced a small cask of Old Trout’s finest, stoppered with a wax-sealed cork. He peeled away the wax with his knife, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and drank like a man dying of thirst. 

Ahh, that’s the stuff. Dark ale rushed over his lips and dribbled down his beard. After a long pull his set the cask down on his lap and let out a thunderous belch that caused songbirds in a nearby tree to take flight in sudden panic. From across camp, the boy Erak shot him a look.

“What?” growled Garlok. Erak shrugged and held up his hands as if to say “nothing, sir, nothing at all.” 

By the time dawn ended and morning was officially underway, so were they. Gloomy clouds hung low, which could be of concern: depending on how determined the giants were, they could make the orcs march in such weather despite their aversion to sunlight. After an hour, Mordecai stopped them and did the wiggly-finger thing to turn them into druids again. No tracks; nifty. Once done, they turned west until the spell wore off, then back to north. The druid, obviously, knew what he was doing. That was fine with Garlok. After several pulls on the cask he didn’t think he could find north if it pissed in his face. He hummed merrily to himself, a rowdy dwarvish fighting song.

_Thim Thelbar’s son lay an axe’s throw away with an orcish spear pinning him to the earth through his belly. His hands had clawed helplessly as the vultures had gone to work on his eyes, but now he lay still, fleshless face grinning like a lunatic, blood hardening in the warm breeze.

Thim had taught Garlok a tune once, how did it go?

Dwazkar khazad-zum di lar-
Moradin nostrum zummer-
Ahglak-nozum larc’ te non-
Lao zonh erkatz mundgun drun.

Dwarvish stone from earth below,
Allfather’s gift that fires the soul;
Teach us now the ways of steel,
That we may show our enemies Your mercy._

Garlok squinted and rubbed his eyes. He grabbed the cask, paused and upturned it again. When he opened his eyes, the world looked very similar to the way it looks through the bottom of a glass beer mug. Perfect. Satisfied, he staggered onward. The priest was staring at him with a grave expression, but Garlok looked away. Not now, he thought, you’ll ruin the moment. 

They walked like druids for three more days, changing course erratically but always back to north. Then the forest floor began to slope uphill, as old stones poked through the dense growth like the bristles of Moradin’s beard. The greenery became lush and abundant, which smacked of elves. They wrought life like dwarves worked stone. From time to time Garlok heard birdcall – suspiciously robust and complicated birdcall.

He slurred, “Why don’ they just show themselves an’ have done?”

“They will,” replied Mordecai, “Once they’ve determined our purpose. Walk easily and keep your hands off your weapons.”

Garlok let go of his axes. 

An hour passed, and then a figure dropped out of a tree ahead of them, elegant and lithe. Making a show of it. The elf was short and skinny with silver hair that matched her ashwood recurve bow. She wore simple leather armor and carried a long knife tucked in her belt. To Garlok, she looked like a tall child. 

She spoke rapidly and low in, he presumed, elvish. Mordecai responded, and they chirped back and forth. The druid turned and gestured at each of his companions. When he pointed at Garlok and spoke, the elf raised an eyebrow and regarded him coolly. Yeah yeah, he thought, get it all out. In Sterich, the age-old rivalries had been set aside for the sake of survival. Out here in the boondocks, he guessed that his people were still treated with suspicion. But the elf shrugged and pointed behind her, up the slope, speaking rapidly. Then she disappeared into the brush. 

“They know of the band hunting us,” Mordecai said. “They’ve chased them off from Verbeeg Hill several times this month.”

“Are we close to Verbog Hill?” asked Erak.

“Verbeeg,” answered the druid, “And yes, we’re here.” They continued up the incline toward a patch of dense trees. Garlok saw nothing, no signs of civilization. Just foliage. He had hoped the place would have a tavern. He imagined himself squatting in an elf hut up in a tree and sighed. 

The truth was somewhat more grandiose. As they followed Mordecai Garlok picked up the distinct ring of a smith’s hammer from somewhere beyond the wall of green ahead. They approached a dense thicket of oak through which he could discern no passage. Right as Garlok opened his mouth to say something, the trees began to creak mightily. They shuddered, they groaned, and they blinked with great, sad eyes.

Eyes?

The wall of oak split down the middle, parting to reveal a cunningly hidden community nestled amidst a gigantic grove. What Garlok had at first mistaken for trees were actually tree-creatures, vast and tall, with long mossy beards that swung low as they separated to allow the adventurers to pass. “Gooooooooooooooooooooood afternooooooooooooooooooooooooon,” one of them said in passable Common. 

“Welcoooooooooooooome to Veeeeeeeerbeeeeeeeeeeeeg Hillllllllllllllllllllllll,” intoned the other somberly. 

“Thank you,” replied Mordecai.

“….hi,” squeaked Erak. The tree-creature on the right, forty feet tall, nodded at him as they strode within. 

“Wow,” exclaimed Falco. Garlok had to agree. Self-consciously, he wrapped his cloak around him to cover up the pair of hand axes at his sides.

Verbeeg Hill writhed with elves, a bustling community ensconced within the green. Tree branches entwined to form a barrier around the entire village, and here and there Garlok could see half-hidden elven archers huddled down in the boles of trees, looking outward through the leafy wall. All around the group, smaller dogwoods had been cleverly shaped to form the framework of dome-like homes, with carved wooden panels secured between them into cozy, rounded walls. In a very real sense, each home was a living creature painstakingly groomed by beings with patience that can only come with the long lives of elves. Garlok had to admire the artisanship. 

An elf approached, a middle-aged man with clothing that seemed at once practical, hardy and fine-spun. He spoke in elvish and the druid replied. His voice reminded Garlok of a harpsichord. 

Finally, the man nodded, unsmiling, and led them into the village. As they walked Garlok noticed the smithy: similar in design to the houses, but open at the front to allow for a smith’s profession. He caught the eye of the blacksmith himself and nodded, but the elf only returned his gesture with a noncommittal gaze. Friendly, grumbled Garlok to himself.

The middle-aged man led them to a small, bulbous home with a fence and a yard full of ferns. As they approached a woman exited the house and studied them dispassionately after favoring Mordecai with a nod. The man and his wife spoke in fluid elvish, then she waved them inside where she assigned them places to sleep. A tiny green-furred cat wove its way in and around her skirts wherever she walked, meowing musically. 

Mordecai addressed the others. “Ertan and his wife Lorielle will let us stay with them as long as we need. I told them it would be a matter of days at most. Find me if you have to talk to someone, most of the villagers here don’t speak the Common tongue.”

“Days?” inquired Falco, “That long?”

“I want to make contact with my circle before we move on. We keep in touch with the elves here as we have mutual interests; I suspect it won’t be long before one of my brethren passes through. I’m going to go talk to some of the rangers about that right now. Stay out of trouble, and be respectful of these peoples’ way of life.” And he left.

Erak dropped his kit into a corner and said, “I saw a smith on the way in. I need some work done.”

“I’ll come with ya,” offered Garlok. Why not? This burg was dead. Not a good supplier of ale within fifty leagues. And he wasn’t going to sit here and watch the elf-wife do little magical things to food. Right now she was in the kitchen chopping up vegetables with both hands, while some sort of tome floated in front of her face, held aloft by an invisible third hand. You’d think that with the lifespan these elves had she could stand to do one thing at a time. The woman paused in her cookery, spoke a brief word and gestured, and the dim room became lit in a warm white light. Then she went back to chopping vegetables. The freakish green cat sat on a stool and purred loudly.

Okay, I’m outta here, thought Garlok. He followed Erak through the door. The woman said something to their backs.

“You betcha!” he replied. 

Erak looked at him quizzically. “You speak elvish?”

“Nope.”


--


That evening as they enjoyed the tasty meal the elf-wife had prepared there came a knock on the door. The man Ertan answered, then stepped aside to allow entry to a hulking creature that caused Garlok to leap instinctively from the table – knocking over his stool – as he dove for his axes. Images flashed furiously through his mind.

_An orc lying in the dirt near him, right side hewn through by dwarvish steel, stirred. Numb from the neck down and pinned beneath a filthy corpse, he could only watch helplessly as the monster began to claw around itself with its remaining hand. The orc flip-flopped onto its back with extreme effort, and snarled in soundless agony as its innards squelched audibly. It lay there panting for a while, eyes closed, then began to look around. 

Garlok tried to squirm, to move an arm, anything, but his body rebuked him. He lay in utter helplessness. Perhaps the subtle movement alerted the dying orc, for it looked in Garlok’s direction, and he could watch as its dull face marched through phases of awareness: movement, life, dwarf, enemy, kill.

The orc opened its mouth in inarticulate hatred, and its swollen tongue fell out to lap in the dust as it rolled back onto its belly and toward him. 

In despair-fueled rage, Garlok cursed the orc, his worthless body and the gods. He could not move. His enemy pulled itself closer, a mere four feet away.

The orc dragged itself over an intervening body and the rocky ground with its one good arm. Along the way it produced a long, serrated dagger of black steel, which it placed in its mouth. The wound in its side lay open now, exposed, and black blood seeped out to mingle with the dirt. If it noticed, it did not care.

Death crawled slowly toward him._

A guttural growl escaped Garlok’s lips as he rolled to his feet in a defensive stance. Everyone was staring at him like he was an idiot. Mordecai, especially, did not look pleased. “Garlok,” he seethed, “how dare you draw steel while we are guests in an elf-home!”

_He could do nothing but watch as the creature grasped his leg, and in a moment of cruel irony, used the dwarf’s trapped body to haul itself up next to him. Its breath was fetid, sick with decay and tangy with blood, and it leered in silent cruelty, allowing him a moment to stare into the face of his murderer. The orc pulled the dagger across its lips, smiling as it savagely shredded them with the serrated edge. It gripped the blade awkwardly, balancing on its severed shoulder. It placed the point of the knife under his chin and pushed upward, apparently intent on watching him die slowly and in maddening pain.

Suddenly he heard feathers whistling through the air, then the orc jerked rigid, eyes wide with surprise. The light died in them, and it sunk into an obscene parody of intimacy as its head came to rest on his cheek. Moments later he heard voices shouting in the elf-tongue, and many dark winged forms took to the sky, squawking in irritation. 

A shadow blocked the sun from his eyes, and in the dazzling shade he discerned the silhouette of an elf-lord wielding a mighty bow. The noble stared at him for a moment, then called over his shoulder, “tenelrath dal-lothos.”

Much later, he found out what that meant.

 “This one still lives.”_ 

Panting with excitement and barely suppressed rage, not to mention profound confusion, he swung his gaze to the newcomer: tall, physically imposing, he had the squinty orcish features that haunted Garlok’s nightmares. But he also stood straight, like a human, and his skin was the color of dusk, not midnight. Small, intelligent eyes regarded him with amusement. Not an orc. 

A half-orc.

“This is Den,” Mordecai continued angrily, “a member of my order. Put the damn axes away.”

A druid, Garlok thought thickly as realization dawned. Dumbfounded and chastised, he muttered a useless apology to his hosts and stuffed his axes back into his kit. Red-faced, he sat down and tried to master his emotions as the others looked at him in astonishment. Unsatisfied bloodlust roared through his body; he gripped his cup tightly and stared at his plate. Behind him, Mordecai spoke at length to the elves, no doubt apologizing for him. Then the druid excused himself and walked outside with Den. 

Long, uncomfortable minutes later, Mordecai returned. He remained tight-lipped about his discussion with the other druid, except to say that it could be very difficult to traverse the Vesve to the foothills of the northern Clatspurs. Many humanoid tribes stalked the woodlands between here and there. They absorbed that information quietly. 

The following morning there came another knock at the door, which awoke Garlok from his ale-induced slumber. Hair of the dog ravaged the inside of his mouth. Parched, he began to scrabble for his cask when he noticed a pair of small elven feet next to his head.

“Quanalos,” said the elf-wife Lorielle. Drink this. She thrust a warm cup of herbal tea into his hand, then sat at the table and watched him. Hazily, he propped himself up and downed the liquid, careful not to leak any of it on his chest. For some reason he didn’t want to disappoint her by seeming uncouth. Over the rim of the cup she appeared serene, a lovely elf woman approaching her middle years. 

Which meant, of course, that she was something like five times Garlok’s age. He grimaced as the tart brew passed his throat. “Quanalos,” she urged with a wave of her hand. Finish it. He did, coughing as the cleansing warmth spread throughout his chest. Within moments his hangover had disappeared. 

“Par’l obalath,” she smiled demurely. 

He nodded and said, “Thanks.” Her silly-looking cat trotted up to him, tail high, purring. 

While she had force-fed him the tea, Ertan had answered the door. He’d spoken for a few moments with the visitor, bowed reverently, then stood aside as Mordecai stepped out to speak to whoever it was. A few minutes later the druid came back in.

“Get your things together,” he told everyone, “we’re going today.”

Dera looked alarmed. She quipped, “Through woods infested with orcs and giants?”

“No,” replied Mordecai, “over them.”


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## Broccli_Head (Jun 22, 2003)

i really enjoyed the dwarve's p.o.v.


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## Welverin (Jun 22, 2003)

Now that you've gone through all of the characters, unless I miscounted, will you continue to alternate perspectives or will you settle on one?

Also how much input did you get from the other players for the parts from their characters perspective?

The last for now, were Garlok's flashback bits from the game or were the originally character background?


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## Morte (Jun 22, 2003)

Really good stuff, especially the vultures.


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## ForceUser (Jun 22, 2003)

Thanks guys.



			
				Welverin said:
			
		

> *Now that you've gone through all of the characters, unless I miscounted, will you continue to alternate perspectives or will you settle on one?*



I'm going to continue rotating the perspective, although I will probably hop around "out of order." There are certain things that happened in the campaign that I want to tell from certain perspectives; sometimes important things happened with only one or two PCs present.



> *Also how much input did you get from the other players for the parts from their characters perspective?*



I'm bugging them all the time. 



> *The last for now, were Garlok?s flashback bits from the game or were the originally character background? *



Character background. I had this post almost completely written, then I went to see Hulk with Vymair yesterday and he gave me his perspective on the character. When I got home I called Garlok's player and asked him a few questions, then rewrote some parts and inserted the flashbacks. Glad I did; I only had Falco's perspective on the dwarf, which is pretty superficial.


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## Corwyn (Jun 22, 2003)

Ahhh good to have you back ForceUser 

"Add SH to list of threads to check on":  Done.

So how often can we expect an update ?


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## drschroeder (Jun 22, 2003)

You should expect an update every other day until he gets caught up with the campaign.

However, since I don't think he will be updating every other day... that just gives us an excuse to bring out the whips!


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## ForceUser (Jun 23, 2003)

drschroeder said:
			
		

> *You should expect an update every other day until he gets caught up with the campaign.
> 
> However, since I don't think he will be updating every other day... that just gives us an excuse to bring out the whips! *



Nobody likes you!


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## Garlok (Jun 26, 2003)

*Reply*

ForceUser has done an excellent job putting down in words the way I perceive my character. Garlok drinks to drown out the miseries of the battlefield Stirich has become. I don't know if ForceUser is planning on answering questions about the way characters are built but I think he brings back a lot of cool memories of mine. 

I just wanted to say thanks


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## ForceUser (Jun 27, 2003)

Sorry guys, I went back to work last Wednesday so I've had a busy time of it. I have either been a: away from my computer and unable to write, b: tired and unwilling to write, or c: too darn busy to write. Never fear, soon as I have a spare moment in which I'm not dog-ass tired, I will write another update. Won't be Saturday, though, we're playing the actual campaign all day 

If you've ever wondered what it's like to be ambushed by two huge green dragons, I'll let you know when I write the story hour up to that point.


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## Alaric_Prympax (Jun 27, 2003)

All I've got to say is great job.  This is an excellent read and I'm enjoying it quite a bit.  I look forward to more. 

I never really looked in the Story Hour Forum before.  I usually just glanced at some of the names of the threads and yours caught my attention.  I know there are other GH threads but I never looked at them in detail till now.  Keep up the great work!


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## Welverin (Jun 27, 2003)

ForceUser said:
			
		

> *Sorry guys, I went back to work last Wednesday so I've had a busy time of it. I have either been a: away from my computer and unable to write, b: tired and unwilling to write, or c: too darn busy to write. Never fear, soon as I have a spare moment in which I'm not dog-ass tired, I will write another update. Won't be Saturday, though, we're playing the actual campaign all day *




It's ok, take your time. As long as it gets updated and we're not left with a never ending cliff hanger all will be ok.



> *If you've ever wondered what it's like to be ambushed by two huge green dragons, I'll let you know when I write the story hour up to that point. *




Oddly enough that's not something I've ever wanted to know about. Certainly not from personal experience, second hand may be ok.


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## ForceUser (Jun 27, 2003)

Welverin said:
			
		

> *It's ok, take your time. As long as it gets updated and we're not left with a never ending cliff hanger all will ok.*



I promise I'm going to finish writing the Monkey Woman adventure!


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## Welverin (Jun 28, 2003)

ForceUser said:
			
		

> *I promise I'm going to finish writing the Monkey Woman adventure! *




Yeah! Now I just have to get the Jester to finish his first story hour.

An addicts work is never done.


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## GreyShadow (Jun 29, 2003)

Very nice.

I always wanted to play in the Verse with Iuz's forces making things interesting. 

Cheers


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## Krellic (Jun 29, 2003)

*Momentary de-lurk*

Just found this cool, and well written, story hour.  I'll be looking forward to future updates.


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## Welverin (Jun 29, 2003)

Well if you just found this one, then maybe you also missed Forceuser's older story hour. If so give it a try, monkeys galore!


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## ForceUser (Jul 2, 2003)

*-Dera-*

The morning sun lanced through the trees, reflecting off dewy mist and glistening flora. Life chorused throughout the wood elf settlement – earthworms struggled to churn the thick black loam, dogs barked playfully, and everywhere the inhabitants went about their daily lives. Dera breathed deeply, inhaling the vitalizing, rustic world around her. Crisp air filled her lungs; she let it out reluctantly, with a sigh. 

Nearby, everyone made ready to depart. Garlok secured his kit, balancing it precariously on his back, Mordecai spoke with Ertan and Lorielle, Falco helped Erak adjust his breastplate, and Travis checked the elf-home to make sure nobody left anything behind. Near Mordecai stood another figure: a slight elven woman with deeply tanned skin, light brown hair that fell to her shoulder blades in many knotted braids, and cool lavender eyes that regarded the adventurers with mild interest. She gripped a tall ashwood staff, and beside her sat a large gray wolf obediently, tongue lolling out of its toothy mouth. 

“That’s everything,” said Travis as he exited the home for the final time. Dera’s pulse quickened – what exactly were they about to do?

“Gather ‘round,” declared Mordecai. He gestured at the wolf and said, “Dagys, come.” It loped happily toward him. 

Erak raised an eyebrow, “Yours?”

“Just a friend,” answered the druid obliquely. The group had huddled up, much like they did when Mordecai had enabled them to pass without a trace through the forest. The elven druid, introduced to them as Enuesendri, smiled as though she found this amusing. Mordecai glanced at her and announced, “We are ready.”

Next to Dera, Travis whispered, “What exactly are we about to do?”

“No clue,” whispered Falco back. He appeared nervous. 

Sensing their unease, Enuesendri stepped closer then, leaning on her staff. When she spoke, her voice reminded Dera of a large river’s slow rush. “Far west of here lies the spine of the Clatspurs, but between here and there you will find a hilly upland hard against the forest. This spell will take you there, if you but fly west.” She began to chant then. 

“Wait, what? I don’t…” began Erak. Then Dera felt a strange warm sensation tingling throughout her body, and in an instant of terror the world rushed into huge magnification, like a wizard’s experiment gone haywire. The elves around her loomed like impossible giants viewed through a fish-eye lens, the trees behind them tall as mountains. Alarmed, she gasped, “_Chirp! Chirp!_” 

“_Chirp-chirp-chirp!_” exclaimed Travis beside her, hopping madly on scaly gray feet. He puffed up in indignation, becoming a round brown ball of feathers. All around her, little sparrows hopped and tweeted chaotically. Dera tilted her left eye far upward to see amused expressions on the faces of the assembled elves. Enuesendri bent low and in a thunderous voice whispered, “*FLY NOW*.”

Understanding dawned. Experimentally, Dera hopped high and flapped her arms. She zipped upward like a drunken bee to find herself eye to eye with Lorielle, who laughed. Amazed, she stopped flapping and began to fall back to the ground, but the woman caught her gently, cupping her hands. “_Chirp-chirp-chirp!_” exclaimed Dera with excitement.

From below, she caught the stern voice of Mordecai, “_Chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp!_” Time to go. 

_“Who’s the birdbrain now?”_ came a thought from Tiki, gleefully.

_“Chirp-chirp…er, hush, you,”_ she replied mentally. She could sense his immense amusement. 

They thrust into the air with tweets and chirps of farewell, following Mordecai up past the tree line, seven sparrows and one small owl. Buffeted from a northern breeze, they fought west through the air. Below them the majestic Vesve spread as far as they could see, an ocean of green. In places mist obscured the terrain below, and other flocks of birds flew lazily here and there. The world above the canopy resonated with serenity. 

After a while, Dera began to feel sad. 

_“What’s wrong?”_ came Tiki’s mental voice.

_“It’s not the same,”_ she sighed. 

_“Oh.”_ He understood. As small birds they wrestled with every gust of wind, and avoided larger flyers. The Dragon-Dera in her dreams beat the air into submission, ruler of her environment. As birds they…

_“…survived at the sky’s mercy,”_ she finished. She felt a wave of sympathy resonate from Tiki.

They flew west, and the Vesve rolled beneath them like a river.


--


As dusk approached, Mordecai began to spiral downward toward a stubby hill strewn with boulders. Behind them lay the dark expanse of the forest, ahead Dera thought she saw what could be mountains, but right here the land stumbled over itself like a drunken dwarf. More rocks dotted the rough landscape than trees. She felt glad that the flight was over; her shoulders ached with the effort of a day’s sustained effort. Upon touching down, Mordecai’s form swelled and elongated, and feathers rustled and gave way to flesh and clothes. In a dusty voice he croaked, “Change back now. Just imagine yourselves as you truly are.”

She imagined herself as a princess with men falling over themselves trying to impress her. Tiki guffawed mentally. There came a dizzying sensation of motion, then she opened her eyes to discover she stood among the company once again. Most of them collapsed wearily on the earth, stretching sore muscles. 

_“Modest, aren’t we?”_

_“Let me have my fantasies,”_ she quipped. 

“We are in the Sepia Uplands,” began Mordecai,” we must be careful, for the Old One’s orcs often foray here for mineral wealth, and there are other dangerous creatures besides.”

We’re exposed up here,” grunted Garlok, “Let’s find a better spot to camp.”

Nobody argued, but several grumbled. It had been a long day. The aching adventurers followed the dwarf down the western slope of the hill. Garlok mumbled to himself as he led them around, sometimes cresting hills alone to survey the countryside, other times leading them through rain-gouged gullies. As the sun began to disappear behind the horizon, a bestial roar pierced the air. Garlok spit, “Whuzzat?” 

“Sounds large!” gasped Falco, fatigue apparent in his voice. The party hunkered low against a boulder. 

Something made noisy, erratic steps – _THOOM, THOOM, THOOM-THOOM_ – that echoed off the canyon walls and throughout the jagged gullies.

Cowering, they listened. Dera dug Tiki out of her backpack and tossed him into the air. _“Go look,”_ she ordered. Resentfully, he complied. Long seconds passed, then she felt a surge of fear and alarm from her familiar. _“What is it?”_ she urged. 

_“It’s…it’s…”_ the owl seemed confused, taken aback.

_“Yes?”_

_“It’s…huge!”_ he replied, his terror transmitted through their empathic link.

“Tiki sees something really large out there,” warned Dera.

Garlok growled, “A giant, I wager. Nice knowing you folks.”

_“Dera, you’ve got to come see this!”_

_“Tiki, what…”_

_“The big one is chasing the little ones!”_ he screeched excitedly.

Dera began to scramble up the nearest hill, her skirts causing her to slip and bang her knees as she scrabbled. She heard alarmed shouts from her companions below her, but she ignored them. If they had been in danger Tiki would never have told her to come look. Panting with exertion, she crested the summit in time to witness an event that would have a profound effect on the rest of her life. 

Below her, the peak dropped into a deep, wide gully ringed with broken hills. The ravine ran over a hundred yards long, tapering into a narrow defile at the other end. Sprinting toward the gap where the defile dead-ended were three powerfully built fur-clad barbarians wielding spears and axes. Chasing them and grunting with rage thundered a massive spindly-armed giant, nearly twenty feet tall. Clad only in a filthy loincloth, the creature brandished a small tree it had apparently uprooted to use as a club. A bald pate stood out from a filthy ring of hair across its wide oblong skull; it ran flat-footed, huge belly flopping grotesquely. Dera could hear it panting heavily, as though out of breath. 

Behind her, she vaguely registered swearing and grunting as the rest of the party climbed up the slope. She ignored them, captivated by the scene in the gully. From her vantage point she could tell that the barbarians were trapped; there appeared to be no way out save past the giant. She thought of trying to warn them, but they were too far away to hear her shout, and it would make no difference anyway. They tried to scramble up the defile only to discover the steep, impossible climb. Only then did they turn around to face the monster, spreading out in a hopeless attempt to counter its great reach. It roared then in victory, smashing its club several times into the hard-packed earth. Dera, watching helplessly, felt the teeth rattle in her head. She felt awed and appalled by the monster’s unearthly strength.

“Should…” she heard Falco say tentatively as he struggled for breath, “should we try to help?”

“There’s a mountain giant, reverend. We could do naught but join them in death,” whispered Garlok from beside her.

“We have to do something…” but the priest didn’t move.  

“Brave men,” muttered Garlok sadly, “brave men.”

The giant charged the left-most warrior, swinging its tree in a wide over-head arc first left, then right. Air whooshed past the man as he ducked and rolled under the first blow, but the backhand swing caught him on the ribs with horrific force. Bones cracked loudly as the blow dashed the barbarian to the ground. The giant rushed up howling and swung again, over-handed and down, and at the last moment the man rolled out of the way. The force of the blow’s impact with the earth thumped in Dera’s chest, and a great cloud of dust kicked up around the combatants. The other warriors harassed the giant’s flanks with their spears, piercing its legs. It roared with displeasure.   

From the ledge of a broken hill behind the mountain giant, an undulating cry suddenly broke out, savage and full of battle-lust. Startled, it swung its ponderous head to see what made the noise, and Dera saw its face for the first time: crude, like a caricature of humanity that lacked intelligence or compassion. Standing atop the low summit, flanked by direwolves, stood an immense, thickly muscled barbarian. He wore no armor save a wide leather girdle, thick leather bracers, and a wolf’s head helm that draped over his bulging shoulders. In his right hand he gripped a double-bladed axe, and in his left a long curved knife. He thrust his axe into the sky as he roared, and the eerie wolves snarled and snapped viscously. Ignoring the other men, the creature turned to meet him. Below, the fallen warrior picked himself up, favoring his side, and pointed his spear at the giant. 

It took exactly one large step toward the newcomer, and then he flung himself off the shelf. Dera gasped as, weapons flashing in the setting sun, he dove across the space separating him from his enemy. His arc carried him effortlessly through its long, grasping arms and to its torso, where he hacked with savage precision. Two gouts of blood, fiery in the dying light, flew from a jagged pair of wounds on either side of its thick neck. The wolf-headed barbarian kicked away from the giant as it staggered and gripped its wounds with its free hand, trying to stop the escape of its life’s blood. It tried to vocalize, but all that came out was a gurgling cough. 

The newcomer landed heavily on the ravine floor just outside the giant’s reach. As the other warriors continued to harass it with their spears, he sprung in under the giant’s guard, turned sideways, and sliced the monster’s inner thighs with uncanny accuracy. Blood sprayed and pumped down its legs, which wobbled and gave out. The giant collapsed to its knees and dropped its tree, propping itself up with its right arm as its left held onto its neck wound tightly. Blood-clotted snot pooled in the dust. 

Dera watched breathlessly as Wolf-head, now once again flanked by his direwolves, slowly encircled the fading giant as though he were examining an interesting statue. When he arrived directly behind it he suddenly exploded into motion, running right at the monster. With a mighty leap he scaled its heaving back, ran up to its shoulders and dropped to his knees, sliding forward on sweat-slicked skin. He grabbed its head roughly with a powerful arm and in one motion slit its throat from ear to ear. The giant screamed shrilly through the gash in its throat and died. Wolf-head leapt forward as the body fell, rolling gracefully and ending the movement on his feet. 

Several seconds of stunned silence passed among the group, and then Travis said, “Wow.”

Dera stood agape at the display of martial prowess she had just witnessed. The humongous man stood for a moment, his magnificent chest panting from slight exertion, and then he turned and looked directly at her from over a hundred yards away. She flushed, and her heart began to beat furiously. 

“Uh-oh,” said Mordecai, “He’s noticed us.” 

No, realized Dera as Wolf-head signaled his men and began to stride toward them, he’s noticed _me_. 

At that thought she shivered in equal parts fear and anticipation.


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## ForceUser (Jul 19, 2003)

*-Travis-*

Travis studied the barbarian with keen interest masked by a veil of casual indifference. The man was impossibly large for a human – a V-shaped dynamo well over six feet tall and bulging with sharply defined musculature. He possessed the taut poise of a predator and an admirable economy of motion. His sun-darkened skin glistened in the reflected firelight off the campfire, and Travis watched in envy as the man’s grossly engorged pectoral muscles twitched reflexively. He blinked and shook his head, then stretched elaborately and placed himself squarely behind the dwarf from the barbarians. If it came to violence he would abandon his companions without hesitation. Their deaths would spare him several seconds of pursuit, perhaps long enough to get away and hide. 

Erak sat nearest the barbarians, translating from their broken dialect of Baklunish. The wolf-headed leader spoke rapidly, punctuating his words with sharp, cutting gestures. His hungry gaze rarely left Dera, who played the role of shrinking violet beside Garlok. His blatant desire obviously sat at odds with the priest’s sense of propriety, but thus far Falco had wisely let the insult go unchallenged. These were powerful, savage men. Behind their leader, the warriors stood stoically, their hands never far from their weapons. 

Erak nodded twice rapidly, then gestured at the barbarian leader and said, “This is Mok’Tuge. I think he’s some sort of chief among his people. These men are Wolf Nomads, down from the northern steppes. They are hunting giants for-for _tawri’i_.” He stumbled over the unfamiliar pronunciation. “For sport, I think.” 

Falco blanched.

The man thumped his chest, “Mok’Tuge.” Then he beckoned to Dera and spat a saw-toothed string of syllables. The sorceress shrunk into her cloak, but Travis noted the look of excitement in her eyes. Not often she met a man who intimidated her, he imagined. 

She glanced at Erak, then back to Mok’Tuge. “What did he say?”

“Er,” he hedged, “I think I’m losing something in the translation. They use a very rough form.” 

The barbarian looked at the both of them, pointed at his chest, then at Dera. He patted the earth next to him and pointed at her again. 

“No translation required,” quipped Mordecai. 

Dera persisted pertly. “What did he say?”

Erak blushed, “Well, um, he says you have good child-bearing hips.”

Travis laughed aloud. Mok’Tuge grinned at him, eyes twinkling as if to say, “Yes, I see you back there, little man.”  Travis felt his mirth drain away.

_He’s harmless,_ soothed Fib, his psicrystal. The stone began to hum merrily in his head.

“Ask him if he knows of the place we seek,” rumbled Garlok from the bottom of his wineskin. Elf-wine ran in rivulets down his natty beard. 

Erak spoke to Mok’Tuge, but the barbarian waved him off and beckoned Dera once again. She wavered, half-rising. He smiled at her confidently.

“Dera! Don’t encourage him,” admonished Falco. Travis watched it in her eyes then – indecision pushed aside by her innate contrariness. She walked around the fire and made to sit next to the Wolf Nomad. But he said “_Uht!_” and gestured for her to halt. He rose with a fluidity that belied his bulk, then unraveled a thick bearskin and laid it at her feet. Smiling tentatively, she sat. He clapped his hands and grinned broadly all around, and his men whistled and laughed. Something of significance just occurred, Travis realized. One look at Erak confirmed it; the sellsword appeared nervous. 

Perceptively, Mordecai addressed Erak, “What just happened?”

“I-I believe she has consented to be courted,” Erak said, brows furrowing as he listened to the warriors chatter back and forth. The druid raised an eyebrow, the dwarf guffawed, and the sun priest shook his head in dismay. Travis considered the implications. 

“We can use this,” he suggested.

“I beg your pardon?” exclaimed Dera.

“We need to find this nameless dwarfhold in the Clatspurs. These savages know the terrain. They could lead us, if persuaded.”

“What are you suggesting?” she demanded hotly. Upon hearing her tone, Mok’Tuge dropped a hand to his axe and glared at Travis. 

“Dera, have a care,” said Falco quietly, nodding at the tensed warrior. She glanced at him and said “No, it’s okay…Erak, tell him we’re just arguing.” He did.

“He says that he will cut out the tongue of any man who displeases you with words,” translated Erak, wide-eyed. 

“Oh,” she replied, looking taken aback. 

Travis shrugged in a deliberate expression of nonchalance and said, “Just ask him if he knows where it is.”

Erak and Mok’Tuge spoke at length, and then the sellsword declared, “He has seen a great cave of worked stone in the mountains, but there are many _durr’k_ – I think he means goblins, or maybe orcs – between there and here.”

“Can he lead us to it?” asked Mordecai. Again Erak conferred with the barbarian.

“He says he can.”

“When can we go?” 

Erak asked. “He says he can lead us in the morning, but tonight they hunt to prepare a feast in honor of the – err - new couple.”

Disapprovingly, Falco said, “It’s rather late. What does one hunt at night?”

“Dire bears, apparently.”

Travis suppressed a shudder.  

“_Sounds like fun!_” chirped Fib.


--


The next morning, greasy bear meat still roiling in their stomachs, the group headed west after Mok’Tuge and his hunters. The barbarians set an easy pace in deference to Dera, who strode next to her new suitor, appearing quite flattered by the attention. The rest of the party trailed behind. Ranging far ahead was the pair of direwolves, and Mordecai kept his own wolf Dagys close. The poor thing was as a pup compared to its larger cousins and seemed to resent it.

All of that day and the next they walked. They left behind the uplands on the second day, winding their way high into the craggy mountains. At least once the direwolves ran across a band of humanoids – goblins – and scattered them before the adventurers could arrive. Several other times the barbarian hunters reported large bands of orcs and the occasional hill giant, which Mok’Tuge deftly steered the party around. The journey was tense and tiring, and Travis began to long for the comforts of a good tavern and an accommodating lady. He wasn’t cut out for this “trekking through the wilderness” crap. 

_ “You’re a real trooper!”_ encouraged Fib.

At camp the night of the second day, Mok’Tuge announced that he and his men would be leaving.

“In the morning,” translated Erak, “We must go home. Will Dera come with me and be my woman?”

“Tell him I can’t, Erak,” smiled Dera, “I have to go with my companions.”

Mok’Tuge swelled with satisfaction. “It is as I thought,” continued Erak, “You are no goat-wife who meekly follows her husband. Go with your friends; I will find you later if you wish it.”

“Well, I guess,” she offered cautiously.

Erak studied her. “You want me to translate “I guess?”

She shrugged nervously.

Mok’Tuge listened to Erak, then inhaled and considered. “Do you not want to be my woman?” 

And there it is, thought Travis, who expected her to hedge some more.

Dera looked at the barbarian shyly, “You’re nice, but…this is all so fast! Can we…can we not know each other a little better?”

When Erak translated, Mok’Tuge seemed to deflate. “Do you not wish me to court you?”

“No! I mean – yes. If you want.”

“Is that a no or a yes, Dera?” asked Erak. Mok’Tuge watched the exchange.

“It’s a yes.”

“Okay.” He turned to Mok’Tuge.

“I mean, I think.” 

Erak paused, mouth open to translate. He looked at her and waited. 

Sit bit her lip and nodded. He translated. Mok’Tuge replied, looking at her, his eyes glittering and unreadable. Erak spoke again, and the two conversed at length. Finally Mok’Tuge stood up and began collecting his things.

“What?” asked Dera with a note of concern. 

“He says that he does not want you to do what your heart does not desire. He will go now instead of tomorrow and find you later. You can have all the moons between now and then to decide if you want him.” Erak stood up and said something to the barbarians. They waved at him and Mok’Tuge slapped his shoulder. He pointed into the darkness and spoke to Erak, spared Dera a final glance, and faded into the night. 

“I think you hurt his feelings,” observed Travis sardonically. Dera shot him a venomous glance, then stood up and stalked off into the dark after Mok’Tuge.

Erak cleared his throat. “He said we’re close to the spot he knows. We should look for a stone stair cutting up an otherwise impassible cleft. I think it’s about a mile away, maybe less.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” said Mordecai.

Dera came back a few minutes later looking preoccupied. Nobody said anything to her about Mok’Tuge, really, what was the point? The man now had an inkling of what she was like; if he still wanted to pursue her Travis wished him good fortune. The others set watches and he settled down to sleep.

The next morning they got up, prepared spells and powers, and set out to find the stone stair. It turned out to be tough to miss – they found the cleft in the mountainside, at the bottom of which lay a deep shadowy ravine. On the face of the near side began the stair, a massive work of wrought stone worn smooth by the passage of time. It was dirty and rock-strewn, but no cracks or breaks marred its surface, nor any weeds or upthrust plants. Even with untrained eyes, Travis recognized superior craftsmanship. Had he been blind, he still couldn’t have missed the dwarf’s exclamation of “Aha!” as he ran forward on stubby legs to squat before the first step. He caressed the masonry as though it were a precious gemstone. 

“This is it!” said Garlok, master of the obvious. 

“Very nice,” replied Mordecai. They began to trudge up. Out of boredom, Travis counted the steps. Around six hundred and twelve he decided “screw it,” being too busy worrying about the pain in his chest and the fire in his legs. Eventually they came to a plateau cut flat to exacting standards by ancient dwarven masons. The priest prayed while the rest of them sat down heavily. 

A speck appeared in the air from the direction ahead, getting closer. Travis nudged Erak, sat up, and observed more closely. They started getting antsy, but it swooped down and revealed itself to be Dera’s stupid familiar. He let out a ragged breath and relaxed. 

“Tiki says there’s a building up around the bend,” reported Dera.

“What kind of building?” asked Erak.

She shrugged, “He doesn’t know. He says it is tall and skinny.”

“Sounds like a tower,” suggested Mordecai. “Can he tell us anything else?”

She paused a moment, betraying an inner conversation. “He says there might be people in it. He might have seen something moving around inside.”

“Right,” said Garlok, “Maybe its dwarves come back to claim their hall.”

Travis had to refrain from rolling his eyes. 

When Falco finished preparing spells they moved on, alert to possible danger. Half an hour of painful trudging later, the curving slope of the mountainside revealed a squat stone tower in disrepair. It sat on a similar flat to the one upon which they’d rested. As they closed on it, something stirred atop the crenellations. Travis began to focus his mind for combat, but a dwarf-helm popped out from between the stonework, followed by a crossbow. Garlok said “Aha!” and waved, but the dwarf didn’t wave back. He appeared to regard the party for a moment, then he disappeared behind the defensive structure.

“Friendly sorts,” said Erak.

“They’re just being cautious,” Garlok replied sagely, “This mountain’s crawling with nasties. I’ll go talk with ‘em.”

Travis was unconvinced, but just then a dwarf stepped out of the shadow of the tower and waved. From this distant vantage he appeared old, with a long gray beard poking out from beneath a big helm. He wore scale mail but carried no shield or weapon. He shouted something in dwarvish, and Garlok responded. The old dwarf shouted again, Garlok replied again, and then the other dwarf beckoned them and went back inside the tower. Garlok stepped forward.

“Wait,” said Falco, “I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t speak dwarven, do you?” asked Garlok.

“No, but I have trained in the art of diplomacy. I might be of some use.”

Garlok shrugged. “Suit yerself.”

The two of them struck out for the tower door. Shortly afterward, all hell broke loose.


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## Morte (Jul 19, 2003)

*Re: -Travis-*



			
				ForceUser said:
			
		

> *Shortly afterward, all hell broke loose. *




Yee haw.

Lookin' good.


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## Hjorimir (Jul 20, 2003)

=)


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## Broccli_Head (Jul 25, 2003)

BUMP!

'cuz you can't leave cliffhangers like that for more than 3 days!


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## ForceUser (Jul 25, 2003)

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *BUMP!
> 
> 'cuz you can't leave cliffhangers like that for more than 3 days! *



So true 

I wasn't going to post again until I had at least 2,000 words, but what the hey. Enjoy the short update, and I'll do a meaty one next time.


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## ForceUser (Jul 25, 2003)

*-Falco-*

Falco slammed into the wall behind him, bringing his shield up just in time as the unholy creature rammed into him and tried to claw its way around. A rotting stench filled the air, like carrion that had been left too long in the sun. _Ghouls!_ he recognized in surprised panic. The dwarf-ghoul atop his shield leered around the edge, swollen tongue lolling in savage hunger. Pinpricks of red swam in its black eyes as it rasped something in dwarvish and lunged for him again. With the swiftness of undeath it reached under Falco’s guard and raked a taloned hand across his chain hauberk, finding no purchase.

To Falco’s right, Garlok whipped his axes off his belt, sidestepped a ghoul’s lunge, and plunged both weapons deep into the chest of another – _thunk, thunk!_. It spit and hissed and raked his arms with filthy black claws. Garlok jerked stiffly but fought on, limbs bloodied. Behind the melee, two more dwarvish ghouls loped toward the off-balance adventurers. 

_Enough,_ thought the priest. Kicking off from the wall, he shoved the ghoul back hard, grasped his holy symbol and thrust it aloft. Deep within the core of his being he felt the stirrings of divine energy mingled with true faith. He focused on that energy, calling it forth until the upwelling burst like a font. “Go back to hell!” he roared as a surge of radiant power washed away from him like a tide. The _greater turning_ crashed over the ghouls with fury, consuming the three nearest him in holy fire. The two ghouls farthest away covered their eyes and snarled but pressed the attack. Behind them through the doorway, Falco heard shouting and running. 

Erak burst through the portal, sword drawn, and said “What’s-aaAAAaaaa!” upon spying the ghouls. Falco drew his mace and stepped behind one, and Garlok flanked it. It twisted and writhed beneath their assault, avoiding all blows but one of the dwarf’s axes. Erak intoned a spell and a translucent _shield_ shimmered into being, interposed between him and the melee. With that, he stepped back out of the doorway and out of sight.

“Yep,” bellowed Garlok, “He’s a wizard!”

Falco heard Erak casting another spell, then a loud pop-bang followed by a curse. He had no time to wonder what had happened, though, as the ghoul that wasn’t flanked tried to skewer him. He took the attack on his shield, staggering under the monster’s frenzy. With a heave he shouldered its weight off and smashed his heavy mace across the skull of the ghoul he flanked off Garlok. Spun around by his attack, it gurgled through its shattered skull and began to reach for him, but with two violent chops the dwarven warrior finished it. As it fell, three streaks of dazzling indigo light wove around Falco and struck the ghoul behind him with unerring force. Beyond the doorway stood Dera, arms poised to unleash a second _magic missile_ spell if needed. 

It wasn’t. Blown back by the arcane assault, the final ghoul staggered once, twice, then fell to the cold stone floor and lay still. 

Erak stuck his head in the door, “Everyone okay?”

“No thanks t’you,” grumbled Garlok. Erak looked hurt but said nothing. Falco examined the dwarf’s wounds, then spoke a celestial word and laid his hand upon him. Soothing golden light emanated from him, and when it faded the wounds were gone. Garlok nodded his thanks and ambled to the far side of the tower room, where there lay a ravaged, half-eaten corpse. 

He sighed. “It's a dwarf.”

“They’re all dwarves,” said Erak.

“Well,” replied Garlok, “Not anymore.” He squatted and grabbed the corpse under the shoulders. Looking at the fighter-wizard he grunted, “Gimme a hand.” They carried the body outside, where they built a cairn and placed it within. Once they had finished Falco intoned a prayer of peace over the grave, and the adventurers, aches forgotten, pressed on up the slope.


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## Welverin (Jul 25, 2003)

ForceUser said:
			
		

> *So true
> 
> I wasn't going to post again until I had at least 2,000 words, but what the hey. Enjoy the short update, and I'll do a meaty one next time. *




I prefer the short, more frequent variety, the long ones scare me. O.k. they don't actually scare me, but when ever I see a long post it makes me want to do something other than read it.

p.s. good writing as always.


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## Broccli_Head (Jul 25, 2003)

Falco's performance against the ghouls shows why clerics rock!

I think I like him and Travis the best. Two contrasts...self-sacrificing and self-serving.


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## drschroeder (Jul 27, 2003)

Of course you like Travis best.  Everyone likes Travis.  If for a momment you think you might not like Travis, he reminds you that you do like him... and everything's better.

I like Travis best too!


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## Garlok (Jul 29, 2003)

*Bah!*

Of Note:

Erak had been studdieing Some arcane tome for a while and said he was taking up Magic. Garlok asked him why a stout warrior would waste his time with something like that and right before this adventure started Erak had announce his newfound abilitites and pronounced himself a wizard. Garlock had had his doubts until this battle in which he now could see for himself the new battle mentality of this former stalwart companion.

As for Travis my brother who DM's this campaign relizing what a true monster Travis is is frequently saying:"No body likes you." It is because as you will see the effect Travis will have in the future...

I will just leave it at that.

ForceUser has recently aquired a laptop. This is a great omen as now it is likely we will be seeing MUCH more frequent updates. I really like reminising about all of this. Keep it up! Great Job!


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## ForceUser (Jul 31, 2003)

I do, in fact, have about two to three more hours each day that I can devote to writing now that I have a notebook computer. I've already written some 1500 words since yesterday. The problem is, at the moment, I have no way to port what I write to my home computer for posting. As soon as I get my hands on an external floppy drive I will update. 

You may wonder why I didn't use my pre-notebook time to write the old-fashioned way, by hand. I have several answers for that. One, I think and type much faster than I write by hand. I have actually lost cool things I wanted to express because by the time my hand caught up with my brain I'd forgotten exactly what it was I intended to write. My retention is ca-ca. Two, my hand cramps when I hand-write. Probably because I do it so infrequently. Catch-22. Three, I just hate writing manually. 

You may wonder why I don't just retype what I've written on my laptop to my PC. Fact is, I'm anal enough that if I retype it I'm going to rewrite it, and I hate rewriting. I know that professionals commonly do it - write something, leave it alone for a while, come back later with a fresh perspective and make it better. Fortunately, nobody has ever accused me of being a professional writer. I usually tweak the text as I go - rewrite one sentence or one paragraph at a time, if you will. Confused yet? Good. Basically, I'd rather be writing new stuff than rewriting old stuff. Old stuff I want to post and forget. 

Enough excuses for you? Bottom line is it's all Hjorimir's fault. If he'd have hooked me up with an external floppy drive when his boss gave me the laptop you'd have your update already.


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## Hjorimir (Jul 31, 2003)

Yeah, we have a stack of the external drives at work. I will talk to the boss and see about getting you hooked up on Monday.


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## Garlok (Jul 31, 2003)

*Porting Information*

ForseUser,

Gimmie a call I think I have a better solution for you.

Later,


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## Hjorimir (Aug 6, 2003)

Okay, I have the external floppy drive for ForceUser...rumor has it that he has a couple of updates ready to go!

That being said, I don't think I will see him before Saturday so we will probably get an update on Sunday if he is so inclined.


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## ForceUser (Aug 10, 2003)

*-A Menagerie of Perspectives-*

The tunnel plummeted deep into the earth. They followed it until their spell protections wore off and many hours afterward. The caves were natural, worn by the passage of time, and did not evidence the presence of creatures. Veins of fool's gold and quartz twinkled murkily in the dusky torchlight, and their footsteps fell flat and echoless. The wolf Dagys whined on occasion as though it felt the oppression of the rock around them, and at those times Mordecai stopped and whispered to it. Soon after the wolf would fall silent, which bemused Falco. Mordecai's rapport with the animal impressed him. It was life affirming.

The cavern led them far below the mountain. Sometime, interminable hours later, the dwarf grunted and spoke. "It's late. Wanna camp?" The others replied with groans of assent.

"Let's find a safe spot off this main cave," suggested the druid.

"Sure," replied Garlok, "If you wanna backtrack for an hour."

Mordecai didn't.

"Hard to tell night and day down here," observed Falco. "How do dwarves do it?"

"They don't," replied Garlok, "Why d'ya think they're so surly when they go topside t'meet humans?"

Falco grinned.

"Ehh, my clan're hill folk, anyway, we don't truck with deep caverns. Ain't nothin' wrong with a bit o'sun on yer face."

Falco smiled at that. "Amen."

"Wake me up for a watch later," said Erak as he bedded down. Within minutes he breathed rhythmically, lying on his back in his mithril breastplate. Falco could not fathom how he could look so peaceful while sleeping in his metal carapace. He had given up putting down for the night in his mail after developing sores. He shrugged out of his chainmail, summoned a _light_ spell by which to write, and settled into an uncomfortable nook in the cave wall. Mordecai drifted out of the light's radius, but Falco noticed Garlok sitting in the shadows, head cocked as if listening. 

After recording the day's events in his journal Falco prayed - for the success of their quest, for their safe return, and for the blessed illumination of Pelor's purpose. When he finished he unrolled his kit, lay down, and fell instantly asleep.

After no time at all, Erak shook him awake. Bleary-eyed, he blinked several times in the torchlight, then stirred. Breakfast consisted of salted venison, hard tack and water. He chewed carefully, not noticing the blandness of the meal, although some of the others grumbled about it. A coney would be nice, thought the priest wistfully, but it'd be a rather impressive display of woodsmanship to catch one all the way down here. After breakfast Mordecai, Dera, Erak and Travis meditated, studied, or prayed for spells, as was their method. Not for the first time, Falco wondered what exactly it was that Travis did. He'd evidenced no spell power since they'd met, and was obviously not a combatant. The others accepted him into their midst, so surely he had talent in something. It was hard to imagine what, though; the man appeared rather ordinary. He was pleasant and honest-seeming, at least.

An hour later they continued their trek downward. As they'd set out Garlok had informed them that they were miles below the earth. The thought of all that mountain above him had made Falco intensely claustrophobic for several minutes, but with prayer the feeling passed. Today turned out to be a more difficult journey than yesterday, as larger tunnels began to appear, branching off from what he thought of as the main tunnel. Also, the passage began to switchback with random cunning, as if the passage of some earth god had swirled the stone in its wake. Several times Garlok called a halt as he read the signs only he could see. Eventually he would choose a path, but Falco couldn't discern the criteria by which the dwarf judged what was a worthy route and what wasn't.  

Although cut off from the sun, Falco knew when it was time to replenish his spells. They called a halt and he prepared, praying for blessings that would make his companions hale and accurate, as well for various abjurations and conjurations. As he did every day since achieving his current status within his god's hierarchy, he asked for _daylight_ as one of his most powerful spells. While not always tactically advantageous, he felt that this spell, more than any other he had access to, symbolized his faith, his commitment, and his mission of furthering Pelor's will.  Through it, he honored his god.

"Shine Your Light to dispel the darkness from the path as I walk in Your wake, Lord" recited the priest, "Amen." He rose from his prayers to find the others ready to march and trying not to appear too impatient. He appreciated that.

After several hours the tunnel's ceiling began to sweep higher, and the floor of the passage widened such that they could walk four abreast if they chose. Garlok led them cautiously, often stopping to creep ahead and listen. A dim orange glow refracted off the minerals in the walls ahead when he whispered, "Hear that?"

They listened. Oblivious to subterfuge, Erak ventured, "I don't hear anything."

"Shh!" hissed the dwarf. The echoes of the man’s speech bounced around the cavern.

The warrior-mage cringed and whispered, "Sorry."

“I can take a look,” offered Mordecai. Falco heard his boots crunch quietly on the gravelly floor of the cave. 

Several minutes passed, then they heard the quiet crunching return. Mordecai appeared and reported. “Some sort of structure ahead, possibly the dwarf fort.”

“Mining hold,” corrected Garlok.

“Whatever,” shrugged the druid. “There’s a trench, a metal drawbridge, and a big set of doors on the far side. The bridge is up but there appears to be some sort of device on our side. There’s also a bunch of goblins with various weapons.”

“Goblins,” snarled Garlok. He fingered his axes.

The druid shrugged. “There are half a dozen of them. Not sure what they’re doing.”

“Dyin’,” suggested the hill dwarf. He started forward.

Mordecai caught him, “Heh. They have bows.”

“Bah!”

Falco sighed, “Sorry. Had I known I’d have prepared some _entropic shields_.

“Look,” said Garlok, “They’re just goblins. Let’s kill ‘em.”

“Be kind of hard if they’re on the far side with bows,” noted Travis. “Can we kill them with magic?”

“I have offensive magic, but I don’t know if I can kill six goblins,” said Dera.

“There may be more,” Mordecai hastened to add, “Six was all I could see.”

“Anyone have a crossbow?” asked Erak. 

Nobody did. Erak barked a laugh. “We are well-prepared.”

“Rakahn was the archer,” sighed Mordecai as he squatted and rubbed his face. The morbid irony wasn’t lost on Falco.

“Somebody got a plan then?” growled Garlok.

“Sounds like we have to get the bridge down,” replied Travis.

“Explain to me everything you saw around the bridge,” said the dwarf to the druid.  Mordecai did. “Hrmm,” reasoned Garlok, “So there’s a winch on both sides. Wasn’t built for defense, then. Probably fer trade.” He stroked his tangled whiskers absently.

“And?” blurted Erak.

“And,” grunted Garlok, “If we can winch down the bridge we can charge ‘em and maybe breach th’ doors.” 

“So who’s going to work the winch under fire?” asked Mordecai.

“I’ll do it,” offered Falco at the same time Dera said, “Don’t look at me.”

“Nah,” drawled Travis. “I’ll do it.”

“That’s uncommonly brave of you,” opined Mordecai. “How do you intend to accomplish that?”

The man shrugged and nonchalantly replied, “I’ll make them think I’m a goblin and convince them to let me across.”

Falco raise an eyebrow. The casualness with which Travis had presented his idea made him seem well skilled in duplicity. He reappraised him but couldn’t fathom how such an honest-seeming person would be skilled in subterfuge – it seemed incongruous. Clearly, something was off, but he lacked the guile to discern the truth.

Travis took his kit off his shoulder and squatted. Excitedly, Erak asked him, “You can shapechange?”

Instead of replying, Travis grinned mysteriously. Without answering, he dug into his pack and produced a small box. Kneeling, he opened it and rummaged about. Falco watched with interest. The man produced a small leather pouch and squeezed it until a reddish paste spurted out into his hand. He began to apply the substance to his face.

Garlok raised his bushy eyebrows. “You gotta be kiddin’.” 



--



Travis ran over the details in his mind while Fib tried to distract him with garrulous jibes.

_ “You’ll regret this for the rest of your life,”_ chirped the gem happily.

Travis affected a shambling, hunched-over gait. Goblins were far smaller than humans, so his disguise would depend largely on confounding their sense of perspective. He had never had occasion to study the vile little creatures, but they couldn’t be that dissimilar from kobolds.

“They’re like kobolds, right?”

“No,” huffed Garlok. “This is a stupid idea.”

“Okay. Let’s hear yours,” offered Travis. The dwarf glared at him with rheumy eyes and said nothing.

He took off his cloak. “So what do I need to know about these things?”

Mordecai briefed him on goblins. 

“Cowardly, viscous, not especially bright. Got it,” replied Travis. This should be easy.

_ “Do you want to be buried in the Suel tradition or the islander way?”_ crooned Fib. 

He ripped the hem of his cloak to tatters before draping it back over his shoulders. _“If I die, so do you,”_ he projected. Digging out his extra tunic, he wadded it up and stuffed it between cloak and back, producing what could be mistaken for a lumpy knot of flesh. He hunched over again.

_ “Inconceivable!”_ retorted the psicrystal. Nevertheless, it shut up.

Falco appraised the disguise and chuckled. “At a distance, in poor light, and assuming they’re drunk, it’s possible that you could be mistaken for a large hunchbacked goblin.”

In goblinoid, Travis barfed an expletive at the priest.

Mordecai shot him a quizzical look. “I thought you weren’t familiar with them.”

“Goblins, no. Hobgoblins, yes,” asserted Travis. A satisfying expression of annoyance passed across the druid’s face. Just to compound it he grinned egregiously. Mordecai shook his head, looking disgusted.

“He’s your fault,” said Garlok to the druid.

“I’m ready,” Travis announced. A shiver of excitement mingled with fear shot up his spine.

Let the show begin.



--



When Mordecai described the drawbridge, Travis had imagined the standard variety found in human fortifications – hinged on the defender’s side and raised and lowered by chains attached to a pair of horizontal winches. What he saw appeared to be of decidedly non-human construction. For one thing, instead of raising and lowering, it parted in the middle, allowing each half to swing horizontally in the opposite direction of its mate toward the side it anchored on. Next to each half a mechanical device with gears and pulleys – Travis assumed it was a winch of some kind – had been mounted vertically to somehow facilitate the movement of each bridge section toward the other. Next to the device on the near side was a large brass bell, presumably rung to get the attention of whomever operated the far half of the bridge. He now understood Garlok’s comment about the bridge not being a defensive fortification; it took persons stationed on both sides of the cleft to connect the halves to allow passage across. 

Travis took the gap to be about twenty-five feet, far too wide to jump. Beyond the ravine a squat stone structure housed a massive set of iron-wrought double doors. The left door stood propped open by a stone wedged between it and the cavern floor; beyond the portal he saw only darkness. Between the bridge and the doors, several goblins milled about just as the druid had said. Four of them appeared to be involved in some sort of game of chance, kneeling with their heads together and bantering in their crude tongue. To Travis they sounded like a clutch of squawking chickens farting with their mouths. A fifth goblin leaned on a shortspear and spoke to something within the darkened doorway. A sixth dozed fitfully near the bridge mechanism, licking snot from its nostrils and belching in its sleep. All had small shortbows close at hand. 

The ravine itself ran diagonally throughout the entire cavern, with the bridge at the narrowest point. Its near end lay to Travis’s right, and the far side disappeared in the flickering gloom cast by the goblins’ torches. From his vantage in the shadows of the cave’s entrance it appeared rather deep, with steep cliff-like walls that fell out of sight. The floor of the cave consisted of dry, uneven, rough-hewn stone; if he had to flee it would be difficult to do so without twisting an ankle. He wished Mordecai had mentioned that. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, depositing red clay paint in his right eye. Adapting, he squinted that eye shut and hobbled out across the cave. He felt very exposed.

Ironically, the goblins failed to notice him before he arrived at the bridge. The four gamblers broke out in a tussle, and he heard accusations of “Cheat!” and “Liar!” waft across the gap. Bracing himself, he rang the bell and assumed an obsequious pose. Bending over helped disguise his true height.

Those fighting seized up and stared his way wide-eyed. The goblin by the doors straightened and frowned, and the sleeper continued to doze. In the harsh staccato of their tongue, Travis called out, “I’ze Rawnok.”

One of the gamblers nocked an arrow in his bow and stood up. He snarled, “We’ze no know Rawnok! Who’ze you boss?”

Travis nodded, “Himz boss, yez.”

“No, who’ze?”

“Me’z comin’ back. Do bridge?”

The goblins glanced at each other suspiciously and grumbled. Several unslung their bows. The sleeping goblin woke up and took in the scene. 

“Done scoutin’, tellin’ boss,” said Travis impatiently.

“You’ze not Gunkfist!” accused the goblin by the door.

“Me’z other clan, but, um, work for you’ze boss. Do bridge. Me’z help.” Travis shuffled to the mechanism and began to study it. Hmm. Three levers and a dial. What the hell is this metal plate for? It dawned on him that he had no idea how to operate the bridge. Besides which, many of the iron parts seemed rusted tight upon close inspection.

_ “You’ve almost got it figured out,”_ encouraged Fib cheerfully.

Travis looked across the ravine. Four more goblins had emerged from beyond the doorway, and all the assembled creatures had bows drawn now. An arrow whizzed by over his head and clattered on the rocks behind him. He flinched and made a show of cowering. It wasn’t much of a stretch; the nearest cover was dozens of feet away.

“You’ze not Gunkfist! You’ze goin’ away or dyin’!” barked one of the goblins.

“Stick ‘im!” said another. “He’ze bein’ good shootin’ practice!”

The rest of the goblins apparently decided that this was a marvelous idea. Cackling and hooting with malignant glee, they loosed a chaotic volley of arrows at Travis.

“Sh*t!” he whimpered.

_ “Whee!”_ he heard in his mind.



--



Beyond the cave’s entrance, Erak squatted in darkness and listened to the goblins’ catcalls. He heard the distinct sound of multiple arrows whistling through the air, and then “Argghhh – arghh – ARRGGGHHHH!!”

“He’s hurt!” gasped good old Reverend Jon, there’s a fine fellow. Erak squeezed his eyes shut and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his gloved fist. In his mind’s eye, fiendish shadows danced and beckoned. He shied away from their whispered promises and shivered. Distantly, booted feet clomped off, and he heard shouts, spells being cast, and curses. Above it all rang the battle cry “Pelor! Pelor!”

Oh, wait, that’s right. Travis was transforming into a human pincushion.

Erak opened his eyes and pushed himself up from the floor. He intoned a spell, carefully weaving his arms in the six-point pattern of – _POP!_. His right sleeve snagged on his breastplate and ruined the delicate movement. The spell fizzled.

“F*ck!” he yelled. That was the only _shield_ spell he’d prepared that day.  

From up ahead Garlok roared, “Getcher ass in here, wizard!”

“Shut up! I’m coming!” he shouted. Fuming, he mumbled, “I’m gonna freaking kill something.” He drew his bastard sword and hustled to the battle.

As he entered the cavern he felt a pang of envy as he witnessed Dera conjure a _flaming sphere_, which materialized right on top of a goblin. Within the sphere the creature danced, jiggled, and then died. Directed by her outstretched hand, the lavender ball of fire rolled sideways and enveloped a second goblin. It too ran in circles for a few seconds and then fell in a smoldering heap. 

A seductive voice slithered through Erak’s psyche. _ "Acquiesce, and that power and more shall be yours."_

He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. “No.”

Garlok, shouting in what Erak assumed was the goblin tongue, ran up to the edge of the ravine and hurled an axe. It took a goblin square in the chest, lifting it off its feet and knocking it backward with a gurgling howl. Mordecai appeared to be rummaging in his basket and skirting the conflict, Dagys following close behind. Falco moved toward Travis, who limped toward the priest. The psion had three black-shafted arrows sticking out of his body – one in his right arm, one in his left leg and another in his belly. When they met, Falco began to weave defensively while casting a spell, and a familiar golden light washed over Travis’s form when he touched him. One, two, three arrows fell out of his body as his wounds closed. Then the priest turned furiously on the fight.

Although three goblins lay dead, two more piled out of the open door and began to fire black arrows across the trench. Garlok took one in the shoulder, and Falco ducked behind his shield as several missiles ricocheted off of it. Erak eyed the distance across the gap. That’s what, fifteen feet? He could make that. He kept his shield between him and the goblins and edged forward to take a look.

As Dera incinerated another goblin with her _flaming sphere_, Falco summoned a ghostly weapon, which manifested as a shining golden mace. It swung at one of the goblins as though wielded by an invisible warrior, but missed. 

Mordecai arrived to the left of the bridge mechanism. In his hand he held an elaborate feather, dyed green and gilded in gold. He spoke a word and tossed the token high above the ravine. Aloft, it shimmered with green sparks and burst into the form of a massive tree, which came crashing down sideways to span the gap. On the other side, goblins scattered. The instant the tree stilled Garlok barreled across it, roaring in triumph. He made it halfway, slipped, nearly fell, caught his balance, and then carefully picked his way across the remaining distance. Erak laughed aloud. What a fool, he thought. Still, he admired the dwarf’s ebullience. Hefting his weapon and shield, he started across.

By the time he arrived on the other side, Garlok had violently dispatched a pair of goblins with his twin hand axes. The others had fled through the iron doors and were pulling the open one shut. Erak barked, “Garlok, the doors!” and charged forward too late. The sturdy portal shut with a reverberating clang. Moments later he heard the unmistakable sound of a bar being slid across the interior of the doors. “Damn it!” he swore.

“Bah!” spat the dwarf. He banged on the doors with the butt of an axe, then kicked it. 

“How do we get inside?” asked Erak.

“Come back across,” shouted Mordecai. They did. As they arrived Travis turned to Mordecai and gestured at the tree, “Why didn’t we just do that to begin with?”

“I didn’t want to use it unless I had to. Besides, you had a plan.”

“Heh,” said Travis.

“Now what?” asked Falco. “Can we get through the doors?”

Garlok shook his head and spat. “There’s good dwarvish steel, reverend. We ain’t got the sword that can break it.”

“There’s a tunnel at the far end of the ravine,” announced Dera. Her owl swooped toward them; apparently she’d sent it scouting again. “Tiki says it’s dry and there’s light down that way.”

“Hrm,” replied Mordecai in an expression of distrust. Erak concurred with that sentiment.

Falco asked, “Is there no other way?”

They searched the chamber; there wasn’t. 

“Guess we go down,” sighed Erak, resigned. He had developed a bad feeling regarding this venture, and the constant weight upon his psyche didn’t help matters. Something chuckled darkly behind his skull, and he winced.

“You okay?” asked Falco.

Erak waved him off, “Fine, yeah.”

“Let’s move on,” suggested Mordecai, “we can use the tree branches to climb down.”

“Poor tree,” said Dera.

The druid nodded sadly. “Yes, it will die. That’s why I was reluctant to evoke it.”

_ “Others will die as well,”_ rasped the voice in Erak’s head. In a flash he descended into hell; tortuous and demented images, options, futures, choices barreled through his mind like a runaway steed. He witnessed Falco obliterated by a blast of malevolent black energy, and then Travis; he envisioned Garlok struck down by a torrent of freezing ice. He saw his comrades suffer and die over and over in horrible, unimaginable ways. Smugly, the voice crawled through his psyche again. _ "I can save them, if you but call me forth."_

He reeled on the edge of temptation. He didn’t want this responsibility. He could save them all. He could…

An incongruity shocked him from his inner torment. “Erak, come on down!” 

Reverend Jon, alive. For now.

Grabbing onto a branch for support, Erak broke out in a sweat that had nothing to do with physical exertion.



--



Mordecai followed his companions through the winding tunnel that meandered away from the underground ravine. By his side, Dagys bristled at the darkness and said, _“Rowf!”_ 

Mordecai agreed; he didn’t like the path before them either. Something about it felt wrong. From far ahead, refracted by minerals embedded in the cave walls, a pale blue light beckoned. Between there and here lay only darkness. They crept forward slowly, guided by the flickering fire from their torches and the sunny glow off Falco’s shield. After what seemed an eternity, the torchlight and the azure radiance from ahead began to mingle.

From the front ranks some fool whispered the obvious, “We’re getting close.”

He sighed, then tensed as the party members in the lead – Garlok, Erak, and Falco – rounded the bend from which the light seemed to emanate. Ritual words of defensive spells raced through his mind, and he mouthed them quietly as he stood prepared for further battle. What he heard from ahead surprised him, however, as someone declared, “Oh, wow.”

Dagys growled low in his throat and bristled. Mordecai felt no surprise; whatever lay ahead wasn’t natural, thus, it made the wolf suspicious. He frowned; unnatural things were often the work of Beory’s enemies. Curiosity got the better of him, though, so he sidled up the passage to take a look.

He peeked around the corner, then gaped in surprise. A dome-shaped crystalline room filled with mineral wealth reflected the light from the chamber’s centerpiece, a glowing magical sword thrust point-first into the stony earth. Its blade and hilt were ornate and bespoke of elvish or dwarvish craftsmanship, and draped about it was a shriveled, skeletal corpse. Elvish workmanship, he decided as he marveled at the sight. The body, in any event, was certainly not that of a dwarf. It had been there for a long time, and Mordecai felt pity for the poor soul who’d died forgotten in this deep mountain lair.

Awed, the party filed into the chamber and gawked at the spectacle. Dera spoke an arcane word, then gasped, “It is _very_ powerful.” 

“Doesn’t make sense,” said Travis.

“Aye,” agreed Garlok. “Who’d leave a magic sword lyin’ around?”

“Nobody,” replied Erak. Alert, they carefully scrutinized the cavern.

It was then that Dagys began to bark and snarl at the walls, and turn in circles. “What does he see?” asked Falco.

Mordecai didn’t know. Something unnerved the wolf, and that unnerved him. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he began to reply, but with an evanescent blast of displaced air a horse-sized spider appeared towering over Garlok. It crouched above him on eight powerful legs, sheathed in a blue and white carapace that gleamed eerily in the azure glow emanating from the magic sword. Before anyone could react the spider plunged its twelve-inch fangs deep into the dwarf’s torso. He jittered once, gurgling helplessly, and then the monster winked out of existence in a rush of collapsing air. Garlok staggered like a drunk…well, like himself anyway, but worse. He roared “Blargghhh!” and swiped erratically at the spot where the creature had appeared, hitting nothing.

Not one of his finer moments, to be sure.

Mordecai, a practical person by nature, retrieved a scroll of _delay poison_ and stepped toward the dwarf. Falco began casting a spell as though he had a horde of enemies pressing him – the room lay bare except for the adventurers, the desiccated corpse, and the magic longsword – and succeeded in causing a warm golden glow to encompass his outstretched hand. As he moved toward Garlok the spider reappeared, phasing in from some other place, and crunched through Falco’s hauberk with its dagger-like fangs. “Arrgghh!” screamed the priest as the beast phased away again, and he stopped short and touched himself with his spell of healing. Then he, too, swooned as the venom wracked his body. 

“The poison…weakens!” gulped the cleric, panting and sweating. His face had taken on a bluish sheen, and the veins in his necked bulged. Mordecai watched in sympathy as Falco retched reflexively. Potent, he noted. 

“Move back!” said Dera. Erak, cowering behind his shield, agreed. “Yes! Everyone back to the cave entrance! Casters behind the fighters!”

“You a caster or a fighter today?” asked Garlok.

Erak shot him a dirty look and took a spot in the front rank.

They huddled up as the spider phased in again, but this time they were ready. Dera unleashed a trio of _magic missles_, and Falco, Erak and Garlok all swung fiercely at it. Falco missed, Erak sliced a shallow cut along its soft underside, but Garlok buried his axes deep. Reeling from the counterassault, the giant arachnid sunk its fangs into Erak before disappearing again. “Vaugghhh!” he screamed. 

Mordecai sighed again, then dug out another _delay poison_ scroll. At this rate he’d be out of scrolls in an hour.  

Tense seconds passed as they waited. Unsure of what to do, they lingered in the tunnel they’d entered from. 

“Well, this is a pickle,” said Erak. 

“We wounded it,” countered Garlok. 

Travis spoke. “It’s still out there somewhere. We need to finish it.”

“A wounded beast is all the more dangerous,” added Mordecai. As usual, he agreed with Travis. They had to get by this obstacle, preferably without further casualties. But how?

“Ya know what? Screw it,” spat the dwarf. He stomped back into the room. 

“Garlok, no!” yelled half the group. He ignored them, waddling to the glowing blue sword jammed in the cavern floor. He reached for it. 

Mordecai watched, fascinated by the dwarf’s bravado.

Garlok drew the sword.



--



A ghostly wind roared in Garlok’s ears, obliterating the shouts from his companions. All around him the world whirled flat and gray, a vortex of colorless sound that engulfed him in a vicissitude of alien sensations. His beard and hair whipped about him as he drew the sword up to his face and examined its brilliant sheen – one which, it seemed, came from within and not its steel exterior. It pulsed in his callused palm as though it was a live thing, and it felt very warm against his skin. The danger momentarily forgotten, he gazed at the cavern walls in amazement. Everything appeared hazy and indistinct, as though he viewed the world through several layers of silk. He turned slowly, marveling at the sensation of movement, and saw his comrades clustered against the opening through which they had come. He started in wonder as he realized that he viewed them as luminous beings of multi-hued light, each of who were somehow distinct in the patterns they emanated. He also spied the phase spider hunkered against the opposite wall, its life energy sputtering through shades of violet and dark blue. They’d wounded it more than he’d realized.

Smiling grimly, he advanced.


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## Krellic (Aug 10, 2003)

Excellent, love the descriptions.  For some reason I'd never thought what a feather token actually looked like - doh!


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## Broccli_Head (Aug 11, 2003)

I liked the changing perspectives from this post, and how you've developed Garlok a little more.


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## Morte (Aug 26, 2003)

Is the force no longer with you FU, or are you just on vacation or something? Come on, this is one of the good'uns. Get on with it.


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## ForceUser (Aug 26, 2003)

Morte said:
			
		

> *Is the force no longer with you FU, or are you just on vacation or something? Come on, this is one of the good'uns. Get on with it.
> 
> *





I have a limited amount of time in which to write, and I've been working on reviving a D&D campaign I set aside a few years ago. It was one my players really enjoyed, so I've been putting getting prepped for that ahead of updating. I've had half an update written for about two weeks; I will see what I can do.


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## Kosh (Aug 28, 2003)

Fantastic.

Wonderful.

Your writing was sorely missed.

Its return brings joy.


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## CoopersPale (Oct 16, 2003)

Just thought I'd bump your story hour, in the hope you can update it 

I really like it. Your style is excellent, and the characters remind me of the crazies I game with...


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