# Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update



## Destan

*Author's Note:  This story hour explores some decidedly mature themes. The following posts recount the exploits of a group of characters played by a handful of thirtysomething players. This is a "low fantasy" campaign, rife with moral ambiguities. I want to entertain, not offend. If I inadvertently accomplish the latter, please accept my apologies.*


_"I am Loroth the Godless, where shall I find my equal?   Bow down unto me, weak-willed worms and spineless pretenders.   You hide your heads behind the skirts of your priests - today the petty people have become lord and master.   They all preach submission and acquiesance and prudence and diligence and consideration and the long list of petty virtues.   

"They look up when they desire to be exalted, and I look down because I am exalted!   Your priests - they make a virtue of what is modest and tame: with it they make the wolf into a dog and man into a domestic animal.   That is not moderation, it is mediocrity!   Never will I bow to man, nor to their gods, for if gods exist - how could I endure not becoming one?!"_

_          - Loroth Witchking, Lamia Imperator, 42 B.E._



*The Gathering*

The dwarf hooked both thumbs in his belt and stared at the skeleton.  The bones of the dragon had been scoured smooth by the winds of the central Valusian plains, but were still mottled with shades of darkness and horror.  The rib cage resembled the stone buttresses of Axemarch Hall, and certainly were just as large and sweeping.  The sight was enough to inspire a sense of dreadful awe, even now.

“_Ul’Daegol_,” whispered the bent man at the dwarf’s side as he, too, drank in the view.  His manner was almost reverent.  “The Doom Lizard, it is called, in the common tongue of this land.  Slain by the soldiers of the Elfking Gryfane some one thousand years past.”  The man pushed the cowl back from his face and wobbled forward to extend a bony finger toward one of the ribs.  He stretched onto the bawls of his feet.  “You can still see the death scar – right there – if the light is good.”

The dwarf nodded noncommittally after glancing at the setting sun.  It would already be dark within the ravines and gullies of Axemarch, he knew.  Night came early there.  As a dwarf-child Baden could remember summer days wherein he and his fellows would count their heartbeats as sunlight struck the floor of the deepest chasms.  _Sixty-four_.  That was the longest.  He had been eighteen years old, then.

Yet he was not in the Halls of his fathers; he was upon the Cormick plains next to an old man from the Rorn.  Baden stared at the man’s features – leathery skin stretched tightly across a wind-burned face, a prominent nose that made him appear like some vulture of the red wastelands across the water.  The man was all furs, leathers, and melancholy.

One of the dwarf’s companions – the troubadour John of Pell – had a way with words.  After their group had first met the Rornman who named himself Aramin, John had shared his thoughts with the party later that night in the privacy of a tavern’s booth.  “The Rornman is akin to a harlot, methinks.  He has a pleasing enough proposition, but I have a feeling after we’ve spent our gold crowns, we’ll feel the losers in the arrangement.”

The Larren clansman had laughed at that.  “But it’s not us spending the coins, Pellman.  He offers to pay us well.”

Baden pushed those memories aside.  They had accepted the Rornman’s offer to travel eastward from Ciddry to these old dragon bones.  The nights of doubt, spent huddled on the back of some sway-backed mare, would soon be ending.  Aramin would name his task, offer his payment, and the group could decide whether to accept or not.  Simple, really.  Much simpler than life had been at Axemarch.

Aramin showed broken teeth.  “So, Baden of Axemarch, are you ready to hear what I have to offer?” 

Baden nodded.  He watched the Rornman saunter across the yellowing weeds and disappear into a hide-skin tent.  He turned to follow, but stopped.  Once again Baden allowed his gaze to linger upon the bones of the Doom Lizard.  He knew the tale.  His people knew history, even the histories of the other races.  Fifty elves had died slaying that dragon; fifty of the greatest spellsingers and swordsons the Elfking had under his standard.  

To Baden, it seemed too high a price to pay in order to kill an oversized lizard.  

“_Ul’Daegol_,” the dwarf murmured into the winds.  “I suppose you thought you’d be tearin’ about these plains for all the Ages, eh?  I bet you never thought you’d be a bag o’ old bones sticking up through the dirt like so many dead trees.

“Look at ye now, lizard.”  Baden rapped his knuckles softly against the shadowy ribs.  The dwarf’s face was hidden within the cowl of his hood.  “You should have stayed in the mountains, _Ul’Daegol_.  Your bones should be in them mountains.  Not here.”

Then, without a backward glance, Baden turned and followed the Rornman into the tent, passing through a darkness grown as black as the forgotten chasms of childhood Axemarch.


----------------------------

*Sins of Our Fathers II*

*The Sins of Our Fathers Rogues Galley - Fiends & Friends*


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## Manatee

A very interesting beginning, Destan.  I'm looking forward to the next installment.


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## Destan

*The Agreement*


John kicked a plush pillow toward the tent’s opening as Baden ducked under the flap.  “Doubtless your ass is a bit sore.”  John smiled, "From being on horseback too long, of course.”  The dwarf wordlessly took his seat, his face a pool of shadow made darker from the brazier’s feeble embers.

John sighed.  _By lute and lyre, how have I ended up with such sour company?_  The Pellman glanced about the room.  A dwarf encased head-to-toe in dreadfully unfashionable mail, Baden creaked like a brothel bed every time he so much as stroked the butter from his beard.

A half-troll – ugly even by _their_ standards – wrapped by the red cords of that insufferable, suffering god Ilmater.  The great brute wheezed like a dying carp, and his snoring was enough to wake the Dead Gods.

In the corner of the hide tent was Kellus Varn, a Rhelmsman from Tarn Cal.  He claimed to be a former Priest of Helm, yet made no attempt to hide his atheism.   _Remind me not to ask him for healing_, John thought wryly.  And Kellus' armor was even more archaic, if such was possible, than the moody dwarf’s.

John eyed the black-cloaked warrior opposite him.  At least Raylin mac Larren knew how to laugh at a joke, even if he couldn’t tell one to save his horse.  The clansman sat next to the group’s ‘token’ elf, as John liked to call Amelyssan.  The elf was from Grun Min, an island that sat arrogantly off the coast of Valusia in the cloud-swept Conomora Channel.  Judging from the elf’s pompous veneer and lilting accent, he shared the haughtiness of his homeland.  

_We’re a walking band of stereotypes_, John thought, _and none of them good._

Aramin stoked the brazier coals with a sooty, ironshod staff.  The tent’s illumination increased, but only momentarily.  Soon thereafter dancing shadows reclaimed the faces of those assembled.  Outside the wind whispered mournfully, save when it increased in intensity.  Then John could hear it whistling through the bones of that great, dead serpent outside.  _Now there's a poorly played tune._  The Pellman sighed wistfully.

Aramin eyed them each in turn, sharing John’s look for but a moment.  Then he spoke.  “I thank you for attending me this evening.  I thank you for making the journey from Ciddry to here – the roads are unkind this time of year.  I know you have come thus far because of my coins, and I know you will go no farther unless I promise more of the same.”

The man spoke matter-of-factly, his accent odd and guttural to John’s ears.  Aramin casually gestured toward his waiting boy, a youth with a somber face and deplorably large ears.  The boy walked forward carrying a chest nearly larger than he was.  John sat straighter on his pillow.

Aramin pointed to an empty patch of dirt near the brazier and the boy set the chest down.  The ancient Rornman produced a key in the shape of lizard’s tail and unlocked the clasp.  He pushed the lid back.  

John whistled long and low.  “Well I, for one, am listening.”

Aramin smiled humorlessly at the bard then turned to his companions.  “Six hundred crowns.  Valudian mint.  Pressed ten years past, before the White Empire began clipping her coins.”

John was uncertain some of his companions could do simple math, so he did it for them.  “One hundred crowns each, lads.  A princely sum, indeed.”

Raylin mac Larren tore his gaze from the chest.  “A man don’t offer to pay that much, Rornman, unless his job be a hard one.  You mean for us to do some wet work, eh?”

Aramin appeared puzzled.  “Wet work?  If you mean that bloodshed may be involved, then – yes – I mean for you all to do some wet work.”

“Who?” Amelyssan’s eyes glowed golden in the firelight.  “Or what?”

Aramin withdrew his palsied hand, allowing the gold to remain visible.  “I am uncertain.  There is an item I would have.  It is now held by others.”

Baden’s armor creaked as he drew the axe from his belt and set it on the floor next to his pillow.  John recognized the dwarven custom of baring steel during important discussions - it simply meant that no half-truths would be tolerated.  From a people that regularly greeted one another with the words, "_Shen tu Fundin!_ Speak or be cloven!" John supposed it should be expected.  

Baden spoke softly, “Tell us the whole of it, Rornman.  We are not in the mood for more riddles.”

For once John was in agreement with the dour dwarf, if not in the relatively melodramatic manner he presented his desire.  The bard leaned forward and pulled a single crown from the chest.  He stared at the face of the Popa Popalis, one of the leaders of Valudia, then flipped the coin into the air and studied the reverse.  “1355 DR.  Over ten years old.”

Aramin’s eyes flashed.  “I do not lie, Pellman.”

_No, you don't,_ agreed John silently.  _Not about the coins, at any rate._

The Rornman waited for John to return the crown to the chest before continuing.  “Do all of you know your history?"  Aramin paused theatrically, a look of disdain crossing his features.  "I thought as much.

“Early in this Age, perhaps one hundred years after Demos had fallen to the Apians, a demon made himself known in the hills south of Tarn Cal.”  John saw Kellus’ eyes narrow at the mention of his homeland.  “The demon’s name was Ippizicus.  Called Child-Eater.  He demanded tribute from the worthies of Tarn Cal.  Until they paid him in full, he vowed to wreak havoc among the patrols and caravans traveling the Kingsway south of the Prince’s Tower.”

Kellus’ voice was soft.  “A tribute, indeed.  He demanded children.  One per tenday.”

Aramin nodded.  “And the Rhelmsmen, much to their eternal shame, paid it.  Six months and near twenty children later, they were still paying it.  Ippizicus, for the most part, held to his bargain.  He turned his savagery against the nearby dwarves of the Balantir Cor, and the few tribes of gammedrel elves still nestled in the foothills during those days.  It wasn’t Rhelmsmen being slain, so the leaders of Tarn Cal turned a jaundiced eye to his reavings.

“But fate intervened.  For the children of Tarn Cal were chosen by lots, and the second son of Margate, Bishop of Gond, was designated as the next sacrifice.  Margate was large, a former blacksmith of no small reknown, and he was not one to let his son become a demon’s feast…though it might be noted he never once raised his voice earlier, when it was other women’s children being sent to Ippizicus’ hill.”

Kellus frowned.  John could see that the Rhelmsman knew the tale - and did not like hearing it.  Aramin paid none of them any mind.  “Margate swaddled himself in the armor of his god, took up his maul, and struck off southward for the hills.  He found Ippizicus and defeated him.”

“Your story-telling skills are lacking,” John observed.  “You give no recounting of the battle?”

“I'll leave the tale-telling and story-weaving to those more inclined to such pursuits.”  Aramin and John shared a silent look.  “As I said, the demon was defeated - but not slain.  Margate knew his priestly teachings – a demon could only be truly slain on his home plane, ‘lest his true name be known.  Margate did not know Ippizicus’ true name-"

"More's the pity," murmured John.

Aramin ignored his interruption.  “So the Gondian Bishop imprisoned the creature in a staff made for such a purpose.  So that the demon would not escape, and so that men would remember their shame, he sundered the staff into three parts.  The first was taken to the city of Rhelm, the second to be held in the Gondian Temple in Tarn Cal, and the third sent to the White City of Val Hor itself.”

Amelyssan steepled delicate fingers in front of his face.  “It appears, to me, that you do not seek the return of one item, but of three.”  The elf had a way of pausing during his speech that annoyed John and his musician's ear.

Aramin nodded.  “True.  The gold, however, but pays for the first.  Should you return that piece to me, we can further discuss matters.”

“Then, I ask again – who?”  Amelyssan fixed his amber eyes on the Rornman.  “Who has the piece, of the staff, you now seek?”

“A band of humanoids.  I know not how they came upon it.  All learned men know the staff’s pieces went missing many hundreds of years ago as memory faded and their importance – and their lessons - were forgotten.  Doubtless they have traveled the entire isle in the interim – from one unknowing hand to another.”

Raylin mac Larren rubbed his hands together.  “I have hunted and killed many rûcken upon these very plains.  This is no large task.  Tell us where they are, or where they have been, and it shall be done.”

“Only a day’s ride from here, of course.  Else why bring you to the bones of the Doom Lizard?”

“Why indeed?” John asked.  But his fears were suppressed by the nearness of gold.

Aramin looked about the fire.  “I ask you, each of you – will you do this thing?”

John watched the dwarf nod, once, curtly.  The half-troll groaned his agreement even as Amelyssan and Kellus muttered their own assent.  _Well, then,_ thought John, _we may be an odd bunch, but it seems we like gold as much as the next fool._

The Pellman pantomined a drumroll on his knee.  He flashed even, white teeth at the old Rornman.  “It appears you have purchased our services, Master Aramin.”


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## Destan

*On the Heels of History*

Raylin mac Larren squatted in the dying weeds.  The weather had turned unseasonably warm over the past night, and he gave thanks to the spirits of his fathers for such good fortune.  The frozen ground had thawed somewhat. The tracks would now be easy to follow, easier to find.  

He pressed a calloused hand into the soft earth and lifted fingers to his nose.  The soil was cold and damp to the touch, but the scent…there was a scent, however faint, that conjured images of hills rolling toward the horizon like green-flecked waves.  For a moment the Larren clansman forgot his quarry.  He thought only of his home, and a storm-tossed evening long ago.  

But only for a moment.  “Sniffing the dirt in an effort to rid your nostrils of the half-troll’s stench?”  John of Pell squinted down at Raylin from atop his horse, head cocked to one side.  “Not a bad idea, actually.  Does it work?”

Raylin grinned like a wolf.  “As for Brother Vath, I can still smell him.  But I also smell the rûcken.  Their heads are as good as in our rucksacks.”

Baden scanned the horizon of scrub brush and sickly trees.  “The Forgefather be praised.”

Raylin swung atop his own horse.  Though he had not admitted it to his companions, he feared he would prove unable to locate the trail.  Two days of fruitless searching had passed since the party left Aramin and his chest of gold.  But the ground was soft here, thanks to the rise in temperature, and he could make out the slightest impressions of booted feet, recently made.

“How many?”

Raylin glanced at the mountain dwarf, sitting astride his horse like a child on a rickety wagon, and shrugged.  “I know not.  If we follow them for a bit, I may learn more.”

Vath walked over to where the ranger had been kneeling and studied the ground.  The horses whickered softly and pulled away from the half-troll.  “Our prey goes toward that line of trees, yes?”  His voice was a groaning croak.

Raylin nodded.  “Aye.  Northward.  Though nothing is northward save more of the same.  Plains, sparse woods, a few hills.  This is ugly country hereabouts.”

Amelyssan circled his horse about the group.  The elf’s proud features were smooth, but his eyes flashed with anticipation.  “Enough banter.  Let us make haste.”

***

Raylin laughed and kicked heels to flank.  He led the party northward into the tree line.  To the east, the sun struggled to overcome the broken peaks of the Balantir Cor.  The mountain range covered most of eastern Valusia.  Raylin had always felt both comforted and intimidated by the rocky walls.  At times they seemed like protective arms of stone and granite, at others but a foreboding line of jagged rock.

The rûcken trail pierced the tree line and sauntered downward into a valley carpeted with gorse and sagebrush.  The humanoids were avoiding the hilltops and ridge crests; locations where they might be seen by an observer upon the plains was given wide berth.  

Only a few hours before nightfall, Raylin called for a halt.  He slid off his horse and stared hard at the ground.  The spirit-fathers were testing him.  The soft loam of the plains gave way here to cracked, paved rock.  Flagstones, actually, from some ancient highway or plaza.  

Valusia was dotted with the detritus of past Empires, most of which Raylin had never heard of.  The clansman appreciated the occasional ruined tower for shelter during inclement nights, but the stones now at his feet only gave him pause.

“What is it?”  John produced a withered apple and leaned forward to feed it to his mount.  “I thought we gained on them, yet now we stop?”

Raylin frowned.  “We are close, aye.  But these stones do not hold their tracks like the earth.”

“Epala*,” whispered Amelyssan as his eyes stared at sights unseen.  “This was once the central plaza of an old city.  Something was lost here.  Long ago.  It has not returned.”

John grunted.  “Who needs the past when you have the present?  It appears we may have lost something here as well.”

Baden waved a gauntlet about the clearing.  “These paved stones cover most of this valley.  It will not be easy finding their trail should we have to circle the boundary.”

Raylin chewed his lip in thought.  He enjoyed these recent companions, for the most part, but they overly enjoyed the sound of their voices.  “They were heading northward, so let us continue in that direction until the stones end.  Impassable mountains are east of here, and the towns of men to the west.  Spirits willing, they remain unaware we follow.”

The group pushed northward once more, picking their way among the ruins of old outer walls and forgotten buildings.  None of the horses could bear the smell of Vath, nor his weight, so the half-troll loped alongside the party like any hunting hound.  He climbed over piles of jumbled stone and ducked through holes in the old walls, but never fell behind their pace.  

Perhaps an hour later, the paved stones gave way once more to a blanket of thick, yellow weeds.  Raylin climbed from his horse and walked along the edge.  The valley was narrow here.  To the north, the direction they were going, the ground sloped upward into a slender defile.  It was useless; he had lost them.

“We camp here.” The clansman turned to pull the saddle from his mount.

“Here?” Baden eyed the old stones.  “There are memories in these rocks.  Things best left forgotten.  Ask the elf – he can tell you.”

John winced and slid from his horse.  “I’d rather not, if I have a choice in the matter.”

Raylin ignored them and began to collect firewood.  He had survived more than one rûcken night attack.  If he had lost the humanoids, perhaps they would do him the favor and find him instead.

***

Raylin had taken the last watch, so he sat quietly as the land turned to pink around him.  The cold had come stealing upon them during the mid of night, but the rûcken were not so accommodating.  His breath created ghosts with each exhale, the wraiths drifting upward in a thin line.  There was no wind this morning.

“Pack your things.  Quickly.  We must be off.”

The party pushed northward, Raylin in the lead.  The broad-shouldered ranger occasionally knelt and studied the ground like a priest reading omens in the movements of meandering beetles.  Yet, try as he might, Raylin could find no further sign of the rûcken.

The rocky walls closed in to either side of them, making the dim day even darker.  Baden suggested the defile looked like Moradin’s axe had sundered the mountain in twain, and the party was but crawling along the base of the wound.  John of Pell had a different analogy- he thought the stony crags appeared like old men staring into a well.  Raylin, however, paid little mind to their quiet bantering.  He was fast losing hope – it had been too long without any signs or spoor.  

Then he heard it – the sounds of battle.  Not near, but neither was it far.  Sounds had a way of echoing oddly in the deeper ravines of the Balantir Cor.

“I think the rûcken have been found, but not by us,” Raylin said.  He paused long enough for his companions to hear the sounds.  He watched their expressions, judging each man in turn.  Raylin had not drawn swords with these travelers - not yet.  And no two men were the same until they shared a laugh or shared a fight with one another.  Nonetheless, he liked what he saw.

Baden unslung his axe, his eyes shining.  “By the sounds of it, there must be a dozen rûcken over that ridge, not one of which knows he’s about to meet his doom.”

John pulled up on his horse and drew a slender rapier.  “You are wrong, friend dwarf.  Over that ridge are six hundred crowns, just waiting for us.”

Raylin’s laughter boomed from the rocky walls.  “Aye, ‘tis high time for a little wet work, eh?  May Talos fetch the hindmost!”





* Epala is one of many now-lost Empires that spanned the world of Ostia Prim, including the Valusian Isle.  Many of her slender towers dot the landscape of the Cormick plains in central Valusia.


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## Destan

*The Battle Joined*

Brother Vath the Pious opened and closed his fists.  Unlike his companions, he fought with tooth and nail, knee and elbow.  The tattered gray robes which barely covered his scarred skin were his only armor, save the grace of his god.  Ilmater favored those who anguished in His Name, and Vath was _the Pious_ not because he lit more incense than other priests, but because he knew suffering in all its forms.

The product of rape, his childhood spent in a slaving pen, Vath understood the cruelty of the world.  Yet the monks of Kesh had exited their monastery to claim him from the slavers, for they saw the mark of their god upon him.  His life within the monastery was brutal, regimented, and unforgiving.  But it was not the slave pens, and for that reason alone he learned to love Ilmater and his somber-faced worshippers.

His companions were behind him, still above on the ridge, when he disappeared into the thicket.  The Larren ranger was shouting a battle cry and the elf was muttering arcane phrases.  Vath, however, simply moved forward.  One of his fellow monks back at Kesh had once told him he spoke less than a pile of manure and smelled just as badly.  Vath never was one for words, even less so when there was suffering to be had.  

And suffering to be delivered.  Praise be to Ilmater.

The red cords that dug into his wrists were purposefully tight.  He would wake many nights, draped in his hairshirt, taloned hands twisting in agony from the loss of circulation.  They only tingled now.  He continued to flex his fingers as he loped forward, his stride eating away at the distance toward the sounds of combat.

And then, he was there.  He burst from the clearing and let his gaze scan the combatants.  It was over.  That much was plain.  Even as he watched, the last rûcken fell.  The gray-skinned humanoid clutched feebly at the sword in its belly before collapsing.

Vath heard his companions’ arrive behind him, all thundering hooves and scattering rock.  They pulled up short, next to him, and an odd silence suddenly blanketed the glade.

Each group took one another’s measure.  Vath counted the newcomers.  Six of them.  Two more were down in the weeds, one moaning piteously.  To a man they wore the green robes of Gond.  Emblazoned upon their tabards was a golden tower – the Prince’s Tower of Tarn Cal.  The closest rank held swords, points low, as they studied Vath and his comrades.  Behind those four were two more, great horned bows at hand, arrows nocked.

One of the swordsmen stepped forward and removed a nasal-bar helm.  “I am Edric, sworn liegeman to the Crown Prince, yet my first allegiance rests in the bosom of the Smith-Father Gond.  I have men down, and would tend to their hurts.”

John of Pell urged his mount forward but a pace.  “Tend to them as you will.  We shall await matters.”

The man nodded, sheathed his sword, and walked briskly toward his two fallen companions.  He knelt at the side of one only long enough to close his eyes and give a quiet benediction.  He pressed his hand onto the wound of another and prayed softly.  The man’s moaning ceased, though he did not rise.

Edric stood and turned to face the party once again.  “These are rûcken, slain by our hand and in accordance with the laws of gods and man.  Their possessions are ours, as is fitting.  We have no quarrel with you.”

John was silent for a moment.  “Nor us with you, Tarn Calian.  But those beasts may have carried what did not belong to them.  And, as such, it does not now belong to you.”

Edric’s eyes narrowed.  “I can tell by your accent and your manner that you are but a Pellman from the southlands.  You apparently do not understand the laws of these lands.”

“And I can tell by your manner that you are an ass.”  John’s own eyes flashed.  “You have slain rûcken and for such should be thanked by all god-fearing and law-abiding men.  But would you be robbers, too?”

Amelyssan nudged his horse forward next to John’s.  Vath listened to the elf, though his eyes never left the green-robed warriors.  Amelyssan whispered, “The man made it look as if he prayed to heal the wounds of his comrade, but his beseeching was arcane, not divine.  He slew the man with a minor spell.  They are not what they appear.”

John gave no sign he heard the elf’s words.  “We seek one item.  It may be upon those rûcken, or it may not.  Should it not be here, we will leave you to your booty and to your dead.”

“And if it is here?”

“Then we will take it.”  John’s voice was even.

“What is it you seek, Pellman?  More gold?  Jewels?”

“That and more, but not now.  There may be an odd item in their gear.  A piece of a staff.  An antique.  Our benefactor wishes it returned to him.”

Vath could see that the men knew what John spoke of.  It was quickly appearing that Ilmater may yet be gifted with more suffering.  Edric shot a glance behind him at his men.  “That is unacceptable.  Should such an item be here, it is ours by rights.  I see you have one dressed in the black robes of the Larren clan.  He can tell you of the laws hereabouts.”

Raylin shrugged.  The ranger sat easily on his horse in casual indifference.  “The men of my clan recognize the right of the victor to the spoils.  Certainly.”

Edric smiled.  “So you see, Pellman, it appears-”

Raylin cleared his throat.  “I am not finished.  By that same right, should you deny us this request, then we may lawfully take your own goods from your dead bodies.  Along with the staff, of course.”

“Brigands,” spat Edric.  He replaced the helm upon his head.  “We have no horses.  You will ride us down.”

“If you do not give us the staff,” John answered, “that is a fair assumption to make.”

“You threaten eloquently, Pellman.”

“More to the point, I do not threaten idly.”

“Then come down from your mounts, and know that I, Edric Uldonson of Rhelm, warrior of renown and slayer of the Gulga Beast, do hereby and thus forth name you cowards and thieves.  Your bones shall-”

The green-robed warrior never finished his sentence.  A streak of blue-gray power shot forth from Amelyssan’s manicured fingers, catching the man full in the face.  He crumpled with nary a sound.

Vath was a blur – he shot down the slope in the blink of an eye before vaulting over the rank of swordsmen to land between the two archers.  His fist shot outward and slammed into the closer man’s nose.  Blood splattered onto the already gore-strewn weeds.  The man’s bow slipped from nerveless fingers.  Vath knew the warrior was stunned; he focused on the remaining bowman.

Desperately the archer dropped his bow and drew a long-bladed knife.  His cut was low and off the mark.  Vath shoved an elbow into his windpipe, heard the satisfying pop that marked a slow death by suffocation, and – almost dismissively – slammed a green fist into the stunned archer’s temple.  The man fell like an ox at a slaughterhouse.  Praise be to Ilmater.

The half-troll turned, crouched low and ready to go where needed, but it was over.  Amelyssan’s second arcane bolt had killed another swordsman.  Vath saw one body, nearly cloven, that could only be from the handiwork of Baden’s crescent axe.  Raylin and John had finished the remaining two.  Only Kellus, it seemed, did not partake in the fight, though he had called upon his inner powers to bless the party during the outset.

Vath surveyed the carnage.  It was too cold for flies, thankfully, or they would already have appeared.  The weeds were a grisly display of blood and refuse.  Rûcken bodies were intermingled with the slain green-robes.

John wasted no time in pilfering through the rûcken sacks.  They smelled of rotten meat and bad cheese.  It was only a moment before the Pellman stood, a foot-long piece of oak clutched within his hands.  “Thank Tymora this is here, else I may have felt remorseful.”

Vath was unsure, but he thought the bard’s words genuine.  He let his companions pick over the bodies, spending the few moments in quiet prayer to Ilmater.

Raylin was the first to climb upon his horse.  “These plains are home to creatures more deadly than rûcken.  They will come to the smell of blood like drunks to a dinner table.  We had best gain some distance from this field prior to nightfall.”

Amelyssan nodded.  “There are no holy symbols of Gond upon them, no priestly accoutrements.  These men were parading as priests, but they had no faith.”

Kellus smiled solemnly.  “One could say the same of me, at least for a time.  Nonetheless, I think you are correct.  These were Rhelmsmen, of a certainty, but they were mercenaries.  Like us.”

“Not quite like us,” John corrected.  “They lost.”


----------



## Destan

*Pursuing the Second Shard*

Amelyssan tossed the shard of Margate’s staff onto the carpet of furs.  The elf impassively eyed Aramin as his companions funneled into the tent behind him.  “There’s your first piece, Rornman.  Thus completes our end of the bargain.”

Aramin stretched forward on his haunches and lifted the wood, studying it intently for a handful of heartbeats.  “You speak truly.  Boy,” the Rornman called to his servant, “give these brave fellows the chest of coins.  It is their due.”

John of Pell settled himself near the chest and began to count coins, humming a soft tune under his breath.  Amelyssan waited while his companions took their places around the brazier before addressing Aramin once more.  “We found the rûcken, those who carried the staff.  But they were first found by a group of Gondians, hailing from Tarn Cal.”

Aramin tapped a broken nail against the few whiskers on his chin.  “Interesting, interesting.”

“Indeed,” agreed Amelyssan.  “I ask you – why would Gondians from Tarn Cal suddenly be interested in this antique, after it had remained outside the thoughts of men for so many years?”

Aramin shrugged.  “I have not the answer to your question.  Does it matter?  You succeeded and you have been paid.”

Vath growled, his blistered skin peeling back from broken teeth.  “It does matter.  These green-robes died before relinquishing the claim on that staff.”

The Rornman suddenly stood and faced the coals, his back to the party.  His voice was soft.  “Events happen quickly these months.  Some say a new Age will soon be born.  Mayhaps others learned of the staff and feared it would be re-assembled; they wish to prevent an old evil from returning to this dark world.”

“Then we slew those who would do good?” Kellus asked.  “I think you are not telling us the whole of it, Rornman.”

Raylin mac Larren drew his sword and began to run a whetstone down its length.  “I have no qualms killing men, this is known.  But I would know the why of it.  If you have not told us all, then you had best remedy the situation.  Now.”

John looked up from the coins in his hands.  He glanced about at his companions, then let his gaze linger on Aramin.  “I would start singing if I were you, Master Aramin.  My friends seem a bit – shall we say – upset.”

The Rornman turned to face them.  “I wish to prevent the staff from being joined.  Should that happen, it would be no difficult feat to summon Ippizicus Child-Eater into the world once more.”

Amelyssan sat.  “We are not demonbringers of your homeland.  We do not want to see the return of this fiend.  I wonder.  Do you?”

Aramin threw his head back and laughed.  The sound was that of a dying jackal.  “Demonbringer?  Me?  Certainly not.  If I wanted to rejoin the staff, then I would track it down myself.”

Kellus frowned.  “I think it time we looked into your essence, Rornman.  My companions and I are mercenaries, but we do not lack some morality.  Do you agree to let me look into your soul?”

Aramin’s eyes flashed, but only for a moment.  “Please.  You will find no stain upon me.”

***

Kellus willed his inner power to drift outward and caress the Rornman’s breast.  A few moments passed.  Kellus let the power dissipate.  “I find no evil in him.”

Amelyssan nodded.  “It seems to me that none of us want the return of this demon.  Would it not be best, then, to leave the remaining pieces of the staff alone?  You have your shard.  Protect it, I say, and let not the other portions come near.”

Aramin shrugged.  “Perhaps what you say is correct, elf.  Perhaps that would be best.  But I am an old man.  Growing older by the day.  I am not proud of all I have done in this lifetime.  I would do one better, should I be given the opportunity.”

“One better?”

“Aye.  I would destroy it.  I can do what Bishop Margate could not.  I have the power to destroy the staff, thereby ending any chance for Ippizicus’ return.”

John pushed a pile of coins toward Raylins’ feet.  “Kellus, can you ask your inner light – or whatever you call the fount of your powers – to see if he speaks truly?”

Kellus nodded.  “Aye, though not today.”

Aramin frowned.  “I have allowed the Rhelmsman to look into my core.  He detected no evil.  I must say – you treat your benefactor with a suspicion bordering on rudeness.”

“Common courtesy is not so common, eh?”  John smiled without amusement.  “Enough of this.  You have paid us, and for that we thank you.  Our task is finished.”

“Indeed it is,” agreed the Rornman.  “But I told you earlier I would be willing to discuss other matters should you prove successful.”

“Go on,” ordered Raylin.  He carefully dragged his share of coins into a leather purse.

“I will double my payment from the first undertaking.  Two hundred crowns to each of you, should you return with the second portion of the staff.  If you worry about my intentions, then you need not gather the third piece for me.  You will be twice as rich as you are this moment, and your conscience will be clear.”  Aramin’s face twisted into a sneer with his final phrase.

Baden spoke for the first time.  “You appear to be forthright with us, and I would do the same by you.  The men we slew, those who had killed the rûcken, were not Gondian priests, though they wore the green garb of that god.  They were mercenaries, from Tarn Cal most like.”

Aramin nodded.  “I thank you for being open, Axemarch dwarf.  But I have held nothing from you.  I wish to destroy the key that would return a demon to this world.  It may very well be my undoing, but I am prepared to accept that fate.  Do you, in turn, accept my second task?”

Baden nodded.  “I do.”

John finished counting the coins, keeping only slightly more than his share for himself, and glanced at Aramin.  “As do I.  Where is this second piece?  Do you know?”

The Rornman climbed to his feat with a number of curses.  He waddled toward the rear of the tent and pulled a bearskin from atop a mirror.  “I have seen him who carries the second piece.  He is a Gondian priest.  Truly a priest, that much I know.  Though he has betrayed his temple and his fellows.”

Amelyssan looked from the scrying mirror to the Rornman.  “Where is he?”

“Again, not far from here.  He is heading north – perhaps to Tarn Cal.  He and his fellows had taken the staff from another band of rucken earlier this tenday, yet he has spirited the piece away from his friends and now travels alone.  On horseback.  I know not why, nor do I know his destination.”

“This staff,” murmured Amelyssan, “does it hold power?  Rather, does each piece hold power?  Could it be forcing him to take actions he would otherwise not?”

“I do not think so, _horadrel_*.  The staff is magical, certainly, but its sole power is imprisoning the demon.  As such, it is inert while it remains sundered.”

Raylin stood and brushed dirt from his leather breeches.  “Have you seen any landmarks in your mirror to better locate him?  Rivers, mountains?”

“He travels along the Dwem River, northward.  He is south of the Raven’s Roost crag.  Do you know the place?”

“I do.  It is three days’ ride from here.  If he is on horseback, we had best not tarry.”

Aramin grinned.  “No, I think not.  In fact, it would be best if you left this very evening, yes?”

Amelyssan shared a silent look with the Rornman.  “Very well.  We shall find you here, again, within a tenday.  See that you have our gold.”

The group exited the tent and stood still while the cold winds of the Cormick plains tousled their hair and blew away the stink of Aramin and his brazier.  Kellus adjusted the mace upon his belt.  “He plays us false.”

“He does,” agreed John.  “But he is not evil.  And his coins are real.  That is enough for me.”




*  _Horadrel_ is the elven term for High Elf, the most common type of elf within Ostia Prim.  Additionally, there are _gammedrel_ (wild elves), _morhedrel_ (dark elves), and other - much rarer- strains such as desert elves and acquatic elves.


----------



## Piratecat

Damn, man. You can _write_.

Can I talk you into doing a meta game post? I'd like to know more about the campaign, the PCs/players, the ongoing plot - that sort of thing.

Thanks!


----------



## AEtherfyre

Let me add to the praises - this is _great._


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## pogre

*Great Work*

Destan,

You have a real talent for writing. I have been waiting for a very high quality low magic story hour - and yours most certainly fits the bill! 

I'm anxious to see the next update!

Take care,
Pogre


----------



## Destan

Thank you for the kind words, fellas.

Because it is neither courteous nor healthy to refuse one of Senor Piratecat's requests, a brief list of the principals within this tale and a horribly general overview of the campaign follow.  I've included a short note on the players themselves because these are their characters, and the characters make the campaign.

------------------------

*Amelyssan* (Wiz1) - A _horadrel_ (high elf) from Grun Min, the smaller of two islands lying off Valusia’s western coast.  As capable as he is arrogant, Amelyssan provides the brains for the group, if not the tact.
_Amelyssan is played by Fitz, a long-time friend who's smart enough to make DMing as difficult as it is enjoyable.  No one keeps me as honest around the table as this guy.  I have yet to determine whether I like that fact or not._

*Baden Dost* (Ftr1) – A _stonnendurf_ (mountain dwarf) of Axemarch, one of several dwarven clans scattered throughout the Balantir Cor, Baden is unsure whether he severed past ties or whether they were severed for him.  He is young for a dwarf, but the lines on his face and the fatigue in his eyes speak of newly blossoming regret.
_Baden is superbly played by Josh, the newest member of our group.  Our first session - which includes the entire adventure around Margate's Staff as recounted herein - was done under a completely customized house system.  Josh is the one who introduced the lot of us, all 1st Edition AD&D gamers, to 3E.  We haven't looked back since._

*John of Pell* (Brd1) – A whipcord-thin southlander from the urban sprawl of Pell, John is as quick on his feet as he is with the ladies.  Part diplomat, part swindler, and all false modesty, John represents the “face” of the group, whether they like it or not.
_John is played by Matt, a player who is every DM's dream.  He thirsts to learn more about his character and his place in the world, and manages to remember every in-game custom and description thrown out to the party._

*Kellus Varn II* (Clr1) – Formerly a Priest of Helm and formerly a happy man, Kellus watched his father accidentally die in a meaningless twist of fate.  He refuses to discuss his father, though he proudly wears the late priest’s armor.  Kellus has since renounced Helm and all the gods – yet somehow remains capable of divine spellcasting, an ability he claims comes from within himself.
_Kellus is played by Bit, a friend who first began hosting our original AD&D games on a pool table in his parents' basement back in the late 80's.  I've killed his characters so many times that the phrase 'getting Bitnered' is commonplace around the gaming table._

*Raylin mac Larren* (Rng1) – A hulking, unshaven clansman from the marshy plains north of the River Jaspar.  Raylin is as stereotypical in his appearance as he is unique in his philosophies.  He’s that common figure – a man who’s good at what he does, but uncertain whether he enjoys doing it.
_Raylin is played by Forrest, another friend from back in the days when The Smiths were the biggest group on the charts.  When he's not falling asleep at the table during our marathon sessions, he does quite well holding his own among his talented comrades._

*Vath the Pious* (Mnk1) – Vath makes many of the largest, most bitter men seem like gnomes in their size and their outlooks.  His bestial expression and boil-covered hide are as intimidating and they are impressive; yet even his remarkable physical appearance cannot mask the depth in his gaze.  A devout follower of Ilmater, God of Suffering, the half-troll yearns for a peace purchased with pain.
_Vath is played by Brandon, a guy who hadn't played AD&D since his elementary school days until this campaign began.  He's an inspiration in the group because so much of gaming is new to him, and hence feels new to us._

------------------------
The campaign is set within the home-brewed world of Ostia Prim, and many of the first sessions are based on the Valusian Isle, a small island off the mainland.  I've been tinkering and expanding Ostia Prim since the late 1980's, and it's suffered through a handful of different gaming systems.  The Valusian Player's Handbook, a Word document containing a disorganzied mountain of information, is as tattered as my old Isle of Dread modules.

Readers may notice that we use the Forgotten Realms pantheon.  Mainly this includes the names and portfolios of certain gods, but little else. 

We also adopted the Forgotten Realms calendar.

Finally, some might notice - at least as the tale continues - that I've stolen names of places and towns from numerous fictional books.  It's as much a stain against my imagination as it is proof of my laziness.

This campaign is played, unfortunately, only two to three times yearly.  Life has intruded upon most of us, so we're now spread across the Eastern seaboard from Atlanta to Maine.  Jobs, spouses, and a growing horde of children tend to clip our gaming time _just_ a bit.

When we do get together, however, the de facto session is two to three days' in length.  I'm a guy who needs his sleep, but I don't get more than a few hours whenever we meet.  Our gaming sessions become weekends filled with dice, beer, bad food, and glorious binges of roleplaying geekdom.

I hope some of the enjoyment we get from this campaign is imparted to the surfers who happen upon this story hour.  I'll keep writing if you keep reading.

Cheers,
Ryan


----------



## Destan

*The Hapless Bishop*

Kellus instinctively reached for his Helmite medallion and just as quickly scowled as his fingers met only the folds of his cloak.  The only time the former priest uttered the Lord Protector’s name was to use it in vain.  He did so now, a reaction born of both bitterness and fear.  _Helm, you bastard, first my father and now me, is that it?_

The shadow was huge.  

It came sweeping across the moonlit meadow like a black mantle effortlessly gliding along the weeds.  Kellus could easily discern the beast’s head, its sinuous neck, its wings.  _And that great, barbed tail._  The godless priest pressed his head against the neck of his horse and hoped the beast wouldn’t neigh with fear.  He felt more than saw the shadow pass directly over his position.

The party was huddled within a copse of dying pines.  Raylin was out in the meadow, may the gods take mercy upon him, pressed against the weeds like a babe to his mother’s bosom.  Had the ranger rode into the clearing on horseback, instead of dismounting and walking alone, they doubtless would already be dead.

Yet the shadow, inexplicably, passed.

Even Amelyssan seemed shaken in the wake of that flying dread.  The elf’s features were white under the moon, his eyes pools of doubt.  Kellus reached out to place a reassuring hand on the wizard’s shoulders, then stopped himself.  He was no longer in the job of offering compassion.  The world was as it at always been; best Amelyssan learn such, and learn it quickly.

Raylin pulled himself from the weeds and silently padded toward the party, his black Larren cloak a darting shadow amidst the patches of snow at his feet.  The ranger, if he had been frightened, no longer showed it.  “The barbed tail.  'Twas not a dragon.  Only a wyvern.”

John barked a not-so-loud laugh.  “_Only a wyvern?_  Does a drowning man care if the water’s one foot or one hundred feet deep?”  Seeing a few blank expressions, the Pellman sighed and went silent.

Kellus licked lips cracked from the constant winds.  It was cold here, so close to the ubiquitous Balantir Cor peaks.  Frigid enough to make his snot run, but not so cold to freeze it.  _Damn the heavens._  “And the trail?”

Raylin shook his head.  “We will have to wait until the morrow.  The Bishop’s horse grazed in this very spot for a handful of moments before being ridden into the field.  I lost the tracks there.”

John’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.  For a handful of moments Kellus thought the Pellman looked like a codfish known to inhabit the warm waters of John’s homeland.  “You lost the tracks?  There?”  At the clansman’s nod, John spat.  “Raylin, by Auril’s icy ass, there’s snow everywhere-“

Raylin’s eyes were as flat as his tone.  “We must wait until tomorrow.  Spirits willing, I will find his trail with the sun.”

***

Kellus always found it humorous that camping men sat in a circle, as if staring at a fire, even when there was none.  He looked across the darkness toward Baden.  Other than the thick-skinned half-troll, the dwarf seemed to be the only one not affected by the cold.  _Doubtless from that sprawling beard, it appears as warm as any blanket._  Kellus smiled, though none could see his expression.

Amelyssan wrapped his furs about him.  “There are signs.  Signs we have been mislead.”  No one seemed to be in the mood to encourage him, so the elf continued after a silent pause.  “The Rornman told us Bishop Herryn was near Raven’s Roost, yes?  But our ranger has found the trail, and believes it to be fresh.  We are still – what? – two days’ from the Roost?”

Raylin answered, “Two, at least.  We only left Aramin’s tent last evening.  The Bishop tracks northward.  He has not doubled back, so far as I can tell.  I would say we are but a few hours behind him.”

Kellus began to see Amelyssan’s reasoning.  “You think he lied to us?”

The elf nodded.  “What’s more – I think he wanted us to move early.  He did not want us to spend the night.”

John idly dug into the snow with his bootheel.  “Think the half-troll scares him?”  Vath growled softly, a sound reminiscent of groaning timber.

Amelyssan continued.  “He was scared, aye, but not of Vath.”

“He did not want to wait for the morning,” Kellus continued the elf’s line of thought, “because he feared I would then be able to use my powers to discern if he lied.”

The moon’s illumination was growing feeble, nearly gone now, yet Amelyssan’s smile was easy enough to see.  “Score one for the Rornman, eh?”

Vath rubbed the constricting wrist-cords of Ilmater.  A rumble grew in his stomach, filtered through his throat, and escaped his mouth like gravel falling downhill.  “His victory will be short-lived.  Let us return to him on the morrow.  Forget this Bishop.”

“Easy, friend,” John raised a hand in the inky darkness.  “So the Bishop is closer than we thought - I see Tymora’s work as much as Beshaba’s in this.  We will get the second piece of the staff that much sooner, and return to the Rornman’s tent that much sooner.  By tomorrow night we’ll be pissing streams of beer onto the Doom Lizard’s ribs, richer by two hundred crowns.  Aramin can be your companion for the night, Brother Vath, I won’t gainsay you.”

The group subsided into silence even as the wind increased.  Finally, Raylin stood and brushed snow from his breeches.  “Sleep.  I will split the watch with the half-troll.  Let us see where these tracks lead in the morning, and then we can decide our course.”

***

John crossed both arms upon the pommel of his saddle and smiled to take the bite from his words.  “Back in Pell I remember running into a half-elf who claimed to be a bard.  He was a bit of a braggart, so – after a few cups – I challenged him to a duel.”

“You are quick to leap to combat.”  Baden tugged at his beard, eyes squinting against the harsh, morning sun.

“Not with blades, dwarf,” John chuckled.  “_To lutes._  I told him he could play any song he knew on my lute, and I would play it twice as good.  There were no shortage of harlots around to act as judges.  And do you know what he said?  Do you?”

“No, John, tell us.”  Kellus was fast growing annoyed with the Pellman’s banter.

“He said that he didn’t play the lute.  Said he never played it before.”  John smacked his hands in the frigid air and grinned like a drunk.  Somewhere, far above and to the east, a hawk’s cry pierced the air.  “I told him that a bard who couldn’t play the lute was like a ranger that couldn’t track.”

Raylin was squatting in the snow-dappled field.  He stood.  “Say what you mean, Pellman.”

“I think I just did.”

Kellus urged his horse forward between the men, careful to not mar the Bishop’s tracks in the snow.  “Enough.”  He looked toward the clansman.  “The tracks are easy to see, even for us not schooled in such skills.  Yet they just stop, there, in the middle of this field?”  It was as much a question as a statement.

Raylin doffed his woolen cap and dragged a hand through tangled hair.  “They stop.  There are no tracks leaving this clearing, by the name of my father.”

“Tell me, clansman,” John murmured, “was your father as good a tracker as yourself?”

They would have come to blows then had not Kellus’ shout broken the mood.  “Enough, I said!  Are we children?  The tracks stop, John – you can see as much.  We must determine why.”

Amelyssan tapped a finger against his chin, unruffled by the recent bickering.  “On my homeland there are those of the Totem who, it is said, can cross fields of dead leaves, even snow, without leaving a trace.  There is no magic here, I am certain.  Perhaps this man knows the arts of those druidic folk?”

“He’s a priest, elf.  Though, I suppose, his horse may be a druid.”

Vath suddenly reappeared on the far side of the snowy meadow.  The half-troll loped toward them, mostly on all fours, and then straightened.  “No scent of man or beast ahead.  Snow spiders everywhere, their strands unbroken from tree to tree.  He did not leave this clearing.”

“Really?”  John feigned alertness and scanned the featureless meadow.  “Then he must still be here.  Invisible.  And floating.  His horse – er, druid - too.”

Baden’s face grew red.  The dwarf opened his mouth but Kellus interrupted.  “Raylin, the tracks…do they simply stop?”

“I have said as much.”

Kellus shook his head.  “No, no.  Do they stop – as if the horse stopped?  Or do they appear as if the horse skidded, perhaps, on the snow?”

The ranger squatted once more and read the signs.  “Aye, perhaps.  The Bishop was on an easy canter when he crossed to here.  There are two hoof prints where there should be four.”

“There is our answer.”  Kellus was not so modest to not enjoy the expectant looks of his companions.  “The _wyvern_.  Bishop Herryn was dinner.  He was plucked from this field, with his horse.”

Baden smirked deep within his beard.  “Raylin, tell me – have you, or your father, ever tracked a wyvern?”


----------



## Lela

This group definitally has a personality.  But there's still so much to learn about them.

"Please Sir, can I have some more?"


----------



## Destan

*Climbing Borbidon's Rest*

Just the smell of the wyvern was enough to nearly overwhelm Baden with thoughts of terror, followed by loss.  Dreadful loss.  Unbidden memories rushed upon him like a Deepearth cataract.  Aye, he recalled the childhood morning, long ago, when he first smelled such a stench.  _How could he not?_  A child does not easily forget the death of his father.

And the death was slow in coming.  It started with the battle by the pools, certainly.  But then it took the form of simple things:  an empty hammock strung forlornly between two stone columns, a wayward rucksack lying forgotten near the door in his family’s den, a basted and boiled cave crab set upon the feasting trestle, a half-moon axe returned by grim-faced Axemarch warriors.  A shining axe, mind you, with nary a trace of gore.

The first few patches of whiskers had appeared, nearly overnight, on Baden’s chin and upper lip.  He was but ten years old, very young to be sprouting a beard so soon.  Runwan Dost ran the tips of her thick fingers along his jaw then pushed him gently toward the exit of their family’s den.  “Fetch your sire, young Baden, and let him see the mark of Moradin on you cheeks with his own eyes.  Tell him, too, that we shall crack a cave crab tonight in celebration.”

Baden grinned with the confidence of a favored, only child.  The dwarf-child skipped down the spiral staircase outside his den and dashed across the flagstones of the central halls.  Adults of his clan stepped aside with knowing smiles as the young boy ran past, eyes alight.  Banidon Dost was well-liked by worker and warrior alike, and his son shared in the affection the clan held for the father.

Yet, before Baden knew it, he was lost – or, rather, as lost a dwarf could be while traversing the underground corridors so near his clanlands.  In his excitement he had made a wrong turn somewhere in the Far-Warrens.  Dwarf-sized tunnels, twisting in all directions like a chasm spider’s legs, skittered in every direction.  The dwarf-child could certainly find his way back to the central Halls…

But Baden was ten.  He had sprouted the beginnings of a beard.  Now was not the time to be timid.  His father must learn of their good fortune.

The dwarf-child slipped through a narrow cleft in the rock and trotted in the direction of his father’s mining shaft.  The cave’s walls leaned closer to one another, even as the floor climbed to meet the ceiling.  Soon he was crawling and, shortly thereafter, sliding forward on his stomach.  Baden’s new goathide tunic, a mother’s Naming Day gift, was ruined.  He pulled himself forward with the tips of his fingers, pushed himself with the toes of his boots.  His chin – his _whiskered_ chin – was sliced by a particularly sharp rock.  Baden cursed as deftly as a ten-year old could hope.

After the better part of an hour, Baden’s euphoria faded.  He never was fearful – he was comfortable within the tunnels and had a general idea of his location.  Yet the goathide tunic was heavy – thicker than his normal clothes.  Doubtless it would bunch upon itself should he try to slide backward out of the tunnel.  Suddenly Baden felt very much like a wooden cork in a bottle of his father’s mead.

Yet, if he could not go back, then he would go forward.  

There was no longer enough room to bend his arms in the constricting shaft.  Baden found himself on his back, face pressed against the ceiling.  The tunnel began to slope downward. Slightly at first, then more steeply.  The dwarf-child felt his face grow hot as blood rushed to his head.

Then, with a suddenness that took his breath away, the stone was…_gone_.  Baden’s hands touched only air for the briefest of moments before he slid outward into air.  He fell.  With a mixture of childhood desperation and innocence, Baden covered his whiskers with both arms in order to protect them from the impending impact.

He need not have worried.  Only a few dizzying heartbeats passed before he plunged into cool water.  Then, of course, did Baden first feel terror.  _Dwarves do not swim._*  He sunk like a stone, felt his boots hit rock, and then the current gripped him.  Baden shot forward in a cocoon of frothing bubbles.

The dwarf-child was losing the battle to hold his breath.  His small chest burned for air.  He clawed at the passing rocks to no avail; the current was remorseless.  Finally, when he could no longer control his own body, Baden opened his mouth as wide as an infant cave sparrow and swallowed only more water.  

His boots caught on the stony ground one last time.  He somersaulted forward and slammed his forehead onto jumbled rock.  He reached out, found stone, and pulled.  He thought of his mother, his father - his new beard - as he clung to the rock beneath the rushing water.  Slowly, ever so slowly, he crawled.  The current pressed him against the streambed, the weight of the entire mountain seemed to be upon his back.

His head broke the surface.  He breathed.  The dwarf-child, panicked and nearly drowned, gasped huge mouthfuls of air.  Long moments passed wherein Baden could do nothing but simply lay shuddering from the exertion.  Slowly he regained his composure, opened his eyes.  

And found he was not alone.

There was a stench about the small, rocky beech.  He had never smelled it before, but it was a cloying scent – like an unwashed dwarf too long in the mud of a live cave.

***

_Serpent scent._  He knew that now.  And here, forty years and more later, fatherless, he smelled it again.  The aroma reeked of tragedy.  Baden clung to the windswept crags of the mountain known as Borbidon’s Rest, just as he had clung to those smooth underwater stones as a child.

A stone’s throw above him was the clansman Raylin, his black cloak flapping in the evening winds like a dying crow.  And above the ranger was the ledge.  The same ledge that Amelyssan, with his exceptional twilight vision, had seen the winged shadow land upon in the pre-dawn hours.

The party had spent the better part of the day picking their way among the rocky folds at the base of Borbidon’s Rest.  The great summit appeared to have a robe of pure rock thrown over it, bunching in masses near its base.  Not until early afternoon had they located a fissure to begin the painstaking climb.

Amelyssan had utilized his magic – the elf nimbly darted upward like a Balantir ram, his feet and hands sticking to the rock from arcane power.  But the other members of the party were not so fortunate.  Certainly not Baden, who was having the hardest time of it.  He could not stretch to reach handholds as well as his companions, could not contort his body like the half-troll.  Even Kellus, in the heavy breastplate of his own dead father, seemed more capable than the dwarf during the arduous ascent.

Yet men will press ever forward with folly.  They had reached the wyvern’s nesting ledge even as the sun disappeared behind the flat horizon of the Cormick plains so incredibly far below them.  Shadows began to crawl along the rock.  The wyvern would exit his hole soon - very soon.  To hunt.  

_The bastard need not fly far to locate his meal this night,_ Baden thought, grimacing as he braced himself against the mountain for a short respite.  _We climbed all this way to let ye eat us all the more quickly, you barb-tailed lizard. Come and do your work, ‘lest I be forced to climb all the way back down._

Baden caught movement in the corner of his eye and craned his neck upward to better see Raylin.  The ranger had a finger pressed to his lips.  A sword was in his other hand, the dwarf noted with surprise, and the ranger gestured above his position with the tip of his blade.  

“It comes,” Raylin mouthed soundlessly.

Baden meant only to think it, but the words issued from his mouth nonetheless, “About damned time.”  The dwarf pulled forth his axe, gave but a fleeting moment of thought to the impossibility of hoisting his shield, and began the final few paces of the climb.




* Dwarves within Ostia Prim suffer a -10 Swim check penalty in addition to any normal modifiers due to their incredibly dense composition.


----------



## Lela

Amazing use of backstory Destan.  I wanted to get to know the characters more and you certainly managed that with Baden.

It's always surprised me that so many stunning writers are in the Story Hour section while I'm forced to wade through the masses of FR, DL, and misc authors--who somehow support themselves on drivil--in search of something worthwile to read while not on the internet.

Thank goodness for Story Hours like these.


----------



## pogre

Man, great update! Keep rockin'.


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## rigur

Great writing. You truly have a way with words. 
Keep up the good work. 

Richard

PS. Thanks Piratecat for pointing your finger this way. DS.


----------



## Destan

* Death on the Mountaintop*

From his position below the wyvern’s nesting ledge, John was yet unable to see the creature.  He could hear it, however, all too clearly.  The sound of claw on stone foretold the serpent’s approach.  John wedged himself further into a vertical crevice as dislodged pebbles began to cascade over the lip above him.  Dozens of the stones splattered onto his steel cap like rain, sending a cacophony of _pings_ and _tings_ that seemed to reverberate across the entire Balantir Cor range.  

_Many thanks, Kellus, for allowing me to borrow your extra helmet._  John grimaced as the last few pebbles finished their metallic drumbeat upon his head. _What kind of an ass carries around a second helm, anyway?_  John promised himself to ask the former priest should they – unlikely though it seemed – survive the night.

A blanket of anticipatory silence settled about the mountaintop.  Odd, but there was nearly no wind – even at such an altitude – though the air was frigid enough.  John listened to labored breathing from above – the sound made Vath’s snoring seem pleasant in comparison.  The bard wondered idly if wyverns had a decent sense of smell.  An alerted, guttural hiss answered his unasked question.  _Lovely._

John frowned as he felt fear tickle his bowels.  Dozens of pinpricks danced across his skin as his sweat beaded within pores.  _Courage, singer, courage.  Handhold, foothold, and you’re over the lip.  Better to die on flat ground than here, clinging to the mountain like a beetle.  No tales are told of-_

John suspected – no, he was certain – that his bout of self-encouragement would have eventually convinced him to move upward.  Would have convinced him, that is, if Raylin hadn’t disrupted his silent rally.  The ranger was already moving above him.  John craned his neck to witness the fool pull himself over the ledge in one easy motion.

_The hell with it._  The Pellman was not about to let some mud-between-his-toes clansman garner all the glory; there were ladies’ embraces to be won.  John was acutely aware of the relatively inglorious figure he cut, oversized helm askance on his head, as he slipped the rapier from his belt and scampered upward.  He needed to get on even ground, and quickly.  John grabbed a protruding rock, took one final breath, pulled himself over-

And froze. A pair of hooded eyes, black and large as onyx dinner plates, regarded him but for an instant before returning to Raylin.  The ranger was moving sideways, swords drawn, shoulders squared to the beast.  _What in the name of Beshaba are we doing?_

A gray-green blur rushed past John from behind.  Vath leapt toward the wyvern but was batted aside, almost casually.  John watched, fascinated, as the half-troll’s body flew through the evening air and slammed against the rocks near the cave mouth behind the wyvern.  _Not good._

Raylin stepped beneath the monster’s outstretched arm – the same arm that had tossed Vath.  Both his blades struck home.  Swords cut through scale.  Green-amber blood the color of snot splattered onto the stones.

The wyvern moved backward like a cat, eyes focused solely upon Raylin.  John, rapier in hand and buckler raised, circled to his left, away from the ranger.  The bard saw an opening and took it.  He lunged forward beneath a leathery wing.  For a moment John thought his rapier’s tip would be unable to pierce the beast’s hide, but the thrust slipped between two scales.  John withdrew his weapon and continued to move.

His come-lately companions began to gain the ledge.  John was nearly at the rear of the beast now, apparently forgotten.  Raylin moved forward, gaining the ground that would allow his companions to safely reach the ledge.  John watched Baden, followed by Kellus, pull themselves over the lip. The wyvern lashed out – claw, claw, bite – yet Raylin blocked the attacks directed at his vulnerable comrades. The ranger’s defense was successful, but he bled for it.

The three of them – mailed dwarf, bleeding clansman, and somber-faced priest – now presented a unified front to the wyvern who – _dared John hope?_ – seemed taken aback by the number of intruders now upon its ledge. The creature continued to slowly give ground, the tips of its wings dragging rearward along the stone.  A grisly trail of odd-colored blood stained the ground between the combatants.  The battle was far from over, however.  With feline speed and cruelty, the wyvern halted its retreat and tore at Raylin with another barrage of tooth and talon.

In the interim, John too was moving.  He had managed to drift into the shadows beneath the cave entrance.  A brief survey of his companions was enough to let the bard knew Raylin was near collapse.  His chain shirt was visible beneath a freshly-rent cloak.  Two bloody lines, trails left from the beast’s talons, ran down the ranger’s arm from shoulder to wrist.  And another wound – concealed to John’s vision – sent a slow current of blood down Raylin’s left leg.

The serpent seemed content to ignore John and most of his fellows.  It was the cat; it had chosen Raylin to be the mouse.  The beast’s head – easily the size of an overripe pumpkin – pulled backward, the slender neck arched like a bent bow.  “Raylin, ware his bite!”  John lunged forward from the shadows but stumbled on an unseen rock.  His thrust skittered harmlessly across scales.

John recognized the error of his warning too late.  The wyvern was cunning; it did not stretch forward to bite the ranger.  Instead, the barbed tail shot over its winged shoulders like an arcing catapult shot.  The stinger pierced Raylin’s chest, near his collarbone, puncturing cleanly through the mail shirt. The clansman swooned – John saw the man’s eyes roll back as the color left his face.  When the barb pulled free, Raylin dropped to both knees before falling forward onto his face.

_First Vath, now Raylin.  Gods be good,_ John swore, _where in the blazing pits was the elf?_

As if on cue, Amelyssan appeared.  The elf clung to the vertical rocks above John, near the apex of the arched cave entrance.  Arcane words crackled in the air and the same blue-grey bolt that had felled Edric slammed into the wyvern’s back with an audible snap.  A roar tore the mountain air.  The wyvern twisted his head backward to see the new threat, and Kellus and Baden – as one – stepped forward to land mace and axe against the beast’s hindquarters.

Amelyssan was out of reach, unless the wyvern took to wing.  John found himself staring alone at the enraged serpent.  He crouched, feebly raised his buckler, and prepared to dive aside should the wicked barb be sent his way.  It was.  John rolled to his left, heard the stinger strike the stone where he once stood.  The Pellman came up on one knee and stabbed the tail.  Ichor sprayed onto his face, momentarily blinding him.

John dragged a shaking hand across his eyes, fighting to see through the viscous fluid.  The wyvern was thrashing about madly.  John had thought the elf was at a safe distance; he had thought wrong.  The barb missed Amelyssan by the slimmest of margins, but the impact was enough to shake the stones above the cave.  The _horadrel_ did all he could to maintain his precarious perch, but – magic notwithstanding – rolled down the mountainside in the ensuing rockslide. 

Before John could think better of it, he stepped forward, shielding the elf’s supine form.  The wyvern raked his face with a grasping claw.  The brunt of the force was absorbed by his steel cap – _May the gods bless Kellus’ largesse!_ – though the helm was knocked from his head and sent bouncing across the stone.  John reached one hand downward to steady himself, palm pressed against Amelyssan’s chest, and readied himself for the death blow.

It never came.  Baden stepped forward in the confusion and swung his crescent axe in an upward arc.  The wicked edge opened the wyvern from naval to armpit.  A curtain of intestines spilled out, appearing verily like the colorful festoons of Pell during Midsummer Festivals.

The wyvern was as good as dead, John knew.  Nothing could survive such a blow.  But the battle was not yet over.  It only became a question as to whether the party could survive the last few seconds as the beast’s wound rhythmically spurted out its lifeblood.  John saw Kellus trot jerkily toward the fallen ranger, watched him as he knelt – his back to the wyvern – and press healing hands against the clansman’s side.

_Should I live,_ John vowed, _I will write a song to let others know of this day._

The wyvern continued to retreat toward the darkness of the cave, one hind leg hanging limply, entrails following its body like a perverse wedding gown.  Yet its other leg – the good leg - lifted and came down upon the dwarf.  John cried out as he saw Baden crumple, pinned within the cupped talon like a bird within a cage.

The Pellman stepped over Amelyssan toward the serpent, even as the elf murmured something and grabbed his shin as he passed.*  Suddenly – everything was _slow_.  John felt a warmth rush through his system as Amelyssan released his hold.  _Slower, slower._  His senses grew acute – he watched, as if in a trance, as the wyvern’s flank heaved for each gasp of air.  Somehow he knew – knew with each and every fiber of his being – where the wyvern would next move.  It was the easiest thrust he had ever made.  The point of his rapier slipped between two of the wyvern’s ribs, burying the blade to the hilt.

The wyvern’s shriek ripped him from his trance.  The beast’s jaws opened wide as if to swallow the moon that had only now begun to peer downward at the tableau.  A claw knocked John off his feet.  His head – his helmetless head – bounced off rock and the world swam.  

One of them would die, if not more.  John felt warm blood rush upward beneath his hair like a mountain spring.  The wyvern was near death, certainly, but it would be the easiest thing in the world for it to tear its teeth into the pinned Baden or the prone Pellman.  The head pulled back for just such a strike.

And Vath, the half-troll devotee of Ilmater, once more entered the fray.  The monk had regained his feet during the madness.  He sprinted across the stone, bared feet soft upon the rock, and loped up the wyvern’s deadly tail.  The half-troll wrapped one massive arm around the beast’s slender neck and gripped its chin with his other hand.  Vath pulled, slowly, the muscles in his arms bulging beneath his gray-green hide.  

The wyvern released Baden and frantically tried to reach the monk with either claw.  To no avail.  The half-troll forcibly swiveled its head, degree by degree, inch by inch.  Vath’s face was contorted with the effort.  Long moments passed.  All John could do was stare upward in amazement.

_Crack._

And then, as if the puppeteer had simply dropped the strings of his serpent doll, the wyvern’s body went limp.  It fell to the side as Vath let loose his hold and rolled free.  The beast’s great body settled with a dull thud.

_No,_ John thought as blackness fought to overcome him, _I am not worthy to write this song._





* Customized first level arcane spell _Horadrel's Strike._ As _True Strike_, except the conferred insight bonus is +10 and the range is Touch.

_Edited:  Had to change the spell, since I blew it during the game._


----------



## Greybar

Bravo!  I bet the heroes really feel like heroes after that.

That in mind, I hate to be a spoiler but...



> The first level arcane spell True Strike.




Is a _Range: Personal_ spell
Something that I'm sure I could miss in the heat of things as well.

John


----------



## Destan

*Bah!*

Greybar, you are, of course, correct.  

I think this calls for a little revisionist history.  Since I can't change what happened in the story, I'll change the OOC comment at the bottom.

I'm sure that won't be the last thing I fudge up.

Thanks for the kind words, though.

Take care,
Destan


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## Greybar

Woo Hoo!  DM fiat!   Way to swing that all-power. [grin]

Actually I'm sure there is a good balance point in the middle, and trading off Range:Touch for +10 instead of +20 is probably a good place to start.  If it gets nuts in a few more sessions, you can fiddle it again until it works.

Besides, it made for good drama, and that's worth a bit of rule-bending in my book.

John


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## Lela

Up with Ilmater!  Up with Suffering!

That really is a cool character.  Ilmater has always been a hard deity for me to understand.  Vath does an excellent job of portraying the Suffering side of his portfolio and I commend him for it.  He just may turn out to be my favorite character.


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## frostrune

*Well Done!*

Excellent story Destan.  I especially like how you have brought out a bit of each character's personality by putting a different character in the spotlight for each segment.

Eagerly awaiting more!

Frostrune


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## Destan

*A Dead Wyvern and a Dead Dwarf*

First, he felt the cold.  Icy fingers reached beneath his chain shirt, touched his skin, traced lines along his lips and nipped at his ears and nose.  Then his hearing returned, and he listened to the cold.  It spoke to him, as it had all his life while ranging upon the blustery Larren marshes. Wind swirled about his face, slapped his cheeks, encouraged him to wake.  He opened his eyes.  Rather, he opened his right eye; his left remained shut for some reason. He could see the cold, now.  Dry flakes of snow danced above his face like moths before a flame. 

The sky was dark above him, but not so black that he could not see roiling storm clouds.  They raced across the heavens.  Lightning crackled within their smoky depths, revealing their size and shape in vivid detail for the briefest of moments. The storm was high overhead – he could not hear the thunder.  _Perhaps the wind tears the sound away._

A face came into view.  He struggled to focus.  It was the priest. Kellus’ face was grim, his brow furrowed with concentration.  Raylin watched him, confused.  The man’s face was covered with flecks of dried blood, none larger than a fingernail.  They dotted his cheeks, nose, bald pate.

Raylin raised a stiff arm, lightly touched his eye that would not open.  Kellus leaned back on his haunches.  The ranger swallowed – his tongue seemed swollen and his mouth tasted of hangover.  “My eye,” he murmured.

He felt Kellus pat his shoulder.  “Still there.  Covered with wyrmblood.  ‘Tis thick and dries hard.  Wait.”  Kellus disappeared from Raylin’s vision, and the ranger took the opportunity to study the stars.  His memory was coming back – he pushed it away.  

There was Juglo Bear-hands.  Not far from his boot sat the Four Crabs of Castamere.  Soon, very soon, the stars of Shaundukal’s Way would look down upon the mountain.  Raylin could not see the moon for the clouds, though he knew it must be nearly full.

Kellus’ face appeared over him once more, blocking his view of the firmament.  He felt pressure on his closed eye, wetness on his cheek.  The water was cold.  The priest dabbed at him for a time, then helped him sit up.  Raylin opened both eyes, now, and visually took stock of himself.  His cloak was shredded, but it was nothing he could not mend.  His mail was rent – he would need an armorer for that.  _Mayhaps Baden?_

He gingerly pressed a hand to his side.  He had felt the wyvern’s claw slide into his stomach.  There was a horrifying amount of dried blood upon his hips, his breeches, his boot.  But where there should have been a hole the size of a gold crown, there was only flesh.  He pulled back his cloak and jerkin and stared.  The was a near-perfect pink circle, tender, but no scar.  He looked toward Kellus.  “My thanks, friend.”

Kellus nodded, apparently satisfied with Raylin’s condition, and stood.

Raylin looked about the ledge.  “The others?”

The Rhelmsman busied himself cleaning bits of gore from between the spikes on his mace.  “Fine.  Better than you - they were not poisoned.  Come, we must move within the cave before the storm arrives.”

_Poisoned?_  Raylin pushed himself upward.  Each passing moment brought more strength to his limbs.  He stretched, stared at the heavens, and silently agreed the coming storm would be formidable.  Especially here on the mountain’s crest.  They were fortunate the wyvern had a cave…

The _wyvern._  Raylin nodded to John, who flashed a smile in return, and walked over to the beast’s body.  It was not so large as the ranger remembered.  Perhaps the size of a mule, if that.  Mostly the creature was wings, tail, and neck.  _Broken neck_, Raylin noted.  A tongue the length and width of the clansman’s forearm lolled to one side from between its fangs.

“By the spirits, who did that?”

John stood from beside the dead wyvern.  The bard shared a look at the massive wound running the length of the wyvern’s underbelly.  “My rapier.  Would you believe it?”

“I would not.”

“The dwarf, then.  His axe opened the beast’s belly like a sack of sausages.  The half-troll broke its neck.”  John reached out an open palm.  Upon it were a pair of scales and a few brown teeth.  “Want some?”

Raylin shook his head.  “Not hungry.”

The Pellman looked surprised for a moment, then laughed.  “By the sixty great gods, Larren, I believe you just told a joke.  Certainly I have heard better – and those from the mouths of spider monkeys - but it is a start.”  John feigned suspicion.  “Are you certain you are – truly - Raylin?  Perhaps he died and one of these so-called spirits he spoke so much of have taken over his body?”

The ranger reached out and patted John’s shoulder.  “You fought well, from what I remember.  I thought southlanders only loved their women and their wine.”

John smiled.  “Fighting has always been the surest, if not easiest, path to achieve the both.”

***

Raylin made his way over to the half-troll.  Vath sat on a rock tightening the cords about his wrists.  The ranger sat beside him.  No words were needed.  Both watched Amelyssan and Baden as the elf and dwarf studied the cave entrance.

Amelyssan pursed his lips.  “There is no magic.  Not on the entrance, not on the ground beneath it.”

The dwarf strode forward and ran fingers along the rock.  “Do you see – _here_, and _here?_”  He patted the left and right wall of the entranceway.  At the elf’s nod, Baden chewed on his beard.  “Dwarf-made.  This is no natural cave.  Though it was made to look as such.”

“They fooled me,” John interjected.

“Of course they did, bard.  Them was dwarves.”  Baden puffed his cheeks and blew air.  “Old work, but good.”

Amelyssan nodded, eyes clouded with thought.  “Not so old as Epalian plaza we crossed down on the plains.”

John walked forward to flank the duo.  “The first rule learned within the famed traveling companies of Cymeria is that the older the ruins, the more dangerous, and the more rewarding for those brave enough to enter them.  Since this is not so old as those cobbles below the mountain, then it is not so dangerous.”  John tapped his chin.  “I suppose it follows that neither is the treasure so grand…but I was unable to find a purse on the wyvern, so I am in an accepting mood.”

Kellus shoved his now-clean mace through the loop on his belt.  “We came for the staff.  I see neither the traitorous priest nor his mount.  The storm comes, regardless.  We must enter.”

Raylin caught the unlit torch thrown to him by John.  He struck flint to tinder for a handful of moments before the fire took.  The ranger stood, drew one sword, wiped the smeared blade on his leg, and walked toward the opening.

***

The cavern opened up inside.  Raylin’s torch lit the ceiling – perhaps thirty feet above at its apex near the center of the room.  The room seemed as wide as it was tall.  Roughly circular in shape, like the top of a stone egg.  The ranger was unsure, but it did not look to him as if any of the stone was carved or fashioned.

Near the rear of the cavern was a pile of shadowy forms that smelled of rot.  Raylin paused for a moment, listening quietly, then moved forward.  He heard his companions funnel into the cave behind him.  Kellus had lit a torch as well.  The party fanned out, side-stepping piles of the wyvern’s excrement.  Raylin toed the body of a half-eaten yak sow, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

Atop the pile of corpses was the body of a mare – its belly opened much like the wyvern’s had been.  The wound was not a clean slice, however.  The wyvern had fed upon it for some time.  Huge gashes – most likely from the beast’s gripping talons – marred the poor horse’s sides.  Raylin saw that one of the saddle bags had been cut loose.  He hoped the piece of Margate’s staff had not been in the missing bag.

Raylin tried to push the horse’s body aside with his boot, but could not.  He set the torch down, took a deep breath, then squatted and rolled the animal onto it back.  There were other bodies beneath it – a pair of goats, a ram, even the hollow carapace of some white worm, complete with large mandibles, that was probably as long as the half-troll was tall.  The ranger leaned back on his heels and prodded the bodies further with his sword.  He was impressed – the wyvern must have been extremely strong to carry its prey aloft as it did.

Baden joined him.  “The Bishop?”

Raylin stood and wiped his sword along the dead horse’s mane.  “He probably fell off his horse after the wyvern grabbed them both.  His body could be anywhere between this mountain and that meadow where his trail ended.  At any rate, he is not here.”

“No,” came Kellus’ answer, “he is over _here._”

***

Raylin turned.  Now he saw it.  There was a faint path of blood, a few scuffs from boots, leading from the pile of dead animals toward the shadowed corner Kellus now occupied.  The Gondian apparently was alive when the wyvern dropped him and his horse upon the floor of the cave.  It looked to Raylin like the man had crawled, bleeding, away from the corpses.  The party converged around the Rhelmsman.  Kellus held the torch out, the firelight dancing upon the slain Bishop Herryn of Tarn Cal.

The man had died sitting upright, his back against the wall.  He was remarkably untouched, for the most part.  There was one visible wound in his stomach.  It looked as if one of the wyvern’s talons had pierced him just above his groin.  Raylin lowered his own torch.  “He was a long time dying.”

Kellus glanced at Raylin before studying the Bishop once more.  “His hands are clutching something.”

“The staff?”  John kneeled and peeled the man’s fingers – stiff from death and cold – away from his chest.

“That is his holy symbol.  A miniature smith’s hammer.”  Kellus knelt next to the bard.  “Methinks he was praying.”

“To heal himself, eh?”  John nodded in agreement.

Kellus shook his head, his face covered in shadow.  “Or begging the forgiveness of his god after healing power did not come when he asked.”  The former priest sighed.  “It does not matter, now.”

John reached forward and unbuckled the Bishop’s wide belt.  He pulled it from behind the body and set it before him on the ground.  Raylin held the torch above the bard.  The Pellman filtered through a large sack tied to the leather strap.  “A few platinum plates, a handful of gold crowns.  Some copper.”  He pulled an item from the purse.  “A ring.  Not a cheap one, by the looks of it.”

“It is the ring marking him as a member of the clergy of the Smith-Father.  He must have removed it.” Kellus patted down the Bishop’s chest.  His fingers curled around something hard beneath the man’s outer garments.  He pulled aside Herryn’s green robe and withdrew a stick of polished wood.  “Margate’s Staff.  The second piece.”

John looked to the elf, who shook his head.  “Not magical.  Well, lads, we have done our job.  We can rest here tonight and-”

“No.”  The group turned toward Baden. The dwarf had been busy rolling aside the body of the snow worm.  He pointed toward the wall where it the met the floor at his feet.

Raylin lifted his torch and walked with his companions to the dwarf’s side of the cave.  He held the brand toward the ground and frowned.  “I cannot read it.”  There was a circular stone, perhaps three feet in diameter, set within the floor.  It appeared like the flat drain plugs the clansman had once seen in the bathhouses of Mon Mith.  There were runes on the lid.

“Them words are dwarf-runes, or close enough.”  Baden spat.  “They are written in the dialect of the _dwem_ – dark dwarves.  Maybe five hundred years old – it is difficult for me to know for sure since our calendar is so different than yours.”

Raylin nodded.  “What do they say?  Can you tell?”

The dwarf stroked his beard.  “It is hard to translate directly-”

John groaned, “By the gods - just tell us the gist of it, then.”

The dwarf eyed his companions.  “This is the entrance to a tomb - the final resting place of a _dwem_ known as Borbidon Elfkiller.”  Amelyssan’s eyes widened at the name, but Baden continued.  “It warns all to leave this stone unturned, or suffer…great pains.  And, finally, death.”

“Good enough for me.”  John rested his chin on his fist and studied the sealed entrance.  “Now how do we manage to open this thing?”


----------



## Destan

Hiya frostrune, and welcome to the boards.

Frostrune plays Baden Dost, the Axemarch dwarf in this tale.

Since these events happened over two years ago, when the campaign first began, I don't suppose there's any harm in the players reading along. 

Until, of course, they start telling me I've got the story all wrong. 

D


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## Karrisbane

I play Amelyssan in the campaign.  His memory of our earlier exploits is almost as good as his writing.  We, as players, are all spoiled rotten by Destan's talent with a quill.  He certainly brings our sporadic D&D sessions to life, doesn't he?

Fitz


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## pogre

Karrisbane said:
			
		

> *I play Amelyssan in the campaign.  His memory of our earlier exploits is almost as good as his writing.  We, as players, are all spoiled rotten by Destan's talent with a quill.  He certainly brings our sporadic D&D sessions to life, doesn't he?
> 
> Fitz *




Indeed! I really admire his transitions between adventures. They are so simple and seamless - it makes it seem like you guys played straight through the encounters. A shame you cannot play on a more regular basis - ah well, that's real life.

Great update once again!


----------



## MACLARREN

*Awesome!!!!*

Destan,
Hell of a job at reminding all of us at what all we have done up to this point!!  Can't wait till the next session in August!
Raylin


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## Lela

Karrisbane, MACLARREN, and frostrune, welcome.

Destan, I do wonder why you decided to start the Story Hour.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining.  I'm just noting how this story is one of your first posts.  Why'd you decide to give us the pleasure?


----------



## Destan

G'morning!



> Destan, I do wonder why you decided to start the Story Hour. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I'm just noting how this story is one of your first posts. Why'd you decide to give us the pleasure?




Actually, Lela, I'm a professional lurker.  For the past year or so I've visited ENWorld without an account, mainly just to read the D&D Rules forum.  

One morning I had posted a question concerning high level campaigns, and someone had pointed me toward Piratecat's Story Hour to see some examples.  I haven't look back since.

As to why I started _writing_ instead of just reading - I don't know.  Maybe it's because I didn't want to see the memories of this campaign fade away; if I got them on 'paper' we'd be able to recall them down the road.

Long answer to a short question, I guess.

Have a great weekend!
Destan

_P.S._ Having your players - frostrune, Maclarren, and Karisbane - tell you the story hour is a good read is a lot like having your mom tell you you're a nice kid.   Still - thanks fellas!


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## Lela

Thanks Destan!

Hay!  My mom always thought I was a good kid. 



Of course, little did she know. . .


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## frostrune

Lela, thanks for the warm welcome.

Destan is right.

This story hour is great way for us to keep the history of this campaign alive.  It's a treat for all of us to look back and remember what we did to get where we are.

There is A LOT more of this story yet to be told.  Hopefully the interest will stay high and Destan can diligently capture it all.

I think I speak for all us when I say thanks for your interest. 

Frostrune (aka Baden)


----------



## Avarice

frostrune said:
			
		

> *Lela, thanks for the warm welcome.
> 
> There is A LOT more of this story yet to be told.  Hopefully the interest will stay high and Destan can diligently capture it all.
> 
> Frostrune (aka Baden) *




Thank goodness!  This story hour is rapidly becoming habit forming, and I've been dreading the day when he'd tell us we'd have to wait a few more months for the next installment.   Glad to have confirmation that that day won't be coming anytime soon!



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> I hope some of the enjoyment we get from this campaign is imparted to the surfers who happen upon this story hour. I'll keep writing if you keep reading.




You, Sir, have got yourself a deal.


----------



## handforged

I just realized that I have yet to post my appreciation for this story hour.  This is amazing!  I absolutely love the writing style and the characters are quite well-developed through their interactions.  You don't have to tell us that John is cocky, we know.  I have really enjoyed it so far, and can't wait to keep going.  Thank you for the hard work.

~hf


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## WizarDru

Allow me to join the chorus of those who truly enjoy this story hour.  Some of the best writing on the boards, bar none.  Interesting characters, an interesting setting and a story well-told.  An excellent reminder of what attracted me to D&D the first dang place.  It's not just a good war-story to share over beers...it's a damn good read.

It does what, IMHO, the best Story Hours do...makes me want to know what happens _next_.


----------



## Maladrac

Geetings fellow Valusians!  I had to drop in and see what all the ruckus was about.  Excellent job Destan!  It's like reliving the whole adventure, only without MacLarren snoring in the background.

However, let's refrain from the 'Bard-bashing', shall we?  I don't think "cocky" is quite as accurate as "confident".  But I've always considered him as being more 'dashing and heroic'. 

Keep it coming Destan.  I've got to have something to tide me over until August.

"Every DM's Dream"
(Thanks, Destan, I might turn that compliment into a song.)
Maladrac,
a.k.a. John of Pell


----------



## Destan

*A Half-Troll and his Fear*

Sleep had been long in coming the prior evening.  Vath only had to glance about to see the bloodshot eyes of his companions, framed by dark sacks beneath and heavy lids above.  

Certainly, slaying the wyvern had been no easy task, and near-death experiences had a way of making rest elusive.  Raylin had been bitten, clawed, stung, and nearly poisoned to death.  In the hunched corpse of Bishop Herryn of Tarn Cal, Kellus had seen the result of lost faith.  Baden had spent a few harrowing moments on the wrong side of a cage fashioned from a wyvern’s clutch.  Even Amelyssan’s cool exterior had been indelibly marred; the elf had a purpling bruise on one cheek caused by the stinger-induced rockslide.  

But, alas, none of these reasons – compelling though they were – kept the group from sleeping.

It was John.  The Pellman kindly offered to take the first watch, then proceeded to talk the entire duration of his shift.  He began by reasoning with them – for damned near an hour - as to why they should enter Borbidon’s tomb.  When he failed to gain converts, the bard switched to cajoling which proved likewise ineffective.  Next he lauded their bravery in the fight and said that such heroics deserved an encore.  He attempted to entice them with the surety of jewels and gems and treasures, all carefully hidden away all those years ago by the greedy _dwem_.  When those attempts also failed, John suddenly grew righteous and said that a crypt housing such evil - for all knew the dwem were black to the core - must be defiled or their very souls would answer for their inaction in the next life.

When John began to say how his own, beloved, and achingly-missed mother had been slain by dwem brigands – “torn from our family’s cart and passed around for their perverse pleasure like some wicker doll during a savage Fertility Festival” - Kellus had finally had enough.  The former priest told the troubadour to cease his prattling or be silenced forthwith by his inner power.  Vath, who had watched the proceedings impassively, had thought the issue settled; they would not, after all, attempt to enter the ancient crypt.

Then John of Pell sang.

The bard had no instrument save his voice, for he had left his lute and reeds in the saddlebags with their horses.  He required none.  The Pellman began by humming a tune unfamiliar to Vath, who paid little attention to such things.  Then he lent the melody words.  Some stanzas were in the common tongue, others in John’s native Valusian, still more in the lilting dialect of the Arn elves.  All were beautiful.

This morning, as Vath stared at the stone lid leading to the crypt, the half-troll was hard pressed to remember just what it was John had sung about.  Indeed, he was uncertain if he ever knew.  What he did know, however, was that music was precious.  Peace and camaraderie and kindness and heroism - these, too, were precious.  And somehow – arcane or otherwise – John had convinced them to a man that they needed to plunder this tomb or those things – those lofty ideals – would be forever lessened.

Only after agreeing with him did John allow the group to sleep.  Save for Raylin, for by that time it was the ranger’s turn on watch.

***

None of them wanted to dent their blades from digging, so Vath had used his own weapons – his hands.  The half-troll’s fingernails were broken and bloodied by the time he finished his excavation.  Yet, finally, enough earth had been removed to allow the lid to be pulled free.

He stood up, his skin glistening despite the coolness of the cave, his scraggly hair lank against the nape of his neck.  Outside, it was still snowing, the winds still blowing.  His world – _their_ world - consisted of this cave and, more specifically, the old stone plug in front of them.

Vath spat a glob of phlegm onto the ground at his feet.  “Are we ready?”

Kellus murmured a word and the head of his mace became suffused with gentle illumination.  Amelyssan’s lithe form was already surrounded by a near-translucent second skin comprised entirely of force.  Raylin drew both his swords and nodded.  “Pull it free, Brother.”

Vath squatted, gripped the edges of the lid with both hands, and yanked.  For a moment, the stone did not move.  Then, suddenly, it gave way.  Vath rolled backward, the stone clutched to his chest, as air was sucked into the near-vacuum beyond.

*VESHAK VOTH MEGADIN MIDIN BORBIDON BIKKITH!*

The voice boomed outward from deep within the now-exposed entranceway.  Vath leapt to his feet and eyed the hole with atavistic fear.  Yet nothing stirred.  The half-troll sniffed the air like a hound.  The smell of ages greeted his nostrils – stale, still, and wholly unremarkable.

John cleared his throat in the stunned silence.  The bard kept his eyes on the black hole, but cocked his head toward Baden.  “Judging from the impolite tone and the ear-bleeding alliteration, I’d say that was dwarvish.”

The group was quiet.  John tore his eyes from the gaping hole and studied the dwarf.  “_Baden_.  I assume what we just heard echoed the sentiments you read to us last evening?”  The Axemarch dwarf merely nodded.  

“Pain, suffering, death,” John relayed unnecessarily.  “Someone needs to teach these _dwem_ how to threaten with style.  A little creativity, for the love of harp and harlot.”

The Pellman withdrew his rapier and stepped closer toward the hole.  Then stopped.  He smiled softly at Vath.  “This is your forte, no?  Into the breach, friend.”

***

Yet Vath did not move.  Memory held him immobile.  

He recalled the gray-streaked days of his monastic tutelage within the oppressive halls of Kesh.  The Brothers taught that Fear was twin to Suffering, and thus both emotions were cherished by Ilmater.  Words were never enough in that bleak monastery; lessons must be shown rather than taught.  To that end Brother Kulidos the Pale, who had been a furrier’s son, developed a unique method of ensuring his pupils learned.

Vath remembered walking barefoot with the other novitiates as they trailed behind Brother Kulidos at a respectful distance.  The quiet troupe, master and his pupils, marched downward.  All journeys from Kesh were, by necessity, downward; the monastery, nothing more than a drab stone citadel, was perched upon the side of a dizzying cliff.  The fortress looked downward into a blighted valley like an old man staring into a privy hole.

The half-troll left bloodstained footprints on the rock by the time they had descended below the tree line.  Two of his companions had been unable to continue the trek – they were left to lie, basking in Ilmater’s suffering.  Vath was thankful sharp stones had given way to beds of pine nettles, though even they were painful to the tender soles of his feet.

Finally, Brother Kulidos stopped.  He pointed to hundreds of holes in a nearby ridgeline.  Each was no more than a foot in diameter.  Before each entranceway was a pile of dirt – doubtless thrown backward by whatever burrowing animal now lived within.  Protruding from a handful of the dirt piles, like beckoning skeletal fingers, were haphazard piles of sun-washed bones.

Kulidos’ face was pale beneath a sheen of sweat.  His voice was edged with orgasmic anticipation, and barely more than a whisper.  “Those holes mark the dens of grippers.*  Each of you choose one.  Place your arm within.  Should you be bitten, pull forth the beast and slay it with the skills you have been taught.  Should your chosen hole be unoccupied, you may try another with each passing dawn.  Otherwise, _do not move_ from your initial position.”

Brother Kulidos lifted his bony arm, the robes falling backward to his elbow, and displayed a vicious scar that encircled his wrist.  “The beasts may serve to mark you with Ilmater’s blessing, a red cord around your wrist fashioned from their teeth and claws.  Those who are not thusly marked shall remain, here, until such a blessing is visited upon them.”

The Brother had not said what fate waited for those who were not bitten.  Vath looked once more at the pale bones outside a handful of the burrows.

So it was that Vath began to learn of Fear and Suffering.  He had lain prostrate in front of his chosen hole for the entire night, freezing, terrified his hand would be savagely torn by a yellow-toothed jaw but simultaneously praying for such to occur.  The next day and night also passed.  His fellow initiates, and Brother Kulidos, left during the dawn of the third day.  Only Rendworio, an orphan born in Basilica, was left.  The two did not speak to one another – such was forbidden.

Later that day, with the sun at its zenith, Vath believed he heard his God.  It was the first and only time Ilmater spoke to him.  The words were as enigmatic as they were ineloquent; Vath was told his death would be visited upon him by a burrowing creature.

On the fourth morning, as Vath thrust his arm into his fourth hole, he felt pain lance upward to his elbow.  A large female gripper had sunk her mammalian teeth into his wrist.  He withdrew his arm, body weak from starvation and thirst.  The gripper, of course, maintained its bite.  Vath bit through the beast’s hackles and felt warm blood wash upon his swollen tongue.  He ate.

Vath returned to Kesh to continue his learning.  Rendworio never did.

So it was that now, as John urged him forward into Borbidon’s tomb, Vath hesitated.  But then a half-remembered tune – more dirge than melody, he now suspected – hummed within his ears from the night before.

It was enough.  The half-troll dropped to all fours and crawled into the darkness.




* The gripper is large Valusian rodent similar in size and temperament to a badger, but possessing teeth much like those of a beaver.  Grippers are found throughout central Valusia, and are the bane of farmers’ dogs (and unfortunate initiates of Kesh).


----------



## Argent Silvermage

How I hate reading games like this... Gives me Player envy.

This story hour is wonderful. Wizardru and Zad were talking about it at our last game and now I'm hooked. Thanks for a Great read. If the game is as cool as the story hour your players are very lucky.


----------



## Lela

Thanks Destan!

These pantheons are just so fascinating.  And the worshipers so varied.  I love it.

The imagery there was amazing.  An old man looking into a privy hole.  That vally must really suck to look at.  I certainly could never worship like that but I might have fun playing a PC who would.

Thanks for the insight Destan.  I really appreciate it.


----------



## handforged

Destan, another great episode!  I am quickly gravitating towards the half-troll as my favorite character.

Maladrac, I in no way meant caocky to be an insult, John is also high on my list.

~hf


----------



## Piratecat

Grippers remind me of those goofy looking rodents from the old Fiend Folio - what was that darn thing called? Osquips!

But that's neither here nor there. This story still rocks.


----------



## Destan

*A Feast of Elves*

Amelyssan stared at the cavern wall, thin lips pressed tightly together.  John strolled forward, rapier in hand, and studied the featureless wall for but a moment before addressing the elf.  “You have the look of one who’s found a beetle in his broth.”

Amelyssan scowled.  “A minor dweomer - little more than a cantrip, actually.”  He waved dismissively at the wall.  “An arcane mouth was triggered to shout should the stone lid be removed.”

“That minor dweomer caused quite a stir, eh?”  John looked pointedly at Baden.

Baden, if he noticed, gave no indication.  The Axemarch dwarf toed the corpse at his feet before giving a cursory glance toward the other prostrate bodies.  “This one here is dwem.  As are the others.”  The dark dwarves were now nothing more than skeletal remains encased in archaic ringmail.  Yet each of them still possessed flowing, bone-white beards.  It was an odd sight.

Vath’s blistered brow hung over his eyes.  “I have never seen dwem.  Are their beards always so white?”

“Not after feasting on prawns smothered with honey-sauce, I’d wager.”  John chuckled softly, caught the half-troll’s flat stare, and nodded.  “Dwem have skin the color of pitch and beards white as driven snow.  Ugly buggers, mostly.”

Raylin knelt to the ground and ran his fingers along the floor.  “Two died here, but those other two,” Raylin nodded to the pair near Baden’s boots, “were slain somewhere down that passageway.  Then dragged to this spot.”

Vath breathed through his nose - still no scent, save that of stone.  The half-troll turned from his companions and allowed his darkvision to penetrate the lone corridor leading further into blackness.  

“How did they die, clansman?”  Amelyssan looked from the skeletons to the ranger.

Raylin shrugged.  “Violently.”  He stood.  “It appears they were surprised.  All of them were killed from behind.  Look to the skulls of those two without helms.  See those holes?  I am thinking a pick, perhaps a narrow spear, was responsible for such handiwork.”

Kellus bent downward and lifted a shovel from amidst a clutter of rocks against the hewn wall.  There were many digging utensils scattered about – picks, chisels, more shovels.  The Rhelmsman studied the shovel’s blade before replacing it – quietly – upon the floor.

Baden leaned upon his axe.  “This chamber is thousands of years old, and formed naturally; them dwem but reworked it some, as they did the cleft leading from the wyvern’s ledge.  I imagine that entry tunnel heads somewhat straight forward, into the mountain, between two strata.  The walls on our left are hewn, and a different color than those to our right.  Likewise, the dwem must have-”

John coughed.  “And this is important…why?”

Baden paused, unruffled.  “There are mysteries here.  Dwem bury their dead in their own communities, nestled in the darker folds of Deepearth.  I have no idea why they would entomb one of their own up here, upon this peak.  It takes time to shape the rock as they have done.”

John frowned.  “Mayhaps this Borbidon Elfkiller was an outcast?  Whoever buried him may have wished to prevent his tomb from being plundered – even by his own kind.”

Amelyssan favored Baden with a look.  “The sand wizards of the Aradeeti, and the worshippers of the Dead God within the Genn Patriarchy, oft-times murder those who fashion their tombs so that secrets are not revealed.  I am thinking these dark dwarves were those who must have carved this crypt – if crypt it is – and then were killed because of it.”

“A good theory,” John agreed.  “Let us now search for proof.”

***

The party made their way deeper into the mountain fastness of Borbidon’s tomb with excruciating caution – like “a gaggle of chaste women through a feasting hall of drunken minstrels,” as John so aptly opined.  Nearly an hour passed as they rummaged through an old storeroom and thoroughly searched a pocket within the stone that must have once served as a dining area.  A stone table was still set with empty copper plates and pewter mugs.

In all, the complex thus far consisted of but three rooms – dinning area, storeroom, and the entrance chamber containing the dwem skeletons.  Of horrors and treasure there were none.  The morning was turning out to be unremarkable and somewhat anticlimactic.  Unremarkable, that is, until Amelyssan’s elven perception noted the outline of a stone door made to look like the cavern wall.

Baden studied the portal intently after Amelyssan declared no magic was evident.  The dwarf reached out a hand and pushed.  It pivoted open easily.  Beyond was another corridor – still of roughly worked stone – which ended at yet another door, this one of wood.

The party assembled around the newly discovered threshold, faces ruddy in the light of Kellus’ torch – for the priest had been forced to switch to more mundane illumination after exhausting his orisons early in their exploration.   The door before them was but four feet high and three wide, the wood in amazing condition considering its age and reinforced with iron to prevent warping.  There was an iron ring, no keyhole, and nary a seam around its perimeter.  In all, Baden voiced, the door exhibited master craftsmanship.  

“There is no magic here, either,” Amelyssan offered.  “Here, step away.  If the portal is unbarred and unlocked, I may be able to open it from a distance.”

Baden and Kellus retreated toward the mage.  John slipped his rapier within his belt and readied his crossbow.  Amelyssan produced a tiny brass key from a pouch at his belt and waved it toward the door as he murmured.  The iron rung jerked outward from the elf’s arcane touch and the door swung open with a slight groan of protest.

_Click_.  Hissing filled the air as an umber fume filtered through a heretofore-unseen crack in the ceiling.  

“Trap!” Raylin spat.

“Gas!” Baden shouted.

“Aaargh!” John cried.

The party nearly fell over one another backpedaling toward the secret door as they exited the corridor. Yet the sound of released gas ended soon after it began.  

Raylin, after a few heady moments, patted John on his shoulder.  “_Aaargh?_”  The ranger’s face split into a grin.  “Tell me, southlander.  Should you ever compose a song of our current endeavor, will you include your cry?”  John was, for once, quiet.

“I must meditate,” Kellus announced without preamble.  

The former priest strapped his shield to his back, sat down, and clasped his hands together.  Old habits died hard.  His companions busied themselves adjusting armor straps, cleaning weapons, and lighting a new torch.  Vath maintained a vigilant watch upon the tunnel leading to the iron door.  Outside, though muffled, they could hear the storm growing in intensity.

Finally, Kellus stood without announcement and strode down the corridor once more.  He waved a hand toward the threshold before calling his companions to his side.  “If there was poison, it is gone now.  Perhaps it was weakened by the passing of years since the trap was first set.”

Vath, unbidden, passed quietly through the opening.  The others shared a look before John casually remarked, “I like the half-troll scouting ahead for us.”

Raylin furrowed his brow.  “Why?”

“Because if he is, then I am not.”

***

Amelyssan vomited.  The elf drew a shaking hand across his mouth and leaned against the wall for support.  The chamber told a terrible tale.  There were no less than twenty skeletons scattered upon the flagstones.  Some appeared male, some female, and still others – smaller than the rest – were undoubtedly children.  All were elven.

Baden had located the seeing-holes in the opposite wall.  Three sets of them spied upon the room from a secured alcove, allowing anyone within the adjoining chamber to watch what transpired upon those dark cobbles whereupon the party now stood.

And it was brutally clear just what had transpired - the long-dead elves had been forced to cannibalism.  Amelyssan counted over thirty bones, snapped in two in order to suck marrow from them, intermingled with the skeletons.  Most of the dead elves had broken fingers – whether from fighting one another or vainly attempting to dig through rock, Amelyssan was unsure.

The dwarf returned from the spying chamber.  His voice was less gruff than normal.  “Three stone chairs, pushed forward toward the holes.  Two kegs, now empty, and a handful of drinking horns.  A satchel filled with potions.”  He tossed the rucksack to Raylin.

Raylin opened the bag.  He grabbed one of the vials, unstoppered it, and waved it beneath his nose.  “I have never smelled its like.”  

Amelyssan extended a trembling hand.  “I believe I know what they are.  Here, give it to me.” The elf, too, sniffed the fluid.  He swirled the vial and looked upon the sediment as it settled at the bottom of the crystal container.  “Sustenance.  One swallow and a man – or a dark dwarf – would be nourished for a handful of days.”  He dropped the satchel to the stones with a grimace of disgust.

John’s face was uncharacteristically somber.  “So the old tales are true, then?  Dwem delight in watching elves fall upon one another.  I have heard such yarns, yet thought them but tasteless fabrications.”  The bard looked toward the seeing-holes.  “The dwem must have sat there, perhaps for a tenday or so, and watched while drinking their mead and their potions.”

An uncomfortable silence fell as the party stood amongst the massacre.  Amelyssan began to collect the bones into a single pile, his hands tentative in their movements, his manner exceedingly gentle.  Soon his companions, all save Vath who continued to watch the outer hall through the doorway they had entered, bent to help him.  

Finally, Amelyssan straightened.  The task was complete.  He murmured a soft benediction in the elvish tongue of his homeland, then stood – head bowed – for quite some time.  When he again looked upward, the characteristic haughtiness in his eyes was clouded by tears.

Amelyssan walked from the chamber, his companions following in his wake, plunging the chamber once more into interminable darkness.


----------



## Greybar

Oooooh, very nice!
"Feast of Elves" indeed.

John


----------



## Destan

*Whisperings of Faith*

Kellus could easily discern the protective abjuration aura pulsing along the length of the metallic bars, though he did not remember casting any detection spells.  _Odd_.  He leaned forward, through the mist, to improve his view.  A strange script spiraled along each of the bars.  Ancient runes.  _Abyssal and…dwarvish?_  He would need Baden’s assistance deciphering the etchings.  

Kellus turned his head away to look for his dwarven companion, but it was useless.  He was alone within the vaporous fog.  The former priest knelt.  The bars blocked a narrow archway – no more than two feet high – set within the corridor’s wall.  Kellus gingerly reached out and wrapped a hand around one of the bars.

Black fingers, ending in manicured talons, enfolded his own hand like a father might a child’s.  A sinewy, twilight-hued forearm extended from the hand into the darkness beyond the barred opening.  The touch brought Abyssal words; they flared within his consciousness.   *Vindithi, Maugrymi, Vadood.* _Deceit.  Trickery.  Betrayal._

Kellus tore his hand away from the grip and scrambled backward on hands and feet.  His chest was heaving.  Here was evil incarnate, beautiful and wondrous in its purity.  Trapped behind those bars.

_No_, Kellus realized with dawning horror, _not trapped_.  He twisted his neck, face glistening with fear.  A figure approached through the mist behind him-

“-dreaming.” A familiar voice fell from unseen heights and caressed his ears like salvation.  “Wake up, man.”

Kellus bolted upright.  The mist was gone.  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, forced his heart to slow its rapid beat.  Raylin hunched over him, unshaven face dark within the shadows.  

The cold stole upon him even as sleep fled.  Kellus glanced past the ranger toward the wyvern’s ledge.  The serpent’s body was covered with a handspan of freshly-fallen snow.  His companions were awake, buckling armor, adjusting their packs.  Amelyssan closed his spellbook and smiled softly in his direction.  “We tried to let you sleep a bit, but it appears you would have none of it.”

Kellus nodded.  He stood, stamped his feet.  Raylin handed him his backpack.  Kellus bent to retrieve mace and shield.  The former priest inventoried his possessions.  Four torches, enough food for two days – perhaps three if he skipped a meal or two.  Regardless, they would need to descend the mountain soon.  He idly wondered if their mounts remained within the gully they had tethered them.

“I must meditate,” he spoke, voice hoarse.  “Then we may proceed.”

Kellus’ mind slowed as he breathed evenly and began his daily ritual.  He prayed for his inner divinity to grant him the power to heal, to bless, to offer succor to those in need.  Eventually, the practiced routine served to calm his roiling emotions.

But not completely.  The party had a single corridor left to explore, ending at one door they had not yet opened.  Along that hallway’s length was the same barred opening he had seen in his nightmare.  Yesterday he had thought it was nothing more than a drainage culvert.  Now he knew it for a prison.

And the inmate awaited their approach.

***

The voice was inside his head even before they turned the final corner.  _Welcome, friend_.  Kellus halted.  

John whistled softly, and Vath returned to the party from his forward scouting position.  The bard looked at Kellus quizzically.  “What is it?”

_I was afraid you would not return.  I am not accustomed to fear.  An odd emotion – worthless as regret._

Kellus gritted his teeth.  John stepped forward and gripped his shoulder.  “Speak, man.  You have gone ashen.  What is it?”

Kellus ignored the Pellman.  He replied to the voice.  _I am not your friend._

_You, and all like you, are indeed my friends._

Kellus unsuccessfully tried to push the presence from his mind before answering.  _You are a stain upon this world.  You do not belong._

A chuckle tittered within his head.  It sounded like the laugh of a very young girl.  _You, traitorous priest, are far worse than me.  You know gods exist, and you spurn them.  You have broken faith, godless one.  I have never done so._

_You know nothing of faith, outworlder.  You are as fickle as the spring rains, inconstant as infidelity._

The same chuckle.  _Tell me – did you learn that in Helm's catechism?  I have heard its like before, from those far more potent than yourself._

John’s gloved hand gripped Kellus’ chin.  “He is in a trance, I think.  Is there some foul magic afoot?”  His eyes were upon the former priest, but he directed his words toward Amelyssan.

The elf cocked his head to one side like a bird listening for the approach of predators.  Kellus gently but firmly pushed John’s hand away.  “I am fine.  One speaks to me within my head.”

John blinked.  “Who?”

_Counselor Baphtemet, I was once called.  I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance._

Kellus shook his head.  “A liar.”

The bard glanced at his companions before fastening his gaze once more on Kellus.  “Tell us, friend, is it Borbidon?”

The chuckle erupted into a booming guffaw.  Kellus dropped his mace and held both hands to his temples.  Finally, the mocking laughter subsided.   _That misbegotten, grasping knave?  Never.  Now that is an_ insult _that deserves answering._

Kellus retrieved his mace, embarrassed.  He eyed his companions.  “There is a planar being imprisoned behind the iron bars in the next corridor.”

Baden’s brow knotted in confusion.  “A planar being?”

“A devil,” Amelyssan offered.

“No,” Kellus said.  “A demon.  A liar.”

“You did say imprisoned, yes?”  John’s face was etched with doubt.  At Kellus’ nod, he cracked a smile.  “That is, shall we say, good to hear.”

“We cannot go any further.  We must leave this place.”

_Leave? So soon?  Never would I allow such.  Come, friend, come to talk.  It has been long since I last engaged in repartee._

Baden adjusted the grip on his axe.  “Brother Kellus, there is but one final door.  Doubtless it is the crypt itself.  You have seen what these dwem did to the elves.  Borbidon has much to answer for.”

Amelyssan’s own face was stern.  “Indeed he does.”

“No,” Kellus stated.   He was resolute.  “The fiend is beyond our ken.”

_Certainly, certainly.  But do come forward.  I beseech you._

Kellus pushed his way around John and made toward the exit.

_DO NOT DARE, GODLESS ONE!  COME FORTH!  Come...or I shall work upon the minstrel.  He will not find me so pleasant._  Again, the tittering child’s laugh.  Then, a piteous whine:  _Please, just for a moment.  But a single moment._

Kellus halted his departure and turned.  He saw John’s face, confused, listening to sounds only he could hear.  The bard murmured, “Such wonderful music…”

Kellus strode back to the Pellman and grabbed him with both hands.  “Push him from your mind.  He is a liar, a trickster.”

John nodded, swallowing.  “That may be.”  The bard’s fingers tapped lightly against the hilt of his rapier, accompanying a soundless rhythm.

Kellus knew he was out-matched.  His own will allowed him to ignore or deny the demon-

_Are you certain?_

-but his friends were open to its taunts, its promises.  He knew what he must do.  All thought to stealth was gone.  The former priest’s voice was loud, commanding.  “We shall go to the final door, but none shall pause near the barred opening.”

Kellus hefted his spiked mace, face grim.  “If any of you hesitate, I will not.”


----------



## Lela

Okay, if he keeps up with the religious element, he could ride high with Sep as one of the best.

I'm loving how you're expanding every moment, drawing out the actual story via the characters who make it up.  We've had three updates in this cavern and nothing has happened.  And, yet, we know so much more.

I can't wait to understand how the demon relates to Kelles, if he even does.  I've said it before, so now I'll say it twice:

I love it.
I love it!


----------



## Avarice

Whoa... two high quality updates in one day.  Careful, Destan, I could get used to this.   

I LOVE the demon, by the way.  We haven't seen hide nor fang of the beastie, yet even so he's proving vastly more frightening than if he'd just jumped out and eaten the priest straight away.  Simultaneously cruel and pathetic, cunning and crazy.  Very nicely done!  

Just out of curiosity, though, about what level was the party when they arrived at Borbidon's Rest?  Couldn't have been much higher than second...


----------



## Maladrac

Aw, Destan!    I had just stopped having nightmares about Baphtemet and you're going to make me relive it all.

And to Lela, and the rest of you; without giving anything away, I'll tell you from experience- pay attention to the details.  Destan is constantly planting tiny, little, wicked seeds, that take a long, LONG time to sprout.  His patience is maddening.

And a little p.s. to Handforged; no offense taken, Dude.  It was all said in jest.  In fact, I'd say our party slams eachother as much out of character as we do in character.

Ale and Warmth,
Maladrac


----------



## pogre

Destan,

Now, if I might hazard a question 

How did you handle the Demon speaking to the Cleric? Did you use notes, pull him aside, or just trust the group not to act or speak about the exchange?

Your story just keeps getting better!

Thanks,

pogre


----------



## Lela

Oh, goodness.  I had missed the first post.  That was amazingly vile and truely evil.  Something you'd expect from a race second only to Drow in effecient brutality and torture.  Though I can only imagine what the Drow manage.


Now I've got to do something like this IMC, blast it.  It's a good thing my players rarely read the Story Hours I recomend.  If they did, they wouldn't think I'm as creative as I seem.


----------



## rigur

Ah wonderful... Players having nightmares mmm yummy. This one keeps getting better and better. I dread the day when you say you have caught up with the RL game and we have to wait for months for an update. 
How far behind are you anyway? So I can brace myself for that dreadful day.

Keep it coming, not to fast mind you.

Richard


----------



## rigur

Sorry, double post.


----------



## WizarDru

W00t!  More Story Goodness.  What were those dwem up to, in this dark place?  Apparently, some dwem have lower standards than others. And Counselor Baphtemet?  

Great, great stuff.


----------



## frostrune

Don't worry Rigur.  Destan's got  A LOT more to write before he even comes close to where we presently are in the campaign.

Just to give you an idea:  we're about 2nd level in the story so far, in the campaign we are all between 10-12 level.

At his present level of detail he could post at this rate 'til Christmas! (well, maybe).

Shen tu fundin!

frostrune (Baden Dost)


----------



## Destan

pogre said:
			
		

> *Destan,
> 
> Now, if I might hazard a question
> 
> How did you handle the Demon speaking to the Cleric? Did you use notes, pull him aside, or just trust the group not to act or speak about the exchange?
> 
> Your story just keeps getting better!
> 
> Thanks,
> 
> pogre *




Thanks Senor Pogre!  I suppose it's your turn to ask 'em instead of me just pestering you on your own story hour.

If I recall, I just spoke aloud as Baphtemet - the whole group could hear me - but most of my comments were aimed at Kellus.  He was the one who really aroused the demon's fury, as we shall presently see.  

My players are - generally - pretty good at separating in-character knowledge from out-of-character knowledge.  Sometimes I pass notes, especially if it's critical and/or private information, but most of the time I try to just talk across the table and trust the other guys to pretend they didn't hear.

It's not unknown to have a bunch of thirtysomethings sitting around with their fingers in their ears humming loudly so they don't hear what I have to say to one of their buddies across the table.  Sad, isn't it? 

Also, I know this isn't the first time and it won't be the last, but - dammit - I appreciate the feedback.  To all of you, from the first poster Manatee to the last poster WizarDru and all those in between - thank you for reading. 

Cheers,
D


----------



## Dakkareth

Whoah! This is heavy stuff. Very detailed and written in a way that makes pictures come into mind in a fluent stream. In short: I love it. As already mentioned it feels similar to Sepulchrave's story hour in terms of immaculate writing, originality and subtlety. And that's high praise indeed.



-Dakkareth


----------



## Manatee

Destan said:
			
		

> *
> Also, I know this isn't the first time and it won't be the last, but - dammit - I appreciate the feedback.  To all of you, from the first poster Manatee to the last poster WizarDru and all those in between - thank you for reading.
> *




You're most welcome.  It's a great story hour, and I love the characters. especially Kellus and Vath.  Kudos to you and your players!


----------



## Cinerarium

Destan, I said it before, but you're a ridiculously good writer.   Damn!

Keep it coming -- I'm glad time in between sessions is being spent well!


----------



## Maladrac

*ho-hum*

 *sigh*

Well, if any of you are checking for the next installment of the story, like I do every half-hour or so, I just found out Destan is at his parents for the weekend- with little/no internet access.

 *sigh*


----------



## Cinerarium

Question for all of you in Destan's group: how does the only playing a few times a year work out for everyone?  I tried doing something similar with my old high school buddies, and life kept getting in the way.  It was hard to keep schedules and interest going.  What do you all do to keep everyone motivated, find dates where everyone can play, etc?

Question for Destan: When looking ahead to an all-weekend gaming session, what techniques do you use to come up with enough material in advance?  To an extent I'm sure you can guess where they're likely to go, and come up with enough for that.  But I know back in my regular DMing days I could usually only plan out good stuff for maybe 8-12 hours of play in advance.  Past that there would be too many contingencies to plan well.  Any advice for your situation?  Also, while the weekend is going on, do you take breaks for yourself to fill in more of the upcoming plot while the group takes a break from playing?  Or do you just roll right through?

Thanks!  I look forward to the next story hour.
Cin


----------



## Destan

*A Rite Gone Wrong*

Baden shrugged off the demon’s telepathic urgings as easily as one might doff his coat.  The enchantments had little effect on him, though he could hear Baphtemet’s whispered promises clearly enough.  He was the last to make the journey down the hallway; the rest of his companions, save the priest, were already at the far end.

The demon was nothing if not persistent.  _I have no quarrel with you, dwarf.  In better days I visited Axemarch, conducted negotiations with your priestly caste, marveled at the natural beauty of your Halls._

Baden swung his axe through the air as he marched down the corridor.  He nodded to Kellus; the priest stood with his back to the barred opening, face looking like that of a warrior awaiting the first rush of battle.

_Come now.  Please, stop for but a moment…You do not answer me?  I could set you upon the Stone Throne of your people.  Next Midsummer, when the Dwarfkings meet, your counsel would be most heeded.  You, dwarf, could ensure your people will remain united and strong when the Lamia Imperator returns-_

_Lamia Imperator?_  Baden did not recognize the name or title.

_Aye, dwarf - the Witchking._ 

Baden grimaced. He had not meant to reply to the fiend’s telepathic discourse.  Baphtemet continued unabated: _The Lamia Imperator will rule these lands.  I could make certain that he knows of your assistance.  He values my advice-_

“The demon calls to me,” Baden murmured to Kellus as he passed.  He glanced at the priest’s massive, spiked mace.  Should it come to it, Baden thought he could take the Rhelmsman.  _Come in low, swing for his knees.  Perhaps hamstring him with a reverse cut…By the name of the Forge Father, _why_ am I thinking such things?_

_Rivers of ale, dwarf.  You could dip yourself in pools of the finest mead, swim through streams of golden nectar brewed deep within the tunnels of your Hall._

_Oh,_ Baden grinned inwardly, _this Baphtemet was good._

But not good enough.  As the dwarf approached the iron door wherein his companions waited, it was as if he walked from beneath a storm cloud.  The tickling fingers of the demon’s promises receded like the outgoing tide.

The group huddled together once Kellus joined them.  They had already discussed how to open what they believed was the final door.  Now it was only a matter of putting words to deeds.  

Yet John had one final question – the bard eyed Kellus speculatively.  “Tell me, friend, if one of us had stopped to talk with the demon – would you really have swung that ugly-looking mace at our heads?”

Kellus feigned contemplation, an uncharacteristic smirk on his face.  “At you, certainly, John of Pell.  At the others, perhaps not.”  

“A little gallows humor, eh?” John smiled even as he pushed open the final door.

***

Baden scanned the room in a single heartbeat.  _No exits, little cover.  ‘Twill be dark for my companions, save for the half-troll._

The room was octagonal in shape – flagstones, vaulted ceiling, walls decorated with ugly mosaics the color of blood and twilight.  Four statues – all of armored dwarves – faced the center of the room.  There was a depression in the floor, likewise octagonal, directly before the entryway.  In the center of the lowered tier rested a black marble sarcophagus.

The dwarf half-expected the statues to leap to life as he and his companions filtered into the sanctum and fanned out in a rough semi-circle.  But there was only silence, save for their own considerable noise – labored breathing, creaking leather, grinding metal.  _‘Tis empty._

John slung his crossbow over his back, drew his rapier, and padded forward toward the stone coffin.  He eyed the depression warily before stepping onto the lower level.  Silence.  The bard ran his hand lightly over the marble lid – it was nearly seamless, and - most likely - extremely heavy.

Raylin knelt and studied the ground just inside the doorway.  The dust was not as thick as it should have been, nor was it undisturbed.  Footprints – small, dwarvish – scampered throughout the grime.  Baden did not need to see the anxiousness in the ranger’s eyes to understand the prints were fresh.  _But, if the tracks are recent, where is their owner?_

The dwarf stepped forward, axe and shield at the ready, and stared with trepidation at the sarcophagus.  _Borbidon, you unholy half-gnome, ‘tis time-_

A cry pierced the silence.  Amelyssan was down, writhing on the flagstones.  A shadow detached itself from the elf’s back and danced backward, mouth agape and arms twisting about like serpents in their death throes.  Little clouds of dust puffed into the air near the creature’s feet as it nimbly retreated.

For a long moment Baden could do nothing but stare.  Their new-found enemy was small – the size of a dwarf – and seemed to be made from the fabric of night.  Apparently he had dropped upon Amelyssan from the pools of shadow above the doorway.  Baden tore his gaze away from its eyes – they were as wide as a slaughtered sheep’s and filled with a perverse longing that unsettled the Axemarch dwarf.

Vath flipped over the fallen elf and lashed out at the black fiend – missing twice.  Raylin circled the room, both swords ready, placing the creature between himself and the half-troll.  The ranger stepped forward to deliver a pair of arcing swings, but also failed to land a blow.

Finally, Baden acted.  He stepped over Amelyssan, who was still down, and swung his axe with the fury of his fathers.  He felt it meet resistance for the briefest of moments before the edge clanged upon the stone floor.

The creature pantomimed a soundless cackle – mouth hanging agape on hingeless jaws.  Kellus stepped forward and commanded it to flee his wrath.  Suddenly the shadow leapt at the former priest, pitch-colored hands digging at the skin beneath his archaic breastplate.  Kellus went white as he slowly lowered his arms, shield and mace suddenly too heavy to bear.

Baden surveyed the situation with a warrior’s instinct.  He had heard veterans speak of shadows coming to life.  The sister-son of his grandsire, Dagil Sinkingstone, swore until the day he died that a _shadow_ had reached out and touched him in the mining shafts beneath old Axemarch, stealing some of his strength forevermore.  

But this particular creature was not made entirely of shadow – Baden was certain of it; the dwarf could not see through its form, nor did the dust upon the flagstones remain still upon its passage.  _Undead, perhaps - but not shadow._  This simple realization inspired him, and once again the dwarf stepped forward to land a telling blow.

***

Amelyssan chewed on a heel of black bread as he thumbed through the journal.  The elf paused in his studies to glance past his companions at the afternoon sun.  “The snows have ceased.  Tomorrow we should make our descent.”

“Aye, and none too soon.”  Baden kicked an ember back into the fire Raylin had started within the wyvern’s lair.  Earlier, Vath had ventured outside the cave and came back with a yak calf, and now the dwarf turned the spit, slowly, as he watched the meat crack and hiss.  “This whole complex stinks of dwem.”

“Not dwem,” John laughed, “just dwarf.”  

The Pellman was in a euphoric mood; they had claimed a sizeable horde of coins and jewels from within Borbidon’s coffin.  John still felt they should have gathered the coal-black armor encasing Borbidon’s body, despite the unfamiliar sigils and designs etched upon it.  The dead dwem’s axe and shield, too, appeared valuable.

Yet Amelyssan would have none of it.  “Dangerous magic lies within those items.  Strong magic, and old.  They are as evil as the dwem Elfkiller who once wore them.”

John’s argument that even evil people had coins and the need for arms and armor had fallen on deaf ears.

For his share the elf had only claimed the tattered journal found amidst the ruins of a black cassock in the corner of the room.  It was this tome Amelyssan now studied.  

While Baden pulled meat from the yak haunch, slapping his fingers against his breeches from the heat, Amelyssan stood.  “This is the journal of Morgad, a priest of the dwem, and counselor to Borbidon.  He was the half-shadow we fought in the crypt.”

Amelyssan continued:  “I believe Morgad called Baphtemet to act as a guard for this tomb.  The demon, however, was too much for him.  They had arranged some sort of deal and Morgad felt he had been swindled.  He was not powerful enough to destroy or banish the demon, so he-”

“Imprisoned him,” John finished.  “And thus ends the tale of Baphtemet.”

“Let him rot,” Raylin agreed.

Kellus rubbed his chin.  “Demons cannot rot.  He will remain within that chamber until this mountain sinks to the Cormick plains.  And the world is better for it, though I wish the fiend remained on his own plane.”

John nodded as a quiet moment descended.  Finally, the bard nudged Kellus with his boot.  “I saw your face back there, friend, when you first encountered the demon.  For a moment you looked a bit unsure of yourself and your atheism.  Whisperings of doubt entering your mind, perhaps?”

Kellus shook his head.  “Whisperings of faith.  ‘Tis much worse.”

Baden tossed meat to the half-troll and watched the hulking monk swallow the strip in two bites.  He tossed him another, then yet two more.  _Amazing._  Finally, the dwarf spoke to the group.  “We have two pieces of the staff.  I am thinking that is enough.  I would rather not assist Aramin – or whoever he is – any further.”

Kellus nodded.  “Agreed.  On the morrow, we shall return to the bones of the _Ul’Daegol_.  We have earned our coin and more.  I have a mind to cross the Conomora for the mainland, for I have never been.”  The former Helmite saw only blank expressions and gathered none of his companions had been across the saltwater either.  

Kellus was suddenly uncomfortable.  “Doubtless we will go our different ways after receiving our payment…”

John quickly nodded.  “You are welcome – any of you – to accompany me southward to Cymeria, or perhaps Formyr.  In time, I could doubtless teach any of you to dance whilst I play the pipes.  Until I manage to purchase a semi-talented spider monkey or two, that is.”

Baden grinned.  “Thanks, but no.  I intend to see the White Towers of Val Hor.  I have heard that the workmanship is so fine it appears dwarven-made.”

Raylin stoked the fire, the light dancing in his dark eyes.  “'Tis the Reaversward for me, friends.  Plenty of bandit chiefs roaming about south of the Trollwood.”  The clansman’s smile never reached his eyes.  “Those blood-soaked meadows have never seen a shortage of men willing to pay other men to yet kill more men.”

The cave lapsed into silence once more as the dwarf rationed out the last of the meat, including the elf’s unwanted portion.  

Amelyssan closed the journal with a sigh.  “An interesting tale, perhaps,” he gestured toward the book, “but – taken on the whole – somewhat boring.”

“No magic,” affirmed John.

“Not so much as a cantrip – arcane or otherwise.”  Amelyssan smiled.  “It appears my quest for knowledge will lead me to the libraries of Val Hor.  We would make an odd traveling pair, Baden, would we not?”

The dwarf nodded.  “I cannot sing half as well as John, and you cannot hunt nearly so well as Raylin.  But I am thinking we could survive – albeit barely.”

Raylin frowned.  “What of you, Brother Vath?  What are your plans?”

The half-troll licked juice from his fingers.  He shrugged.  “I will kill Aramin. Beyond that, I know not.”


----------



## Destan

> _Cinerarium wrote:_
> What do you all do to keep everyone motivated, find dates where everyone can play, etc?




Keeping the motivation is fairly simple - this is a hardcore, addicted group of gamers we've got here.  But finding dates that work for everyone is difficult, certainly.  Jobs, families, etc. - these things take time and precedence.  We usually plan weekends far in advance.  This year, for example, we planned our summer and fall sessions back near New Year's.  Sometimes one of the guys can't make it - particularly those that have to fly into the rotating session site - but most of the time it works out.



> When looking ahead to an all-weekend gaming session, what techniques do you use to come up with enough material in advance?




Since there's so much time between our sessions, I'm able to prepare reams upon reams of adventures.  Other than having to scale them up a bit, I've found that I don't lack material for the players to explore.

On the contrary, I often find some of my planned adventures getting tossed in the proverbial trash.  The group makes decisions and - based on those - sometimes certain threads never get followed.

One of the most challenging - and enjoyable - aspects of this campaign is maintaing the pace of the world, so to speak.  If the party elects not to save a certain someone, or not to venture into a certain dungeon, I need to do a gut-check and see if someone else would have done the deed in the interim.

Later on in the tale, we'll start to see how the "bad guys" went on some quests I originally intended for the party to complete.  In light of such, we've got some evil dudes who are well equipped, and utilizing items I had first intended for the party.



> Thanks! I look forward to the next story hour.



No - thank _you_ for reading, Cin!

Cheers,
Destan


----------



## handforged

I LOVE your titles!!!!

They always have me thinking something totally different than what happens.  I was worried about Baden in the one that mentioned a dead dwarf in the title and Kellus in the last installment, but the Feast of Elves really takes the cake.

Another great installation.  I particularly enjoyed everyone talking about their personal plans and goals.

~hf


----------



## dpdx

I tend to look with envy on the Story Hours that are so well-crafted, well-written, and well-dialogued that I don't have the roleplaying chops to keep up (if I were to play in them, that is). This is definitely one such SH.

Thanks again for sharing this campaign with us.


----------



## pogre

Making it easier for Destan to find for his upcoming update. Coming very soon! Right?


----------



## Karrisbane

Destan is on vacation in England.  I believe he's getting back in the first week of July.  If I know him (and I do), he'll post one or two updates the day he gets back.

Fitz


----------



## pogre

Very good.

Thanks for the news.


----------



## Cinerarium

While we all wait for Destan the Grim to return from his European vacation, check out his other campaign's story hour! 

It's not that Destan quality we're used to in terms of writing, but the same sick, twisted mind is behind the action.

Okay, okay, enough shameless plugging of my own story hour, chronicling his other campaign.

Except for the sig, below.


----------



## LuYangShih

An excellent story hour.  I must say, the Ilmater of this campaign world seems very vile and wicked.  I think killing a man simply on suspicion is very paranoid, and evil.  Still, I do not think any of the group would qualify as a Paladin.    I look forward to reading more.


----------



## Destan

*Sacrificial Goats*


Raylin tossed the second shard of Bishop Margate’s staff onto the tent floor next to Aramin.  “There you are, Rornman.”

“Indeed, indeed.”  Aramin’s eyebrows entwined above his nose like mating sand grubs.  “Boy,” he called to his manservant, “fetch the chest beneath the red canvas.  Give it to these men.”

The party settled down upon the fur-trimmed pillows as Aramin’s aide dragged a sizeable chest from beneath curtains hanging from the tent’s roof.  The Rornman whistled an unknown tune as he watched John commence coin-counting.  After a moment, he let his gaze gather the whole party.  “You have given good service to myself, but also to all of those who would prevent Ippizicus’ return.  You can see that I thank you with coins as well as words.”

Aramin stood and walked to the rear of the tent whereupon he deposited the second piece of the staff into a heavy satchel.  He turned.  “There is a pair of goats tethered outside.  Doubtless you saw them - fat, succulent.  I will have the boy butcher them both; we shall eat well this evening.  Also, I have been hoarding some _t’krak_ for such a moment as this.  Burns like sweet regret going down.  You are all welcome to it.”

The Rornman snapped his fingers.  The serving boy dutifully stood a cask on its end, tapped it with a small mallet and spike, and began to fill wooden tankards with the rusty Rornish whisky.  

None of the party drank until seeing Aramin take his first pull. 

Kellus asked the question on all his companions’ minds.  “And what of the third piece of the staff, Rornman?  Do you not wish to strike a deal with us to secure its return?”

Aramin smiled disarmingly, his teeth the same brown color as his skin.  “No, no – I have a feeling you would not wish to assist me any further.  Besides, I am rather low on funds at the moment.  It may take time to replenish my reserves of coin.”

“How so?”  John pushed Amelyssan’s share of the gold toward the elf, mercantile interest in his eyes.  “How do you earn such wealth, Master Aramin?”

“Trade, mostly.  I can make elixirs that men swear assist them in their lovemaking.”  He spread his hands apologetically.  "Fools and their money, eh?”

Kellus had not touched the tankard before him.  He rested an elbow on his knee and fastened his eyes upon their benefactor.  “You do not seek our aid to find the third piece of the staff-”

“No, no – I have said as much.”

“-because you already have it.”

***

The tent went silent.  John stopped counting gold crowns.  All eyes turned toward the Rornman, and his serving boy drifted backward, away from the brazier.  For a long span of moments, only the central Valusian winds were heard within the hide-draped tent.

“Perhaps I do, Rhelmsman.  Indeed, indeed.”  Aramin showed his teeth like a dog.  “You have your secrets, and I have mine.  Let us part ways, having helped one another.”

“I think not.”  Vath stood from the corner.  His companions had managed to convince him not to kill the deceitful Rornman, but only barely.  Anger roiled once more within his stomach.  He frothed.  “You have lied to us.  Again.”

Aramin coiled.  He glanced from Kellus to the half-troll.  “Never did I lie.  I told you I wanted the lot of you to retrieve parts of the staff.  You have done as much.”

“You told us that you required all three portions to make it whole.”  Vath stepped forward, the red light of the brazier making the boils on his skin stand out in shadowy relief.  “You told us you had scryed Bishop Herryn passing the crag known as Raven’s Roost – but never did the traitorous priest near that location.”

Aramin bobbed his head up and down like a vulture.  “So my scrying was slightly incorrect – what of it?”  He tapped his nose with a broken nail.  “Actually – ‘twas my knowledge of these lands that failed me.  I knew not the proper name for the crags I saw in the vision of the fleeing bishop.”

Vath simmered for a moment.  “Destroy the staff, then - you have all three pieces.  Do it now.”

The Rornman appeared as if he had been asked to erase the Balantir Cor from the horizon.  “Bah!  I will destroy the staff when I am well and ready.  You are a half-troll; you cannot hope to comprehend the arcane power required to finish such a task.  I need time to gather my strength.”

Amelyssan’s voice cut the air with confidence.  “Then we shall wait, with you, until such time as you are ready.”

Aramin’s eyes flashed.  “I have invited you – all of you – to but remain until the morrow.  I now am beginning to question my kindness.”  The Rornman clenched his fists.  “Perhaps I should cast all of you out into the cold winds-”

Baden looked up from his tankard.  “Try it.”

Aramin wrung his hands, shoulders slumping in apparent defeat.  “I had thought you mercenaries, certainly, but honorable men despite such a regrettable profession.  We struck a deal – need I remind you? – and the deal has been satisfied by both parties.  It is over.”

“It is not over,” John opined, “until that staff is destroyed.  You said such was your goal - why do you now hesitate?”

“It cannot be done, Pellman!  Not here!”  Aramin jabbed a bony finger toward the bard.  “The staff must be destroyed where the wood was first culled.”

“Oh?”  Amelyssan brushed dirt from the hem of his cloak.  “And where might that be?”

Once again silence reigned until Aramin sighed.  “Fine.  If you wish to accompany me – to see the deed done – then I will allow such.”

“We accept,” Kellus said.  “Where are we going so that the staff may be destroyed?"

“Olgotha,” answered the Rornman.  “There is a mound there, rising above the plains like a wart, where the woodsfolk once made sacrifice.  The hill is bare now save for the old dolmens.  Yet during Margate’s day it was covered with saplings that grew twisted from the blood of those slain.  That was where the Bishop gathered the wood to fashion his staff.”

“Then we leave in the morning,” John announced with a flourish.  “Tonight, however, let us finish your drink, eat your goats, and piss upon the first of us to settle into slumber for the evening.”

Aramin smiled with the others, but for far different reasons.


----------



## Destan

LuYangShih said:
			
		

> *...the Ilmater of this campaign world seems very vile and wicked.*




I wouldn't disagree with you.  I do, however, think that much of the 'wickedness' comes from the fact that Vath is a pretty dour half-troll, and the world itself is bleak.  I'm sure somewhere there's a couple devout followers of the Suffering God that are a bit more genial, but we haven't run across them yet. 

I'd also like to take a moment to again thank you folks for reading and the feedback.  I realize that the majority of my posts so far are, well, nothing more than conversation.  I think that will begin to change as the proverbial ball starts rolling.

Speaking of which, we're about to see the culmination of the first marathon gaming weekend of this campaign.  This may give some of you an idea of how much, or how little, we get accomplished in our infrequent weekend get-togethers.  This first session was played in its entirety under our old house rules system.  After Olgotha, we make the transition to 3E.

On the whole, I'd imagine the posts to this point detail about 5% of the overall story to date.  If I don't start toning down the rhetoric, it might take me two years to catch up with where we are currently.  Ugh!

Here's wishing all of you a great weekend!
Destan


----------



## pogre

Destan said:
			
		

> *
> On the whole, I'd imagine the posts to this point detail about 5% of the overall story to date.  If I don't start toning down the rhetoric, it might take me two years to catch up with where we are currently.  Ugh!
> Destan *




Nonsense, you have a flair for setting up the action with the conversations and group dynamics. Move at leisurely pace - I for one dread the day you catchup to your current date in the campaign. 

Trust your vacation was great. Have a good weekend


----------



## Lela

I concur with pogre.  And I love it.  A lot.  In a good way.

I wish I had more time to write right now but I've moved and I'm tired.  In a bad way.


----------



## LuYangShih

The conversations are a most enjoyable read.  That battle sequence with the Wyvern was certainly a highlight of the Story Hour, though.  My personal favorite moments thus far, however, are Counselor Baphtemet attempting to entice the party, and the horrors wrought upon the Elves by the Dwem.  You described those very well indeed, and I always enjoy reading well written villiany.


----------



## rigur

Oh please dont cut back on anything!

I for one want the full story just the way it's been told so far.


Keep it coming.


----------



## Maladrac

Pogre, Lela, and Rigur- you all have just echoed what I've been trying to tell Destan in our private conversations.  He was considering "speeding things up" to keep everyone interested.  Hopefully your words and mine have changed his thinking.   


maladrac
aka.John of Pell


----------



## Manatee

Maladrac said:
			
		

> *He was considering "speeding things up" to keep everyone interested. *




Obviously, it's entirely Destan's call, but let me add another vote against speeding things up.  The current pace seems just fine to me.


----------



## Destan

*A Prophecy Born In Death*

Raylin gingerly reached out and pushed aside a tuft of yellowed scrub grass.  He kept his eyes focused on the tableau below as John cursed beside him.  “By Selûne’s saucy smile, there’s a damned army down there.”

Raylin removed his hand just as cautiously and watched the scrub spring together once more.  The ranger found it difficult to believe that anyone could possibly spy them this far off - and under the narrowest sliver of a moon - but Baden had sworn the dwem could see in darkness better than a hawk could at noontide.  The dwarf was not one to exaggerate.

Raylin rolled onto his back, crossed his arms behind his head, and stared at the starry firmament above.  “The moon is waning and the blackness is their time, not ours.  We should make our approach on the morrow, with the sun at our backs.”

“The eastern slopes are bare of cover.  Not so many trees, even at this distance, along that edge.”  John rubbed the whiskers on his chin.  “Certainly, you may be able to get close without being detected, and I have been known to quietly enter and exit a maiden’s bedchambers.  The elf, even our groaning half-troll, would most likely prove capable.  But Baden and Kellus…the two of them could muster all the stealth of a pair of ringing cymbals.”

Raylin twisted his head to one side and spat phlegm onto the weeds.  “Then we go without them.  Or we rely on shock instead of silence.”

“Shock?” John coughed with suppressed laughter.  “Truly, clansman, the only shock will be in the dwem’s eyes when they realize we come charging to our deaths.  And you’re forgetting the Rornman – he’s an integral part of this, aye?  No one else can destroy the staff.”

“So he claims.”

“And he claimed as much under Kellus’ _Zone of Truth_.”  John suddenly scowled.  “It is not even a possibility to escort the old prune forward after the hill is cleared, for he claims his arcane powers may assist our efforts.  We will need all the help we can get.”

John plucked a weed from the ground, placed the stem between his teeth, and rolled onto his back to study the constellations with the ranger.  “We have been gone a long time, clansman.  Do you think Baden is yet worried?”

Raylin grinned in the darkness.  He craned his neck forward to glance down the rearward slope toward the copse of trees wherein the dwarf was awaiting their return.  “Most likely, aye.”

“Good.”  John laughed softly.  “Let us tarry just a bit longer, then.”

Raylin chuckled and sat up.  Suddenly, his tone grew somber.  “There are twenty of them if there is one.  Perhaps more, inside those canvas tents.  We have done well together as a group, southlander, but we are not heroes of lore.”

“Mayhaps, mayhaps.”  John jerked his chin toward the rearward slope before backing away from their vantage point.  

Both men crawled though the heather, away from the dwem encampment upon the hill of Olgotha Mound, before gaining their feet.  Raylin fell in alongside the bard as they made their way through wind-tickled weeds, across a muddy rivulet, and into the concealing shadows offered by a stand of firs. 

“You were gone some time.”  Baden’s helmed head followed his voice as the dwarf stood from behind an outcropping of rock.  He picked his way down the boulders and joined his companions.

“We know.”  John spat the stem from his lips, smiling.  “Raylin thinks the dwem are too many.”

Baden arched a brow.

“Twenty,” John answered.  “Perhaps more.  There are five tents down below – each could hold up to ten of the little white-bearded bastards.”

“So it is as the Rornman said; dwem guard the Mound.”  Baden ground his beard between his teeth.

Raylin used his hunting knife to draw what he had surveyed, trusting the dwarf’s darkvision to discern the sketch in the pallid moonlight.  He dragged the tip of his blade in a wide circle to mark the mound itself before indicating the handful of massive menhirs – many still standing – with available pebbles.  He traced the outlines of the five tents near the base.  Finally he thrust his knife into the ground, drew a second dagger, and plunged that into the earth on the opposite side of the circle.  

The ranger nodded toward the blades, eyes on Baden.  “Two sentries, their backs against fallen stones, well-hidden in their cloaks.  We saw them when the watch changed, else would have missed them both.”

Baden dropped to his knees and reviewed the sketch, the end of his beard brushing against the panorama.  He exhaled hard enough to stir his mustache.  “What you’ve drawn,” Baden gestured toward the ground as he shared a look with Raylin, “is not an encampment so much as a picnic.  There are no lines of defense, no semblance of a military camp.  You are certain this is the way of it?”

Raylin nodded.  John leaned forward, adjusted one rock slightly, then poked a hole with his finger in the center of the sketched circle.  “That’s where the lone dolmen stands.”

“Dolmen?”  Baden cocked his head to one side.

“Sounds like an old bearded girlfriend's name, huh?"  John smiled.  "Yet it is two stone pillars, with a third crossing their tops.  Beneath the dolmen is a large, flat rock, about the size of a small wagon - probably the altar that Aramin mentioned.  But it’s too difficult to be certain from this distance.”

Baden rocked back onto his heels.  “Dwem aren’t stupid.  Nor are they careless about protecting their camps, especially upon the surface world.  If they truly have set no other defenses…”

Raylin shrugged in the ensuing silence.  “All men grow lax after countless nights spent on watch.  They have good numbers and bare country to all sides.  Doubtless their escape tunnel to Deepearth is not far from their present position.”

John nodded in agreement.  “And the moonlight, though feeble, was enough to glint upon the mailed breast of every dwem we saw.  That’s a band of warriors down there, friend dwarf.  Armored, and armed.  What do they have to fear?”

Baden was quick to answer.  “Much.  Most of all, however, they have to fear thinking the same way the both of you are right now.”  

***

The Axemarch dwarf unceremoniously wiped away Raylin’s makeshift map.  He grumbled softly for a moment before regaining his feet.  “Then again, perhaps the two of you have the right of it.”

Raylin noted the lack of conviction in the dwarf’s words.  “Speak your mind, Baden.  If you believe us wrong, tell us the why of it.”

“Yesterday morning Aramin told us that Olgotha Mound was guarded.  He said he had earlier scryed dwem upon its slopes.  That much has proven true, to a point.”  Baden walked deeper into the trees and his companions followed him.  “Yet their positioning is all wrong.  They do not guard the routes to the altar at the mound’s summit.  Indeed, there are wide avenues of approach from nearly every direction.”

John ducked under a pine branch.  “If they are not guarding the altar, then what are they doing down there?”

“Waiting,” answered Baden gruffly.

The trio finished their short trek to the group’s campsite in silence.  They had dared not light a fire, so it was within the darkness beneath a rock ledge that the party, including the Rornman Aramin, huddled together.  John recounted what they had seen, revealed Raylin’s suggested course of action, and finally mentioned Baden’s reservations.  When he finished, dawn was not far off.

“So, friends,” Aramin asked wryly, “now that you have seen the truth is nothing less than what I have already said, tell me - do you still wish to accompany me?”  His tone held nothing but contempt.  “Mayhaps it would be better for you to forget this last expedition.  Return to Ciddry.  The Coastal Road is not far to the west.  You could be drinking ale within the Guildsman’s Inn prior to nightfall tomorrow.”

“Cease, Rornman,” muttered Baden.  The dwarf ignored Aramin’s smoldering stare while he addressed his companions.  “Something is amiss.  I fear a trap.”

“Do tell,” Amelyssan said, unperturbed.

“The dwem are positioned around the mound as was said.  I am not thinking it would be too difficult to gain the summit, even without surprise.”  Baden squinted toward the east.  The higher peaks of the Balantir Cor were growing pink with dawn’s coming twilight.  “No – arriving at the altar would not be nearly so hard as leaving it afterward.  They could close all exit routes quickly enough.”

Kellus bent, retrieved his heavy breastplate, and began to buckle it around his chest.  “We will fight better with our backs to those old stones; we will have the higher ground.  The Rornman will have his time to do what must be done – destroy Margate’s staff on the altar.”

“You seem confident,” John observed with a smile.

Kellus began to work upon his greaves.  “Recall, friends, that Aramin was subjected to our questions when my power would not allow him to lie.  He told us the dwem would be here – they are.  He told us he wished to destroy the staff – he does.  He told us that the staff must be destroyed upon that altar – it must.”

The Rornman giggled.  It was a perverse sound.  His eyes shone in the fading darkness.  “It is good to see at least one of you has faith, yes?”

Kellus ignored the comment.  Rather he shared a meaningful look with each of his companions in turn.  “The Rornman will never be far from me.  Should this be a trap, as Baden fears, I will ensure he dies with the rest of us.”

Aramin’s chuckle sputtered into silence.  “You are a rude one, Rhelmsman.”  His tone was dangerous.  “The lot of you could use a lesson or two in etiquette.”

Amelyssan tenderly placed his spellbook back within his satchel.  “Kellus, mayhaps you could question Master Aramin – again – under your _Zone_.  You could query him to help allay Baden’s fears, or prove the dwarf correct.”

Aramin bristled.  “Enough!”  He thrust a bent finger at Amelyssan.  “You are but an apprentice with an arrogance that would serve to make an Archmage blush.  To think I had considered assisting you in your studies, once this was finished, but-”

Kellus stepped forward.  “Dawn comes.”  The Rhelmsman eyed Amelyssan.  “Regardless, friend, I have not the power to question him truthfully.  Not now.  My capabilities have already been directed toward the upcoming struggle.”

As if on cue, Kellus turned toward Vath.  “Friend, would you accept a portion of my inner might?  I can make you strong – stronger than even you now are.”

The half-troll gave a mute nod.  Kellus produced a pinch of something that smelled of excrement, crushed it between thumb and forefinger, and spoke the soothing words of divinity.  He reached out and laid a hand upon Vath’s shoulder.  Instantly, the half-troll’s shoulders widened and his massive forearms corded with newly-granted strength.  Vath smiled as he saw the wrist-cords of Ilmater dig further into his flesh.

Kellus repeated the act for Baden and then himself.  The former Helmite then beseeched his own inner power to offer protection should Amelyssan be the target of foul magic.*  The elf, for his own part, fingered a swatch of boiled leather and uttered a short Draconic phrase.  A translucent nimbus swathed his form before winking out in the blink of an eye.

Baden loosed his shield.  “Are we then decided?”

“We are,” John answered.

All eyes turned toward Raylin as he spoke.  “Follow closely.  Quietly, if you can.  We go south down the dried gully we walked to arrive here, then eastward toward the grove of soldierpines in the shape of a temple dome.  If the spirits do not favor us, rendezvous beneath those boughs if possible.  

“From the temple grove, we will move northward and the land will fall beneath us.  You will see the Olgotha Mound, then, through the scrubs.”

“And then?”  John looked from Raylin to Aramin and back again.

“We move.  Fast.  It is a fair amount of ground to cover, and the last half will be in the open.  By then the sun will be over the peaks, and may offer us some benefit against our Deepearth enemies.”  Raylin fastened his gaze on Aramin and Amelyssan.  “Stay close to those with steel in their hands.  Do not stop, do not tarry.  If one of us falls, keep moving.”

Raylin let his eyes drift over the rest of his companions, his face soft.  “We must reach that altar.  As quickly as possible.  Once there, place your back to a friend or to a stone.  Let the Rornman do what must be done.”

“And - what then?”  John asked again, a sliver of sudden doubt in his voice.

Raylin grinned like a wolf of the steppes.  “Why, then…then we again try to give you something to write a song about, southlander.”




* Kellus cast three _Bull’s Strength_ spells before conferring a _protective ward_, from his Protection Domain, onto Amelyssan.


----------



## pogre

Excellent!


----------



## Cinerarium

Destan said:
			
		

> ** Kellus cast three Bull’s Strength spells before conferring a protective ward, from his Protection Domain, onto Amelyssan. *




Hi Destan --

If you hadn't converted to 3E yet, are you taking some poetic license with the exact spells they cast?  

Great story hour!  Keep it up and I can't wait till we play again!

Cin


----------



## LuYangShih

Nice update.  The party is certainly not very trusting of Aramin.  Simply because he is rude and condescending does not mean he is evil.


----------



## Destan

Cinerarium said:
			
		

> *
> 
> If you hadn't converted to 3E yet, are you taking some poetic license with the exact spells they cast?
> 
> *




You betcha.  Our old house system had spells such as _Minor Parasite, Phantasmal Disease, Mephindion's Sparks, Lanar's Lower Resistance,_ etc.  These mean nothing to the 3E crowd (and with my failing memory, they don't mean much to me, either).  We also had different schools of magic - Ascendancy, Verdancy, Eradication, Nether, and so on.

So while I've taken some liberties with the spellcasting - especially when recounting the first session's adventure - I've tried to introduce those spells the party gained when we made the switch, and I've related these to their more common pre-combat actions.  Hopefully this will allow a transition to 3E in the following posts that is transparent to the readers.

My poetic license doesn't stop there.  I've had to adjust other factors, as well, not all of which my players approve.  I've had to remove a couple encounters - wandering monsters and the like - just to, well, maintain some sort of pacing.  I'd imagine that such editing will have to occur more, not less, in the future; the group will begin to have many, many combats - and I've set myself up for failure by trying to be overly descriptive on each.  You can only read 'the sword skittered across the beast's scales' one or two times before it becomes trite and boring.

At any rate, the whole spellcasting headache becomes moot after one more post.  As was mentioned, after Olgotha we are firmly entrenched in the blissful world of 3E. 

And _pogre_ - you surprise me!  I think you posted feedback before I even updated the story hour on the boards.  I figured you were too busy killing off your entire party and commencing your next story hour!

As always, fellas, thanks for stopping by.

Destan


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## Destan

LuYangShih said:
			
		

> *Nice update.  The party is certainly not very trusting of Aramin.  Simply because he is rude and condescending does not mean he is evil. *




Well, despite my best efforts, I'm gonna have to pull aside the DM screen and reveal an encounter that ended up on the cutting room floor.

After the party defeated the mercenaries masquerading as Gondian priests, they had actually managed to bind two of their enemies' wounds.  They promptly marched both of the hapless guys back to Aramin.

Even at that point in the campaign, if I remember correctly, the party was already suspicious of Aramin's motives.  There's a couple reasons for their doubt.  First, they know I have a proclivity for betraying them from our past campaigns.  Second, Rornmen are generally an untrustworthy bunch.  Third, a couple of the party members got "hunches" that Aramin wasn't being completely forthright with them.

Anyway, they handed the two would-be Gondians to Aramin and sat back to see how he would handle the situation.  Aramin promptly released the men, claiming that he was intent on ridding the world of evil and destroying Margate's staff, not killing all those who may be involved in the matter.

This bit of apparent mercy went a long way in assuaging the group's fears that Aramin was playing a hidden game.

So while you think the party's being rude to Aramin, they're actually being a lot nicer than they normally are to enigmatic NPC's.  My PC's are a mean bunch at heart.

Should I have included this little tale of Aramin's mercy in the story hour?  Yes.  I know that now.  But I'm new at this, so please chalk it up to inexperience.  Hopefully I'll get better at knowing what scenes to cut - and, more importantly, what scenes to recount.

Cheers,
Destan


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## LuYangShih

"OH MY GOD...  He's being *merciful*!"  
"Crap...  he must be evil."
"If only he had cut them into little pieces slowly and painfully, we could trust him..."

  Do not worry about including every encounter the party that may or may not have pertinence.  As long as the story continues to read this well, you are doing great.


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## Maladrac

LuYangShih said:
			
		

> *Nice update.  The party is certainly not very trusting of Aramin.  Simply because he is rude and condescending does not mean he is evil. *




No, especially since half our party is rude and condescending, and we're not evil.  But, when you consider that for a while we had decided Aramin actually wanted to summon Ippizicus, not destroy the staff, that changes things a bit.  Regardless of a man's personality, if he wants to bring a demon called "child eater" into the world, he's evil.


----------



## Maladrac

*A bit of clarification*



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> *
> 
> This bit of apparent mercy went a long way in assuaging the group's fears that Aramin was playing a hidden game.
> 
> So while you think the party's being rude to Aramin, they're actually being a lot nicer than they normally are to enigmatic NPC's.  My PC's are a mean bunch at heart.
> *




Ahem.  Destan, I have to argue a little.  We were extremely nice to NPCs.  Especially John (who usually had motives other than friendship).  It was your NPCs who were the mean ones.

And as for Aramin, we were somewhat 'bi-polar' with him, as I recall.  First, we didn't trust him, then we did, then we didn't, and so on.  But we really did start to trust him after the incident with the mercenary prisoners.

And for those of you who seem confused;
 
*assuage*, v.t., to make milder or less severe; relieve; ease; mitigate

And finally; I'm fairly certain Amellysan was not a "SORC1" as written in his earlier bio, but a "WIZ1".

Vaclava!
maladrac
aka.John of Pell


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## starwolf

This SH shows enough potential to rate a *BUMP*


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## thebitdnd

*Okay, I'll bite...*

What is a BUMP?


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## Lela

*Re: Okay, I'll bite...*



			
				thebitdnd said:
			
		

> *What is a BUMP?  *




If you like a thread and want it to continue but don't have anything relevent to add, you can BUMP it up.  Essentially, it "bumps" it up on the front page of the Forum (default sorting of most recent post).  This prevents it from falling off the page.  Very common in Story Hours during an update break.

Personally, I prefer them big and pink:

*BUMP*


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## Cinerarium

*Bumpage*

His Twilight Paths campaign's playing tonight, so I'll bug him to update this SH when I see him.  

Hopefully he's been slaving away on tonight's game, and that's where he's been.


----------



## Tumakhunter

OK, I've just spent the last couple of hours reading this entire SH, and I must say... WOW!  I am so envious. 

I wanna be Destran when I grow up!


----------



## Memory

Wow, I just finished reading through this story hour and I'm really impressed!  Looking forward to more.


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## Olive

Well well well, this is an interesting story. And it's going to be good to see what comes from it.

I really like the fact that this is a character driven SH, not just relying on tricky situations and cool DM ideas for it's fun.

Destan, I'll send you an email to say more, but needless to say that is is  SUBSCRIBE.


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## Arc

Updates! Updates!

Or so cry the readers of this excellent SH. Keep up the good work.


----------



## Destan

*The Battle of Olgotha*

Baden opted against drawing his axe until he closed the mound, hoping such a decision might improve his speed somewhat.  He eyed the earthen bank in front of him with no little sense of trepidation.  It was four feet in height – as tall as he was.  With a grunt, the Axemarch dwarf pressed a hand against the sod and vaulted over, the first of the party to begin the mad race toward the stone altar.  For a few blissful, fleeting moments he was in the lead.

Vath loped past him on all fours, his trollish claws arcing clumps of dirt in his wake.  Amelyssan, too, was quick; the elf and John of Pell kept abreast of one another, nimbly weaving down the slight decline before reaching the base of the hill and beginning their ascent.  Raylin mac Larren was obviously slowing his considerable stride to match that of the old Rornman Aramin.  The ranger sporadically reached out to propel their one-time employer forward or manhandle him over offending ravines.

_Just me and you, Kellus,_ Baden voiced quietly, a wry grin hidden beneath his helm and beard.  He had no sooner finished his thought before the former priest of Helm, despite the heavy breastplate of his dead father, out-distanced him.  

_Just me, then._

Baden reached the base of the mound even as Vath was nearing the domed summit.  Sweat ran down his face, the salt burning his eyes and stinging his tongue.  He pumped his arms, knees high, grunting with exertion.  The dwarf could easily run all day and most of the next, but a run for him was more of a trot for anyone taller than four feet.

_And to think,_ Baden sighed, _back in Axemarch I was known as one of the _faster _dwarves._

The low howl of a dwem warhorn echoed across the prairie.  Baden heard more than saw the black-armored dark dwarves rushing to meet their charge.  There was no time to look, no time to choose an opponent, no time to ready himself for combat.  There was, simply enough, no time.  He fixed his gaze upon the dolmen above him as he ran, resolutely heedless of all else.

A bolt slammed into his helm, turning it to the side, and Baden soon found the right side of his vision impaired by his nasal bar.  Another loud report indicated a second bolt had shattered upon his hauberk.  A third thud sent a tingle down his leg, but was likewise blocked by the iron plates encasing his form.

The fourth bolt, though…the fourth one got him.  Baden winced in pain as blood intermixed with the sweat running down his left side.  Some lucky son-of-a-she-goat dwem had managed to catch him in his exposed armpit.  He dared not look to mark his attacker, though he dearly wanted to halt his run and end this foolish game.  Better to die standing than continue staggering forward like a drunken mountain yak.

“Meet me,” Baden wheezed as he continued his best attempt at a sprint, “at the top.”  Baden hoped the crossbowman heard him and would be kind enough to comply.  The Axemarch dwarf pulled his axe from his back, swung his shield around to better protect his flank, and continued his painfully slow ascent.

He took five steps, maybe six, before he realized it was hopeless.  The dwem were already between him and his companions.  A sadness descended upon him.  Baden realized with surprise that he did not, after all, want to die.

_The hell with it._  He stopped running.

***

Raylin shoved Aramin forward none too gently.  The Rornman practically fell atop the altar stone.  He turned, eyes wild, but Raylin was heedless to the threat they promised.  “Do it!  Now!”  After the briefest hesitation, the old man lifted the black staff above his head and began to bark syllables not meant for mortal tongues.

The party, excepting only Baden, gathered around the central stones and took a precious moment to survey the slopes falling downward in all directions.  They had reached the summit – somewhat easily, as it turned out.  Other than a few minor bruises left by quarrel and bolt, they appeared uninjured.

The sun, brilliant as it rose over the peaks of the Balantir Cor, made the onrushing dwem stand out in stark relief.  Raylin watched as the black dwarves disappeared beneath the shade of a passing cloud.  Their shadows – all their shadows – were distinct upon the weeds, their forms seeming to be drawn in smooth contours without any trace of ambiguity.

John raised his crossbow, took aim, and fired.  Amelyssan dipped his fingers into the pouch at his belt, his golden eyes squinting in concentration.  Raylin spied Vath putting his back to a dolmen that leaned forward like a drunken man, and hopped over a weed-covered stone pillar to stand near the half-troll.  Kellus, true to his vow, remained next to Aramin, his own face drained of color as he watched the Rornman continue the dark chant.

Raylin drew his second sword, wiped the sweat from his brow, and let his gaze sweep over the ground before them.  Crumbled stones were hidden in the weeds like so many caltrops.  Footing would be treacherous, the ranger knew, and he hoped the dwem would bunch to avoid the more prominent ruins scattered about.

The Larren clansman spared a glance at the half-troll monk at his side.  “Tymora willing, them dwem will funnel to us here.  Stand our ground-”

A crossbow bolt slammed into the ranger’s hip, spinning him halfway around.  He winced, pulled the quarrel free, and tossed it onto the ground.  “As I was saying, stand-”

Raylin ducked as another bolt came arcing downward from the heavens.  The dwem had organized themselves, it appeared.  A line of approaching axemen thundered up the side of the hill, axes raised, beards trailing behind them like so many snowy pennants.  Behind the first rank stood a handful of crossbowmen; some would fire as others quickly cranked their strings back and fitted a new bolt to the shaft.  Raylin heard the angry buzz of John’s own bolts speed past his head, but the bard was badly outnumbered in the ranged battle.

Over the rising tumult the dwem horn continued to blow like the sound of a wounded moose.  And, distinct even above that braying, floated Aramin’s odd accent as he continued his ritual to destroy Margate’s Staff.  Raylin risked a glance backward, saw the Rornman had produced a ceremonial dagger and held both it and the staff aloft.  A thin mist, ochre in color, began to rise from the stones near Aramin’s feet.

Raylin looked downward once more.  He had but a moment before the dwarven axemen reached his position.  “Brother Vath,” he tried a third time, “stand our ground.  Do not give chase, nor leave-”

Raylin jerked his head to the side as a bolt skimmed his cheek, leaving an angry red line in its wake.

“Do not worry.”  Vath’s voice was more a croak than speech, soft and low, yet it carried to Raylin’s ears.  “Suffering is patient.”

And then, even as the first rank of the dwem reached them, Raylin heard Kellus cry out in a voice strangled with fear.  

***

Kellus scrambled backward like a Castamere crab.  Aramin had…Aramin had _changed._  The leathery visage of the Rornman, always ugly, was now stretched into a rictus that could only be described as demonic.  His nose had extended, dropped downward over thin lips, nostrils flared.  The Rornman’s eyes were now balls of onyx, triumphant in their gleam.

Flickers of light, each no larger than a candle’s flame, appeared within the coruscating fog.  The mist grew in thickness, swirling about Aramin’s boots before sliding up his legs like the hands of caressing lovers.  The Rornman’s hair whipped about his face despite the fact there was no wind upon the plains.

Kellus dropped his shield and futilely reached for the symbol of Helm he had tossed into the quays of Tarn Cal nearly a decade ago.  Whispers rose from the ground near him – unintelligible in their language but not in their intent.  They promised a new coming, a black dawn, an eclipse of all held holy and good.  Clouds – suddenly grown swollen and black – raced across the heavens to converge directly above the crowned summit of Olgotha Mound.

Aramin looked down at Kellus' supine form as a man would a beetle.  Sultry arms of shadow thrust outward from his thrashing robes.  Fingernails the color of dusk stroked the Rornman’s lips, wrapped about his hair, beckoned him to continue his chant.

Kellus stood.  It took all his effort, all his will, but he stood.  He raised the mace and stepped forward.  “You die now, Rornman,” he meant to say.  Yet no words escaped his lips.  

The whispering had changed in tone, now.  A chorus of delightful chuckling pattered across the stones like the footfalls of black fey.  Suddenly Aramin stopped his chanting.  The Rornman stood, his eyes still on Kellus, chest heaving from exertion and skin shining in an orgasmic sheen.

Kellus took a step forward.  Then another.  The mace was heavy in his hand, but he raised it.

Aramin thrust the staff toward him.  “By my sacrifice, followed by the blood of six innocents, shall the gate be thrown…*OPEN!*”

Aramin's head snapped backward as a lustful cry not entirely his rent the air.  The Rornman’s hand shot out, his wavy-bladed kris catching the light of the sparks surrounding him.  Without pause he plunged the dagger, to the hilt, into his breast.

And yet, even as Aramin crumpled, Kellus saw a nightmarish form begin to climb from the bloody hole upon the mage's chest, coalescing into terrible reality even as he watched.

Kellus screamed.


----------



## starwolf

Writing like that is why this is one of only two story hours that have my subscription.


Good Show!


----------



## Lela

My exact words, where I there at the time:

Oh, Sh*t!


I mean, dang, that sucks.


----------



## Arc

And this *wasn't* a TPK? Wow.


----------



## Greybar

> And this wasn't a TPK?




[with a whispering voice]
_TPK doesn't have to mean the end...
Suffering is patient._
[/whisper]

John


----------



## pogre

A demon they helped summon at their backs and a horde of evil, underearth dwarves bearing down on them. OOoooh yeah awesome! I can almost taste their panic and fear.

Beautiful, just beautiful!


----------



## Destan

*Harsh Times and Harsh Measures*

Amelyssan dragged Kellus to his feet as the world exploded into confusion.

The unnatural tempest, first born when Aramin slew himself, continued to grow in intensity.  A halo of diseased-hued mist circled the crown of Olgotha, the smell of brothel beds sweet and heavy in the air.  Amelyssan willed his gaze to pierce the vaporous berm surrounding him.  It was useless – the fog was simply too thick.  And everywhere – from the stones, from the air, from the ground – came the incessant whispers, the unearthly cackles.  

Amelyssan, despite all his learning, had no idea what had occurred on the hilltop.  Perhaps only Kellus knew.  And Kellus…Kellus looked lost.  Bewildered.  The elf frowned and glanced downward.  Aramin lay on the altar, bent backward like an Aradeeti hornbow.  The dagger was still in his chest, standing upward like some grisly victory banner.

A tempest of an altogether different sort raged outside the circling walls of mist.  Amelyssan cocked his head to one side and listened to the battle cries of his companions.  He heard John bark orders and Raylin answer in kind, caught the roar of the half-troll Vath.  The clash of steel was unmistakable, the report of iron on shield.  

“…too many!”  That was Raylin shouting; Amelyssan was certain of it.

“More come!” Vath’s warning sliced like a schooner through the fog.  “Ware the north face!”

Suddenly a number of anguished cries burst through the fog.  Amelyssan bent, retrieved Kellus’ shield, and handed it to the former priest.

_We must flee._  Then, as Amelyssan realized he had not spoken aloud, once again, “We must flee.”

Kellus stared at him dumbly for a moment, then nodded.  The priest glanced about the clearing as if for the first time.  “The demon?”

Amelyssan blinked.  “I have seen no demon…”  A dwem was shouting something in his own tongue when a terrible crunch broke through the mist, cutting him off mid-sentence.  A sudden roar rent the air.  The elf grimaced, looked to Kellus, “…though, I believe, I just heard one.”

“That was no demon.”  Kellus adjusted the shield on his arm and hefted his mace.  He had regained his senses.  “That was the Axemarch dwarf.”

Amelyssan believed him.  “Good.  Let us be off, then.”

Kellus reached out and grabbed his companion’s shoulder.  “Wait.  The staff.”

They looked as one onto the weeds near the altar stone.  The blackwood staff lay, nearly forgotten, only inches below the dangling hand of Aramin.  Blood dripped upon it in a monotonous rhythm.

“We must not leave it.”  Kellus stepped toward the item.

Amelyssan stepped in front of his companion.  “You are weakened.  Let me.”  The elf did not wait for a response.  He crossed the summit, leaned forward, and grabbed Margate’s Staff.

A wave of nausea slammed into him.  He gasped, fell to one knee, coughed phlegm onto Aramin’s waxy countenance.  The shaft was _alive_ in his hand, pulsing as if blood coursed through its wooden veins.

Now it was Kellus’ turn; he pulled Amelyssan to his feet.  The two men shared a knowing look – a look filled with the realization that Fate had found them, that the end drew nigh.  

Kellus’ voice was almost tender, “Can you run, friend?”

“I will try.”

“I will not leave you.”

“I know.”

Then the time for words was over.

***

Baden reveled from his perch atop the dwem bodies.  One of his booted feet was upon a stone, the other sunken to the knee within a dark dwarf’s open rib cage.  His face was streaked with gore, his beard matted with it.  He had struck them from behind – had bowled into their leader even as the poor bastard was giving orders.

_On a day such as this_, the Axemarch dwarf thought, _one should be ashamed to die._

Suddenly two creatures burst through the mist from the top of the hill.  Baden adjusted the grip on his axe and pulled his foot from the cavernous corpse.  It came free with a sucking sound, nearly claiming his boot.  

“Behind you, from the mist - more come!” Baden scampered upward across the rocks.

Raylin and Vath had formed a living wall in front of John.  A handful of black-armored dwem lay before the trio like driftwood.  Those bodies furthest from them were pierced by the Pellman’s bolts; those at their feet bore the mark of the ranger’s swords or Vath’s talons.

John spun, frantically trying to finish loading his crossbow, then lowered his weapon when he saw it was Kellus and Amelyssan.  “The Rornman – where is he?”

Before they could answer, Raylin strode forward, his face a mask of rage.  “Why is the staff not destroyed?”

“No time,” Kellus panted.  “We must run.”

As if on cue, another squad of dwem entered their view from around a nearby contour.  Seven, maybe eight of them.  And, even as the companions marked their new foes, yet _another_ squad appeared.  All bore axes, their ebony-faces set with determination.

John fired his last bolt then tossed the crossbow at his feet.  He drew his rapier.  “We are lost.”

Raylin nodded with finality.  “Elf, go.  Take the staff from here.”

Amelyssan ignored the ranger.  His golden eyes were on the dwem.  He tossed something translucent and flimsy into the air before him and murmured lilting syllables.  Milky strands – spiderwebs as thick as silk rope – seemed to spring from the very air.  They wrapped about the first squad of dwem, their sticky ends attached to the numerous standing stones nearby.

The elf smiled wryly.  There was no time to waste.  “We all go.”

***

The light of hope entered John’s eyes and was reflected in his tone.  “If we can reach the ridge surrounding the forest-”

“Aye,” Raylin interrupted.  “We stand a chance.”

The pit of Baden’s stomach sunk like a dwarf in water.  The distance to the shelter of the groves seemed vast to him.  He had only just arrived and – now – needed to run that length again?  _Moradin forgive me, but that is a cruel trick to be playing._

His companions allowed no time for self-pity.  The party sprinted down the slope, away from the mist-wreathed mound.  Baden, once again, fell behind.  His saving grace was the fact that the dwem, like him, were slow and encumbered in their armor.  

Yet the dark dwarves were not fools; they ignored his faster companions and concentrated on him.  With each passing yard they angled closer, converging upon him alone.  Soon the clanking of their armor, the pounding of their boots, was as loud as his own.  An axe cut into the flesh behind his knee, sundering the strap of his greave and sending it into the weeds.  He stumbled.

A dwem dove forward, wrapped his arms about Baden’s waist, and both dwarves crashed into the turf.  Baden’s axe flew into the mud of a nearby rivulet.  He pulled a dagger from his boot, twisted, and thrust it through the coif protecting the back of the dark dwarf's neck.

Baden rolled away from the down-swing of a crescent axe.  He climbed to one knee, eager to gain his feet, but was again tackled.  He fumbled for his dagger but the weight of his body prevented him from striking his assailant.  His helm had fallen off.  A gauntlet shoved his face into the muck and his heart pounded from lack of air.

Another dwarf must have joined the first.  Both were on top of him.  The weight of the Balantir Cor itself seemed to press him into the mud.  He struggled, coughed, bit at the mailed hands clutching him.  Baden desperately sought to twist, to move, to prevent the dwem from landing a telling blow.

Then the weight was lifted.  _Gone._  He rolled upward, wiped the humus from his eyes.  Vath was above him, the half-troll straddling him like the Colossus of Epth a’Non.  The dwem were spreading out, eyes dark as they measured the new threat.  More of the dark dwarves approached, warily now, axes held low.

Baden did not relish the idea of mimicking a sack of potatoes, but harsh times called for harsh measures.  “Vath!  Carry me!”

The half-troll looked down and Baden nearly recoiled from the rage in his eyes.  Vath’s lips were pulled back, showing his fangs, and the pustules of his skin wept.  Yet his companion seemed to understand their need.  Without a word, the monk reached down, plucked Baden from the mud, and threw the dwarf over his massive shoulders.

“Meet me,” Baden called to the dwem, his breath coming in spurts as Vath loped toward the trees, “at the ridge.”


----------



## Lela

Every single moment is filled with richness.  It draws the reader deeply into the lives of the characters.  You rock.


----------



## Cinerarium

Seriously Destan, that's the best single post I've read in an EN-World Story Hour.

Wow.


----------



## darkbard

Cinerarium said:
			
		

> *Seriously Destan, that's the best single post I've read in an EN-World Story Hour.
> 
> Wow. *




well, clearly you've never read sepulchrave's story hours.     but outside of sep, you're damn right!  amazing story hour, destan.  thanks so much for the inspiration.


----------



## Destan

darkbard said:
			
		

> *
> well, clearly you've never read sepulchrave's story hours.
> *




Well, Cin is biased since I have the life of his own character in my hands in another campaign.  

Plus, I regularly pay readers to post comments like that.

But, actually, we've both read Sep's SH.  Last session we spent the final twenty minutes discussing it.  That SH has defined the "high level" genre for me, personally, and makes me not quite as frightened of reaching those new heights.  

It's a tale of near-epic heroes written by an epic writer.  Comparatively, we're still around 3rd level here - characters and writer both.



> *
> amazing story hour, destan.  thanks so much for the inspiration.
> *




The check's in the mail. 

Enjoy your weekend, folks!

Little D

P.S. I plan to post a little "behind the DM screen" synopsis when I get a chance, since we're _this_ close to when our first gaming session ended.


----------



## LuYangShih

I like this much better than Sepulchraves story hour.  But then, I never really cared for that story hour in the first place.  This is definitely one of the best story hours in the forums, perhaps the best.  I look forward to reading more.


----------



## Cinerarium

darkbard said:
			
		

> *
> 
> well, clearly you've never read sepulchrave's story hours.   *




I'm a HUGE fan of Sep's SH, though I'm only about 2/3 through the Heretic of Wyre chapter.  Sep's world and plotline are better than Destan's (no offense, big D, and please don't kill off Tryn).

I just thought Destan's last story post had all of the elements of a great story hour post -- great pacing, action, and use of the language, ended with a nice cliffhanger.

Sep's SH is for me about a great world and a great ongoing story, but it's rare that one single post makes me sit back and think about how nicely-paced the action was or how descriptive the language is.  Maybe I'll be proved wrong as I get fully caught up, but I think it's the nature of the beast with the kind of high-level campaign he's got going on.

And besides, like Destan says, I'm really just sucking up so he'll let me have a cool cohort with Tryn's new Leadership feat.

Cinerarium


----------



## Cinerarium

*And one other thing...*

I just noticed that the ratio of posts/page views is getting to be about the same for this story hour and Sep's.  Destan, you're catching up!.


----------



## Destan

*The Slaughter of Olgotha*

Once the party reached the ridgeline, the end was all but written.  

The dark dwarves were limited in their speed and mobility, much less deadly with crossbows than with axes.  Theirs was a race bred for fighting in the black confines of Deepearth, not the sprawling meadows of central Valusia.  After a pair of failed assaults against the party’s position, the dwem broke.  Their northerly retreat – organized at first – soon became a rout.  

Vath and Raylin were much faster than the black-armored dwarves.  Half-troll and Larren clansman cut them down, one after another, like hounds dispatching frightened foxes.  Eventually only a handful of dwem remained, and this small force sought to gather en masse some four hundred paces from the Mound.  

The party drew together once again.  Vath’s green skin was shining with sweat, and Raylin’s chest heaved from the chase.  A lull descended as all watched the last band of dark dwarves flee across a narrow stream, axes held high as water exploded around their boots.  Most had already dropped crossbows and shields, but those few that had not did so now.

Vath clenched and unclenched his fists, coiled like a spring.  “Why do we wait?”  His tone held a hint of disdain.

“Let them gather,” Raylin answered.  He sheathed his swords and sat down heavily on the body of a dwem axeman, sweat running down his unshaven cheeks.  “It will be easier for us in the end.”

The dwem had chosen a defensible position to make their final stand.  The land, still shrouded with wisps of morning mist, rose steeply to their backs.  The stream would act as a natural line of defense, but the meadow where they would die was narrow and bereft of tree and rock.  And, Raylin realized, unless the dwem crossed the stream once again, there was no where for them to run.

Kellus removed his helm.  His hair was plastered to his head despite the cold breeze.  The priest glanced at Baden.  “I thought your folk feared the water.”

“They fear dying,” Baden answered.  And then, “They are not my folk.” 

The companions watched as a dwem warrior – the last to cross – struggled to gain dry ground on the far bank.  The water was up to his armpits.  The dwarf clutched at roots but pulled too strongly in his desperation – each came loose from the ground, causing him to slide downward into the stream again and again.  He had already dropped his axe - doubtless it lay forgotten on the streambed – but his armor was an anchor that promised a watery grave should he lose his footing.

John had gathered three dozen black-feathered shafts from the bodies of the dwem they had slain.  He held the bolts to his chest like a farmer might sheafs of wheat.  The Pellman gazed at the lone dwem in the water.  “Will his fellows not aid him?”  

“Does it matter?”  Baden turned from the sight.  He knelt and began to wipe gore from his axe with tufts of dying grass.  When he stood, the final dwem was no longer in the stream, nor was he with the huddled mass of dark dwarves on the far side.

Vath slid down the bank, muddy and soft from the passage of the fleeing dwem, and began to wade through the water toward the far side.

“Hold, Brother Vath,” John called.  The Pellman jerked his head toward a lone outcropping of rock, not more than five paces downstream on the party’s side of the water.  “They will be within my range from there.”

The half-troll squinted at the natural pillar then looked to Raylin.  The ranger nodded.  “The dwem are dead, friend.  They know as much.  It would be a hard fight gaining the far bank.”

Silence blanketed the scene as the party’s bloodlust receded.  The battle was won, certainly.  There would be no glory.  Not now.  

The dwem were the first to move.  The dark dwarves formed a thin rank a stone’s throw from the water.  A few of the braver ones, those who still held their axes, raised their weapons and urged the party forward in their own guttural tongue.

“Let us finish this.”  Amelyssan had wrapped Margate’s Staff in a riding blanket, and tied the cloth with strips of leather.  He leaned upon it now, face pallid and cheeks sunken.  “Do not forget these are the race of Borbidan Elfkiller.”

John nodded and strode toward the rocks.  He tucked the quarrels under one arm and nimbly climbed to the top.  There he set the bolts down, drew his crossbow, and lay down upon his stomach.  He began to fire.

The end was a long time in coming.  Amelyssan was forced to gather more bolts for John.  The range was long, and the dwem heavily armored.  It took time to kill them all.  A few of the dark dwarves, near the end, charged into the brook with weapons high.  Three drowned, two were pierced by John’s bolts, and another was kicked back into the churning water by the half-troll.

The sun was not yet completely over the Balantir Cor when the slaughter at Olgotha ended, for battle it was none.


----------



## Destan

*Behind the DM Screen*

First, my apologies for the shortness of the most recent update.  I intended to have that post be the last snippet of the previous update, but it was late and I was outta gas.

This concludes the group's *First Session*.  If I recall correctly, we had started playing on a Friday night back in early September of 2001, and ended in the wee hours of Saturday morning.  I may be wrong.  Most of our sessions since that time have been longer in duration - usually from Thursday night until early Sunday morning.  When _those_ marathon sessions end, I can honestly say it's one of the very few times when I'm ready to put the D&D books and dice aside.

That feeling only lasts for a day or two, usually. 

A couple of notes, now.  As mentioned previously, we weren't playing under 3E rules during that initial get-together.  We are now, and thus any updates following this one will be from our 3E sessions.

There was a funny out-of-character episode that took place while the party was on Olgotha Mound.  Kellus' player saw Aramin kill himself and - for some reason known only to him - decided that he was supposed to then kill himself with the same ceremonial dagger.  When his initiative came up, he uttered words that the group has yet to forget, "I plunge the dagger into my chest!"

It was the only time that I can recall where I had to use DM fiat and say, "Um, no you don't.  Really."

The group, when we made the transition to 3E, was comprised of third level characters, I think.  I'd rather not say what level they are now, but I will say that they're significantly more powerful - and, of course, not all of these orginal characters are still around.  This is supposed to be a grim world, afterall; we can't have every would-be hero living until the final showdown.

The comments on the plot and theme of the campaign are understood and warranted.  I only ask that you, gentle readers, stick with me as we move forward.  At this point in the campaign it was very much "we go here, we kill this" - I don't think I'm being too off-base to say that things, soon enough, get very, eh, political.  And religious.  And confusing.

Hell, at this point in time, there really isn't a plot, is there?  That'll change, I promise.

I have a feeling my two-week hiatus may have caused some readers to head off to other pastures.  I'm gonna endeavor to win you back with more frequent updates, real-life willing.

Sometime this week I intend to start posting updates from the *Second Session*.  We'll see the return of some faces the group thought lost in memory, and we'll see the introduction of new entities whose sole purpose is to make the players generate new characters.

And, of course, we may start to get glimpses of the fellow who I quote at the very beginning of this story hour.  Or at least those who work for Him.

Keep gaming, keep posting, and - most of all - please keep reading.  I can't do this without you.

Cheers,
D


----------



## dpdx

I have to say: it's us who should be thanking you. This is one of the Great Story Hours, 3E canon or no, and even if you were writing this in a vacuum, and not getting hits, it would still be worthy of the premium bookshelves in this genre.


----------



## grodog

Hi Destan---

Thanks for posting this, 'tis a good read   I'm enjoying the slow evolution of the campaign, and hadn't initially realized that the PCs were 1st level.  

I'll make some more comments later, as I'm off to bed for the nonce....


----------



## Lela

Destan said:
			
		

> *Behind the DM Screen
> I have a feeling my two-week hiatus may have caused some readers to head off to other pastures.  I'm gonna endeavor to win you back with more frequent updates, real-life willing.
> *




One of the great benifits of the subscribe feature.  Just imagine the work of keeping up with a Story Hour before that amazing feature.  I shudder to think how others may have suffered before my time.

Of course, some would be worth it.  Like this one.

Thanks Destan!


Oh, not that I don't want/crave/need frequent updates.  Just that I, on occation, will understand if they come up.


----------



## Inez Hull

> I'm gonna endeavor to win you back with more frequent updates, real-life willing.




[rubs hands together gleefully]


----------



## papa_laz

Destan, despite the apparent disadvantage of what you consider a simple plot, you have still managed to write the best story hour i've ever read. It has been a catpivating read, and I love the grim 'kill or be killed' atmosphere you have created.


----------



## WizarDru

Destan, I think I can speak with some authority for the majority of readers present when I say that we don't care if you were playing _Whist_ to resolve conflicts...the story is wonderful.

Similarly, keep the pacing just as it is.  One of the story hour's greatest charms are the characterizations.  Every character gets some screen time, and they're all interesting.  Just keep doing what you're doing.

I will say this is one of the best Story Hours on the boards, but it's not a contest, folks.  Every story hour has it's fans, and even Wyre has it's detractors.  That's why the voting feature was removed, in fact, to encourage new story hours.  As far as I'm concerned, the more story hours the better.  


Great Stuff, as usual, Destan.  Write on!


----------



## darkbard

sorry if i caused any ill feelings by drawing comparisons between story hours--if so, it was completely inadvertent.  my intention was simply to heap praise on two great tales.  

thanks for another great [albeit short] update.  despite your reluctance to reveal what levels the characters currently are [or even who is still alive], any chance of posting stats for the characters as they enter the 3e phase of your game?


----------



## Destan

WizarDru said:
			
		

> *Destan, I think I can speak with some authority for the majority of readers present when I say that we don't care if you were playing Whist to resolve conflicts...the story is wonderful.
> *




Hmm...I can see that my players have let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, regarding our old rules system.  On the whole, _Whist_ really is a powerful gaming device. 



> _Originally posted by darkbard_
> *sorry if i caused any ill feelings by drawing comparisons between story hours--if so, it was completely inadvertent. my intention was simply to heap praise on two great tales.
> *




Not at all!  On the contrary, I feel honored to be compared to Sep's story hour - in whatever light.  I'm a reader, too!



> *any chance of posting stats for the characters as they enter the 3e phase of your game?
> *




I wish I could, but I'm afraid I don't have their sheets from the transition.  I'll ask around, but that may be a tall order.  Part of me likes keeping the mechanics hidden behind the curtain, but the other part of me knows how I enjoy to sift through the Rogue's Gallery to check the stats of the characters I read about.  I'll see what I can do.



> _Originally posted by papa_lez_
> *I love the grim 'kill or be killed' atmosphere you have created.
> *




As we shall see, my players may not always agree.  <insert cackle>

Finally, it's great to see some new faces pop up on the boards.  And I certainly appreciate those folks who have been around since this fledgling story hour first attempted flight, as ungainly as such may be.  Story hours are made and unmade, I think, by the posted comments (or lack thereof) of the ENWorld community.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

It all boils down to this, folks: *Thank you.*

D


----------



## Lela

Destan said:
			
		

> *
> As we shall see, my players may not always agree.  <insert cackle>
> *




Yeah, I kinda understand.  Though it's a little different in my group.

My players don't mind the kill part.  It's the be killed part they have a problem with.  Kinda hypocritical really.


----------



## Destan

*Pigs & Crowns*

The party was a day’s ride from Olgotha Mound when winter made an unseasonably early appearance.  Clouds the color of despair came sweeping southward across the Reaversward, blanketing the land in a snowy mantle.  Raylin used the weather to replenish the group’s stores; he bagged a brace of coneys in short order with a shortbow apparently reserved for such a purpose.  Vath, who could only stomach meat, was especially grateful for Raylin’s rabbits – two of which he immediately ate, uncooked.

Yet the cold had left the land nearly as quickly as it arrived, changing the new-fallen snow into a drab slush.  On the third day of travel the companions crested a ridge to stare once more into the Valley of Ul’Daegol.  The turf, springy as a sponge from the melted snow, was a veritable quagmire beneath them – their descent lasted the better part of the morning.

Nearly all signs of Aramin’s camp had vanished – the canvas tent, the bolts of cloth, the wooden chests, the furs and pillows.  _Gone, all gone_.  John walked amongst the dragon’s bones like a man reviewing the site of a lost battle.  He peered into the back of a wagon resting forlornly in the mire, then spat.  “Empty.  The Rornman’s serving boy must have packed everything and left after we departed for Olgotha.”  John kicked a half-buried tankard in disgust.  “The whelp knew, one way or another, his master was not returning.”  

Raylin nodded from where he knelt studying the ground.  The recent snowfall, and its subsequent melting, covered any signs of the youth’s trail.  “He is gone.”

“Aye.  And gone, too, are any crowns the damned Rornman may have been hoarding.”  John sighed audibly and collapsed onto the wagon’s tongue.  “Just once,” he held up a finger, “I would have liked to fill my purse without having to defeat anything more dangerous than a serving boy.”

Kellus shrugged.  “Much of the day yet remains – if we leave now we might reach Ciddry within two days’ time.”

“Fine.”  John stood and walked toward his own mount.  “But there is little to purchase within that town – I saw not one lady, maid or matron, worthy of my lyre.  We shall be forced to head elsewhere to properly spend our coins.”

“Your trysts can wait.  We have other questions which must be answered first.”  Kellus gazed upon Amelyssan.  The elf was silent, huddled deep within his robes, the cowl of his cloak hiding his countenance.  Margate’s Staff was strapped to his saddle, still wrapped in blankets and furs.

John followed the priest’s look.  He frowned.  “Elf, you have spoken little, ate less.  Yet you say that ungodly staff does not affect you?”

Amelyssan looked up.  The bags under his eyes were pronounced shadows.  “Not yet.  No.  But it calls to me.”

Vath strode forward, ignoring the suddenly-agitated horses of his companions.  “Give it to me.  I shall break it.”

“Thank you, but no.”  Amelyssan shook his head, lips pursed.  “We have discussed this, Brother Vath.  We have no idea what would happen should you sunder the staff.”

Baden grunted.  “It would break.”

“We do not know that.”  Kellus looked from the Amelyssan to the Axemarch dwarf.  “Are you willing to risk freeing Ippizicus?”

“For all we know, the demon is already free.”  The party had heard Kellus tell of the shadowy form that had appeared within the yellow mists upon Olgotha Mound.  They had searched the summit after slaying the last of the dwem, but the unnatural fog had dissipated by that time, leaving no trace of any creatures stranger than dead dwem.

Baden studied Amelyssan for a long moment before scowling.  “The staff poisons him, mark my words.  And it calls to him, like some thing alive?”  At Amelyssan’s weary nod, Baden spat.  “Who shall say when the burden will be too heavy for him to bear?”

Kellus nodded.  “All the more reason why we should not linger.  We must find someone who can tell us more of the staff.”

“And then we shall destroy it,” Vath finished.

“Perhaps,” allowed Amelyssan, softly.  _Perhaps not_.

***

Raylin was content to silently study the man and his pigs for some time.  The scene was one which had been played and replayed across central Valusia for countless seasons.  The swineherd was alone, Raylin knew with a woodsman’s certainty, and most likely had driven his score of hogs this far from Ciddry seeking pannage prior to the coming winter.

The field was dappled with sunlight, the air almost warm, and the smell of sea on the west wind.  In short, it was a beautiful morning.  Raylin folded his arms and leaned against the bole of a towering fir.  The ranger knew his companions – waiting behind him in the fastness of the forest – would soon worry or wonder at the delay.  But, if only for a handful of heartbeats, Raylin reveled in the repetitive natural cycle and mankind’s place within it.

Only when a particularly brazen sow nearly ate the toe of his boot did Raylin step forward to reveal himself.  “Ale and warmth, friend,” he said, striding into the clearing with empty palms heavenward.  “I am Raylin mac Larren, a Black Rider, down from the Reaversward.”

Raylin was ready for any number of reactions from the swineherd – most of them derivatives of astonishment or fear.  He did not, however, expect joy.

The swineherd’s head snapped up at Raylin’s call.  The man listened, mouth agape, before doffing his woolen cap.  “So you are, so you are!”  The man slapped his cap against his thigh and showed a gap-toothed smile.  “Damned if I didna’ put two apples on the Harvest Mother’s trestle this very morning, praying I’d be the first to find you.”

Raylin frowned, confused.  “Find me?”

“Indeed I did!”  The man smacked his cap against his knee again as if in exclamation.  “You see - some dandy come into town but two days’ past, dressed in the fop and finery o’ Val Hor.  Last night at the Guildman’s, he says to anyone that was listening to be on the look-out for some travelers.  Says one of them might be a Larrenman.  Says four crowns would go to him that first brings word o’ them.”  

The farmer positively beamed, apparently still surprised at his good fortune.  “And old Breof was listening, thanks be to Lady Chauntea.”

Raylin nodded slowly.  “Well, Master Breof, it appears you have earned your gold.”  

Raylin waited patiently while the party, drawn by the swineherd’s laughter, entered the field leading their mounts.  His companions studied the man with guarded expressions.  Save for Vath; the half-troll’s chin was wet with slaver as he stared at the chortling pigs.

Raylin once more addressed the farmer.  “Tell me, if you would - do you know why this Valudian* seeks us?”

“I do not,” Breof admitted.  He seemed not to care.  

The farmer looked upon the rest of the party like a man measuring his wealth.  His eyes widened when he first realized Baden was a dwarf.  They grew even larger, if such was humanly possible, when he gazed upon Vath.  His tone was bit more reserved when he continued.  “Will you all be headin’ to Ciddry, then?”

“We will.”  Raylin accepted the reins of his horse from Kellus’ outstretched hand.  “Lead on, Master Breof.  We are as anxious to meet this man as you are.”

“Oh,” laughed Breof, suddenly carefree once more, “I doubt that.”


* _Valudians_ are those citizens of the White Empire of Val Hor.  This is decidedly different than _Valusians_, a term which applies to all peoples of the Valusian Isle in its entirety.  Regrettably confusing, I know.


----------



## Lela

> *
> “Oh,” laughed Breof, suddenly carefree once more, “I doubt that.”*




Well, there's an ominious closing line.  Very well done Destan.

That staff is going to be the bane of their existance.  I do wonder, though, what would happen if our elven friend were to smack someone with it?


----------



## Destan

*Ciddry Revisited*

It took the party an hour to make the journey from the forested meadow to the town of Ciddry.  It took John less than half that to realize he hated Breof’s pigs as much as he did the Rornman they had left dead on Olgotha’s altar stone.  

The infernal beasts continually got beneath the hooves of his mount, causing the Pellman no end of exasperation.  He was forced to adjust his seat and jerk his reins numerous times.  His companions had prudently dismounted, but he was not yet ready to walk alongside the mud-covered swineherd and his charge.  

Their return to civilization – if the backwater of Ciddry could be called such - was not at all what John had envisioned.  _If Laughing Luke and the others could only see me now,_ John mused._  Why, they’d break their lutes over my head.  And rightly so._ 

Breof, blessedly, deposited the hogs with his wife and four sons outside the Coastgate after informing everyone – with a regrettably loud voice - that he had found ‘the rich man’s quarry.’  The swineherd’s family swarmed about John and companions.  They were as annoyingly underfoot as the pigs had been, and equally covered in offal.  John found it difficult to ascertain where pigs ended and men began.

“It appears his whole brood is like to dance from joy,” John whispered to Kellus. For a horrifying moment John thought Breof’s woman, smelling of poultry and pork, was about to hug his boot.  It was nearly too much to bear.

For his own part, Kellus enjoyed the show.  He found himself smiling as he watched the ebullient commoners.  His own voice was pitched low.  “Four crowns is no paltry sum for a pig farmer, John of Pell.”

John deigned not to reply, but rather stared stoically ahead as the party continued onward past the crowd of commoners.

The guardsmen atop the Coastgate looked upon them with suspicion.  With suspicion, that is, until Breof grandly announced just who they were.  Immediately thereafter a sergeant strode forward from the sally port and gestured for them to pass under the portcullis.  “No, no – you need not pay.”

The man’s largesse only served to further sour John’s mood.  _I have traded my reputation as a dashing Pellman for a handful of coppers._  The bard looked away from Kellus to seek a better audience for his complaints.  He eyed Baden – the dwarf glanced about with wide eyes; the towns of men apparently still held some pleasing novelty for him.  John sighed.

Breof and Raylin conferred quietly with a stableman inside the gates.  At Raylin’s urging, John reluctantly dismounted and handed his reins to the pock-marked teen. The party took a few moments to remove various items from their saddlebags.  Amelyssan was practically reverent in the way he pulled the staff free from his own harness.  Then, without further delay, the companions fell in behind Breof as he led them into town.

“The stables will not charge us to tend our mounts,” Raylin remarked, “at least for the remainder of this day.”

“Lovely,” John quipped.  “Doubtless all of them will be sharing a drink with Breof, and the pig farmer’s new-found crowns, this very evening.  This Tower Sage has much to answer for.”

The party ignored his comment.  Breof, for his part, became a veritable tour guide.  He gestured toward a rusted gibbet and explained it was the abode for a merchant, Harold Pimplobeen, who had once betrayed the town by opening the gates to Gordian raiders.  The swineherd ushered them past a fountain, the water surprisingly clean, and pointed to an iron torch set at the base of a weathered statue.  “That torch never goes out, mark my words as truth.  Been burnin’ for nigh on three decades.”

“A rather simple dweomer,” John commented.  But Breof, like his companions, seemed adept at ignoring him.  _Insufferable._

The day was not a market day, bless Tymora, so John was not forced to wind his way through additional throngs of Ciddry’s townsfolk.  The entourage made their way toward the opposite end of town, past wooden buildings as glum and non-descript as those few citizens they passed.  They halted before a large, two-story structure – one of the few buildings within Ciddry fashioned entirely of stone.

“Wait here, good sirs,” Breof instructed, smiling like a cat.  The farmer marched into the inn with the air of a triumphant general.

John stood in an ensuing silence made uncomfortable from recent memory.  The last time the party had been within the Guildsman’s Inn they had agreed to Aramin’s offer of employment.  John struggled to forget the Rornman.  The bard turned his mind and eyes to a number of gulls as the birds flew above the inn’s flat roof, seemingly suspended in midair by the constant winds off the Conomora.

The party needed not wait long.  Breof returned, meaty fist clenched around coins, with a man in tow behind him.

Poridel Poriden, Tower Sage of Val Hor, appeared an icon of comfortable prosperity. He was perhaps a handful of years past his prime and a handful of pounds overweight.  His teeth were only slightly stained from smoke and drink, and his hair only partially white – mostly at his temples.  Soft gray robes of Larren wool covered his frame, the pearl-colored tower marking him as a Valudian sage emblazoned upon his breast.

“Ale and warmth, friends,” the sage greeted them with a smile.  _Much like Aramin had once done,_ John mused.  The bard was in a distrustful mood.  “I am Poridel Poriden, lately of Val Hor.  I trust you shall forgive me for seeking you in such a manner.”

John glanced from Poridel to Breof.  “Not likely.”

The sage laughed.  “Aye, well, you have my apologies.”  He turned to Breof, offered his thanks, and watched the swineherd depart before once again eyeing the party.  His face grew serious.  “We must talk, and soon.  But not here.”

John shook his head.  He had heard this type of talk before.  “Sage Poriden, please understand we are tired and hungry.  Though my companions may do without,” John glanced at Vath, “I would very much like nothing more than to wash the stink from me.”

“Certainly,” Poridel agreed.  “I only wish to speak with you.  I have secured the top floor of this fine establishment and would be honored if the lot of you would join me for dinner.”  The sage’s gaze stopped upon John.  “After you have bathed, of course.”

Kellus nodded.  “We are not averse to conversation, Sage.  But we would know the intent of your summons, if it could be called such.”

Poridel’s eyes were somber.  “I wish to discuss matters you will find important.  Again, forgive my rather churlish means of finding you, but I needed to be sure I located you before…before others might have.”

Amelyssan’s eyes were clouded.  He leaned upon the blanketed staff and spoke for the first time since entering the town.  “These matters you wish to discuss.  Do they deal with-”

Poridel showed his palm.  “They do.  But, again, now is not the time nor the place to speak of such things.”  He looked to John.  “I have a flask of Arn brandy upstairs, and have had a hog on the spit since morning, in the hopes of your safe return.”

“One of Breof’s pigs, I presume?”  John’s voice was even, but his mood was significantly brighter from the mention of Arn brandy.  Expensive spirits, that.  Well worth wasting the evening in conversations that would most certainly be filled with riddles and tales of long-dead Tarn Calian bishops.

Poridel's laughter came easily.  “Actually, yes – the pig was one of Master Breof’s.  I trust it shall not taste any worse because of it?”

“On the contrary,” John answered with conviction, “nothing would give me greater pleasure.”


----------



## Olive

twice in one day? If only all the SH's I subscribe to could be so efficient!


----------



## grodog

Lela said:
			
		

> *One of the great benifits of the subscribe feature.  Just imagine the work of keeping up with a Story Hour before that amazing feature.  I shudder to think how others may have suffered before my time.*




Actually, I don't subscribe to Sep's SH or this one (the only two I'm reading):  I like the surprise of looking into a thread and finding an update


----------



## Olive

grodog said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Actually, I don't subscribe to Sep's SH or this one (the only two I'm reading):  I like the surprise of looking into a thread and finding an update  *




Better not look at the titles either! Those pesky update messages...


----------



## grodog

LOL.  Actually I've got 'em bookmarked Olive, so I just dash in and dash out if there's nothing new


----------



## pogre

Wow! I go out of town for a short bit and come home to three updates. The _mood_ certainly must have struck you to write D. Very well done, and as always, I anxiously await your next update. May the muse continue to move you on such a regular basis!


----------



## Cinerarium

Hi Destan --

Am I correct in assuming the last two posts since the end of the first session are what's happening in between sessions?  

Basically the last two posts are summing up IC roleplaying everyone did over email in between sessions, right?

Thanks!


----------



## Lela

grodog said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Actually, I don't subscribe to Sep's SH or this one (the only two I'm reading):  I like the surprise of looking into a thread and finding an update  *




I don't think I could stand not knowing right away.  If I'm around at the time, I'm one of the first to ever read a post.

Of course, I spend the majority of my time in this Forum.  You'll see me pop up from time to time in other places but I mostly live here.


----------



## Destan

Cinerarium said:
			
		

> *
> Am I correct in assuming the last two posts since the end of the first session are what's happening in between sessions?
> *




You are correct, sirrah!

The next update will begin with the end of the inter-session roleplaying, and then we'll fire up *Session Two*.  Hold on to your d20's!

I'm giddy from lack of sleep.

D


----------



## Tellerve

teehee, that was a great last line.  Man, I really like all your characters.  Only a few weeks away from Cinerarium starting his campaign similar to yours.  Oh boy I'm looking forward to it!  That's btw, why he is asking you these questions, in case you didn't know.  He wants to learn from a man that is proving it can be done well.

Tellerve


----------



## Destan

*To Summon a Demon...or Not*

John pushed himself out of the bronze tub – the water had lost most of its heat – and wrapped a bearskin about him.  He felt refreshed.  Days and nights on the road were nothing new to him, but the past tenday or so had been filled with harrowing encounters.  

First they had slain the Tarn Calian mercenaries masquerading as Gondian priests, then the wyvern and the wraith-like spirit of Borbidon’s cleric Morgad, and finally the hordes of dwem at Olgotha.  The Pellman did not even want to recall that dark chamber wherein elves had evidently been forced into cannibalism.  And through it all had danced Aramin – the very thought of the Rornman caused John’s teeth to grind.

But now…now he was clean.  His cheeks were shaven, and his goatee trimmed.  Certainly there was some salt in his beard, but the offending patches were nothing that a few applications of pigment could not hide.  

John padded over to a water basin on naked feet, leaned forward, and splashed the liquid onto his face.  He stopped, suddenly, and slowly let his hands fall from his cheeks.  “Raylin.  It has happened again.”

The ranger sat up within his own tub, the water sluicing off his body in waves.  He looked to where John stared at his reflection in the water basin.  “What?  What has happened again?”

“I've grown even more handsome.”

The two of them were the last of the party to finish their baths.  Excepting Vath, of course, who did not join the rest of them to wash away two weeks' accumulation of dirt.  The half-troll had immediately taken a corner booth upon entering the inn, sent a number of locals scattering with one frightful growl, and then proceeded to eat as many roasted pigeons as the cooks could place in front of him.  

John and Raylin toweled themselves off, donned clothes the innkeep had hastily procured, and marched up the stairwell toward their rooms.  They stopped only to slip eating knives into their belts, then continued up a spiral staircase to the top floor.

A guardsman wearing the livery of the White City nodded and opened the door at the top of the steps.  John and Raylin entered, hung their cloaks on pegs near the door, and joined Poridel and the rest of the party around a large oaken table.

The ensuing dinner was, John reluctantly admitted, excellent.  The wine was plentiful and - surpisingly - included two bottles of Genn Purple.  For the better part of an hour the party forgot their cares, the trials of the past few weeks, and the bloodshed they had endured.  The mood was light and the talk simple.  

Poridel proved a worthy conversationalist.  The sage told how he had once seen two of the Valudian Popas fight one another with fists at the very base of the Three Throne.  Baden proved a capable story-teller himself; he recounted the sights he had seen during his only journey through Deepearth while visiting Silverhand dwarves at the behest of his Dwarfking Droggi.  Raylin, deep into his cups by then, knocked over a decanter of wine when he spread his arms to indicate the width of a red elk’s rack he had bagged on the outskirts of the Blackswamp.  John, for his contribution, produced a piccolo and played a few stanzas from a well-known gnomish ballad.

The evening wore on and the bard, like a child fending off sleep, sought to prolong the bliss of feigned ignorance.  It was not to be.  Try as he might to avoid it, John's eyes were finally drawn toward the coat pegs near the door.  There, leaning against the wall like a scorned mistress, was the fur-wrapped staff.  Margate’s Staff.

Poridel followed John’s look, as did the others, and the mood changed.  The Tower Sage stood, ushered out the servants, and closed the door.  

He turned.  “I believe now is the time for me to deliver upon my promise.  Arn brandy, friends?”

***

The dining room was silent as Poridel filled six snifters with the expensive drink.  He passed the goblets around the table before raising his own.  “To your safe return, friends.  May many such more await you.”

Each of the companions, save Vath, sipped their drinks quietly.  Poridel turned toward Amelyssan.  “With your permission, I would like to cast an abjuration upon myself.”

The elf returned his look.  “What is it?”

“_Nondetection._”

“You believe we are being scryed?”

“We?  No.  But me – perhaps.”  Poridel sighed.  “I believe you – all of you – are not yet _known_.  But such is not the case for myself.  It would be better for us all were I to do it.”

Amelyssan glanced around the table before inclining his head.  Poridel reached into his belt and tossed sparkling dust into the air.  His words thrummed with arcane energy.  When he finished, he smiled.  “Now, we may speak freely.”

Kellus stood.  “And I would have us speak truthfully, as well.”

The former Helmite had drank only sparingly.  “Master Sage, I looked into your soul before dinner.  I saw no evil.  But we have been betrayed only recently by one who extended his hand in friendship.  I should like to enfold this table with my power which commands truth, and only truth, be spoken.”

Poridel nodded.  “Of course.”

Kellus murmured his own words of power, hand pressed against his breast.  He looked up.  “I fear the effect shall be transitory.  You had best speak quickly.”

And so Poridel did.  The Tower Sage was blunt in his speech, direct in his manner.  With each of his sentences the air seemed to grow heavier.  He explained that Aramin was not Aramin; rather the dead mage was T’tak Witchpriest, a Rornman in the service of a dark master.  He told, quickly enough, how he had been following Aramin for the better part of two months- and lost his trail outside the thorp of Black Leaf only a day’s ride west of Ciddry.  The sage claimed he knew that Aramin wished to reassemble the staff and thus free Ippizicus.

John was forced to interrupt.  “Why?”

“Why?”  Poridel repeated the bard’s question.  He looked toward Kellus as the former priest once again cast a _Zone of Truth_.  “Because there are those who know, and believe, in the Twin Prophecies.  I do.  The man you knew as Aramin certainly did.”

Poridel cleared his throat after a moment's silence.  “You are in grave danger, good sirs, danger of the worst sort.  The staff leaning against the wall of this room holds the tormented soul of Ippizicus Child-Eater.  That same demon caused no end of misery to the mothers and fathers of Tarn Cal - a misery that endured even when the Dezimond was but crumbled rock and the Sin War an unpleasant memory.”

“You talk of history, Tower Sage,” Kellus interrupted.  “But we know of history, or rather we know enough to suit us.  How does this tale of tragedy concern us?”

“How does it concern you?”  Poridel fought and failed to appear composed.  “As I said, Master Amelyssan carries the soul of a lesser demon in his staff.  A demon, I might add, that now has a foothold upon this plane.”

Kellus frowned.  "You know of the staff.  And you know of Olgotha?"  At Poridel's nod, Kellus continued, "Then you were scrying us?"

"Not you, no.  Aramin.  He had removed any defenses near the end, saving his power to commence the summoning."

Baden wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “Aramin is dead.  The dwem he had been allied with are likewise dead.  The tale, however tragic or old, is over.”

Poridel’s smile did not reach his eyes.  “Dwem?  Those little people you slew on the slopes of Olgotha – you believe them to be dwem?  Come, dwarf, you of all your companions should know better.  Take a goblet,” Poridel raised his own cup for effect, “and let a single drop of the finest brandy fall into it.  Then piss in it to the brim.  Those dwarves you slew on Olgotha were nothing more than diluted, urine-filled abominations from centuries of inter-breeding.  Certainly they have dwem ancestry, but do you really believe those puppets were made of the same stuff as Borbidan Elfkiller?  For the love of Oghma, friend dwarf, a true dwem cannot even stand the sunlight for a handful of heartbeats.  Call them dark dwarves, if you will, but not dwem.”

Baden shrugged, unperturbed.  The night's libations had mellowed him.  “Dwem or no, they be dead now.”

Raylin spoke for the first time since knocking over the wine.  “If what you say is true, sage, then why not destroy that staff?  Would that end your fears?”

Poridel’s eyes were on Amelyssan as he answered.  “You could, certainly.  Your dwarven companion could chop the staff into kindling in a few ticks.  But that would not assist you, not at all.  For Ippizicus is _here_, if only partially, and should you destroy the staff you will not know when he will possess the power to fully manifest upon this plane.  More importantly, you will not know _where_ he will manifest.”

Poridel spread his hands.  “Remember, presently, he remains bound to the staff.  He is not yet strong enough to extract himself from Margate’s prison.”

Amelyssan sipped his brandy, deep in thought.  “Then, perhaps, we should simply lose the staff.  Throw it into depths of the Saficea?  Bury it under the Balantir Cor?”

“No.”  Poridel shook his head.  “That would be unwise.  Relics not seen since the Age of Forests now appear daily.  Peasants in their fields overturn the earth to find the bones of creatures we no longer recognize.  There are winged monstrosities seen in the peaks east of here.  Good men – faithful clerics and others – find themselves pulled toward new auras of power.  Politicians grow corrupt, warriors grow thirsty for blood.  I have no doubt that Margate's Staff would, in effect, find a way to be found.”

The sage walked around the edge of the table.  He pointed to the staff.  “Remember, friends, it _lives_ now.”

John pushed back his uneasiness.  He refused to look at the staff, and kept his gaze firmly fixed upon Poridel.  “You say not to destroy it.  You say not to lose it.”  John tilted his head.  “Yet you also, good sage, seem to believe we should not travel with it.  What is it you suggest – that we give the staff to you?”

“Never.”  Vath’s growl resonated from deep within his chest.

“No, friends, I do not want your staff.  I have difficulty thinking of something I would want less.”  Poridel walked back to his chair and sat down heavily.  “The staff is not the problem; the demon trapped within is.  You must defeat him.”

“Defeat him?”  Kellus’ tone was incredulous.  The former priest wished he had another _Zone of Truth_ at his disposal.  And a second _Detect Evil_ while he was at it.  “Are you suggesting we finish the summoning that Aramin could not?  Are you suggesting we attempt to bring the demon here in his entirety?”

Raylin laid a hand on Kellus’ arm as he, too, stared hard at Poridel.  “We have bled, sage, to prevent just such an event.”

Poridel had the courtesy to pause.  His answer, however, left little in the way of ambiguity.  “That is exactly what I am suggesting, Larrenman.  More than that – I believe it is your only option.  

“Otherwise, I have no doubt the lot of you will lay dead, and the staff stolen from your corpses, within a tenday.”


----------



## Lela

Yes, well, let's all get together and kill a Demon known as Child-Eater.  That should be fun.

Talk about major suckage.  Plus, if they survive, they've pissed off those who would have killed them for the Staff anyway.  More enemies to play with.  More people trying to kill you.

Sounds like a perfect campaign to me.  Continue with the brilliance Destan.


----------



## grodog

So, when do we get a Rogues Gallery entry for the characters, NPCs, and artifacts? 

Nice work Destan, and have a great weekend everyone!


----------



## Wisdom Penalty

Destan said:
			
		

> *The ranger sat up within his own tub, the water sluicing off his body in waves.  He looked to where John stared at his reflection in the water basin.  “What?  What has happened again?”
> 
> “I've grown even more handsome.”
> *




just spit out some of my morning coffee.  

superb writing.

W.P. out


----------



## Inez Hull

This just keeps getting better, Destan you truly have mastered the art of the cliffhanger.


----------



## Sepulchrave II

Hi Destan

Sorry to leave it so long before replying - I've been following since the outset. It seems almost gauche to add my praises now, but you have a profound gift with words - don't ever let anyone else tell you differently.

The more you write, the better you'll get. Keep writing. I'm still new to the process, and often terribly intimidated by it. 

Every day, sit down and write, if you can - even if it's only a line or a paragraph. There will be times when all you want to do is smash the screen of your monitor, or you feel sick with it, or blocked, or whatever. Sometimes, you will despise the people who praise you, and resent their incessant nagging for an update. Writing will interfere with your social life, your personal life and, ironically, the time you have to prepare for and play the game itself. It will consume you.

You _must_ do it. You know this.

A year from now, you'll probably look back and be embarrassed by your early posts - I certainly am by mine. They will feel naïve and awkward. Struggling to express ideas is the most frustrating thing in the world, but I _think_ it becomes easier and more natural. Maybe. As I say, I'm still - comparatively - a virgin when it comes to this.

Never relent in your criticism of yourself, and try to accept praise gracefully - something which is very awkward for me to do, and something I often feel guilty about. I really should acknowledge people's positive comments more than I do, and I'm conscious that I might sometimes come across as stand-offish and arrogant - something that I need to work on  

The ENWorld boards are a wonderful community and resource. And although I have, at times, resented my readers' "incessant nagging ," I couldn't have come this far without them. Prodding, nudging, encouraging, supporting, and making me sit down again at the computer. They have my profound gratitude.

Best to you, and here's hoping that you can find a groove that you're comfortable with.


Jim Ferris.


----------



## Seravin

First off:  Great story hour.  
I like the flavor of it.  I can easily imagine the characters and the world around them, and the plot is engaging.  I like this sort of stuff. 
I can't recall ever being jealous of another writer until I started reading your story hour; but I experienced a twinge when I started reading yours and then looked at mine. 
Thank you for sharing these stories with us.

Secondly:


> _Originally posted by SepulchraveII_
> Every day, sit down and write, if you can - even if it's only a line or a paragraph. There will be times when all you want to do is smash the screen of your monitor, or you feel sick with it, or blocked, or whatever.
> _<snip>_
> Writing will interfere with your social life, your personal life and, ironically, the time you have to prepare for and play the game itself. It will consume you.





> You _must_ do it. You know this.




Great advice - I wish I had followed it more closely over the years.  It's true though.  If you like to write at all, you almost have to.  Better than a drug but worse than a disease, I wouldn't change it at all.

Again, thanks for sharing the stories with us.

-seravin


----------



## Lela

Sepulchrave II said:
			
		

> *
> Every day, sit down and write, if you can - even if it's only a line or a paragraph. There will be times when all you want to do is smash the screen of your monitor, or you feel sick with it, or blocked, or whatever. Sometimes, you will despise the people who praise you, and resent their incessant nagging for an update. Writing will interfere with your social life, your personal life and, ironically, the time you have to prepare for and play the game itself. It will consume you.
> *




I'm going to have to start that tomarrow.  I think I'm going to hate doing it at first though.

Of course, that's the idea.  The good writers are the ones who keep writing through the time they hate doing it.  Or, at least, I plan to keep telling myself that. . .




			
				Sepulchrave II said:
			
		

> *I really should acknowledge people's positive comments more than I do, and I'm conscious that I might sometimes come across as stand-offish and arrogant - something that I need to work on
> *




I've never thought of you as arrogant.  I think most of us consider you a background writer.  Your there and then your not.  It's not really a bad thing.  More a kind of style really.  The only downside is that, sometimes, questiosn don't get answered.

Other than that, everyone I know who reads your Story Hour really does want to worship you.  Really it's far better than Robert Jordan.  That's some of the highest priase I've ever given a writer.  And I mean it.

Honestly, the same goes to Destan.  Your work is stunning as well.  I only pray I can come close to what you two have achieved thus far.  Amazing.  I love it.

Please post more soon (nag, nag  ).


----------



## Lela

Double Post


----------



## Destan

Wisdom Penalty said:
			
		

> *
> 
> just spit out some of my morning coffee.
> 
> *




I was _hoping_ someone would find that at least a little funny.  It was late when I wrote that, so I was light-headed from lack of sleep, and I just kept chuckling to myself.  Figured we needed a little comic relief in this story hour.  We're about to embark onto a couple darker posts, and most of the inter-adventure "fluff" has just been concluded.


----------



## Destan

Sepulchrave II said:
			
		

> *
> Sorry to leave it so long before replying - I've been following since the outset. It seems almost gauche to add my praises now, but you have a profound gift with words - don't ever let anyone else tell you differently.
> 
> The more you write, the better you'll get. Keep writing. I'm still new to the process, and often terribly intimidated by it.
> 
> *




First, thanks for reading, Sep.  I don't think I need to indicate how much I, and my players, have enjoyed your own story.  I could - quite literally - post a full page or two about the elements I most enjoy from your own writings.  Suffice to say, your imagination and style are peerless.

As to writing every day - it's terribly difficult.  I find myself losing focus, or desire, quite readily.  I think part of that stems from the fact that there are many more distractions in my life than previously, and - once thrown off course, even for but a moment - I find it increasingly hard to resume writing.

Writing on ENWorld has spoiled me, I think, and may actually make any sort of "regular" writing more difficult.  Readers' posts just seem to have a way of arriving when I need them most.  Much like yours did.

I still find it amazing how powerful just a simple post from any reader can be in terms of influencing my motivation to write.  I've found myself switching around my schedule, after reading a particularly kind post, in order to finish another update.

I'm babbling.  

My appreciation for your feedback on this story hour is matched only by my appreciation for the time you spend writing and updating your own tales.  Please heed your own advice and never stop writing.

D


----------



## Destan

Please visit the below link to see the a map of the northwestern region of the Valusian Isle.

Northwest Valusia

Though the party is not currently within the area depicted on the atlas, I think an update to this story hour is warranted considering the fact I promised to be more industrious with my writing.  Posting a link is infinitely easier than writing another couple pages - but I _do_ plan on updating the story again, and soon. The map will prove invaluable in the near future for those readers wanting to visually follow the party's wanderings.

Take care,
D

_For those who are interested, the linked map was so ably drawn and colored by Mr. Clayton Bunce of Morningstar Maps._


----------



## Riley

Destan, you write faster than I can keep up!

Like Baden, I've arrived late at the ceremony on the mound.  Really wonderful stuff there.

See you tonight...

- Riley

p.s.  When are characters going to start dying already?  I thought you were tough!


----------



## dpdx

That map is gorgeous. No wonder the illustrator used it as an example of his work.


----------



## Cheiromancer

Just started reading your story hour, and I'm really enjoying it.  I especially liked the way that the tracks of the bishop's horse "disappeared" mid-canter, and how that was resolved.

I also liked the dwem.  Do you have more information about the "dark dwarves" and about the "true dwem"?  I'd really love to see it.

If it's something your players shouldn't know about, perhaps you could set up a Rogue's Gallery thread with a "Destan's players keep out!" sign?  Or e-mail me.

Once again, great work on the story hour, keep it up!


----------



## Destan

dpdx said:
			
		

> *That map is gorgeous. No wonder the illustrator used it as an example of his work. *




I agree.  You should have seen the horribly crude map I supplied in the first place so he could work his magic.  Nothing short of remarkable.



> _Originally posted by Cheiromancer_
> *If [the dwem are] something your players shouldn't know about, perhaps you could set up a Rogue's Gallery thread with a "Destan's players keep out!" sign? Or e-mail me.*




Email sent. 

Baden's player and I talked about a Rogue's Gallery thread for this story hour, and I think - personally - it may not work.  At least not until the story is sufficiently advanced to be somewhat closer to where we now stand in the campaign.  At my feet are four massive notebooks, two boxes of scrawled sketches, and reams of scratch paper.  Shifting through those for old stats would take the better part of a tenday.  

Maybe after I get in gear and get a couple sessions' worth of updates online, I'll have better - and more pertinent - info to share.

Cheers,
D


----------



## Destan

*The Sacrifice of Innocents and Innocence*

It had been some time since Baden had last felt _dirty_.  Not dirty in the sense of having his body and armor covered in grime and dust – he had become accustomed to the rigors of travel long ago.  But dirty inside.  It was as if his soul had been stained.  The dwarf disliked the emotion and said as much.  “I don’t like it.  Not at all.”

“No one said you had to like it.”  The distaste on John’s face was starkly evident in the morning light.  Clearly, the bard didn’t like it, either.

Baden looked away from the Pellman, seeking support.  Vath was balancing on the bawl of one foot, clearly uninterested in any questions of morality.  The dwarf’s gaze alighted upon Raylin.  “Who are we to judge those men?”

“They have already been judged, friend dwarf.”  Though his tone was even, Raylin’s face appeared troubled. 

“Bah!”  Baden spat.  “So you are in agreement with the southlander?”

Raylin glanced at John before regarding Baden once more.  “No,” he admitted.  “But I see no other way.  Do you?”

The dwarf screwed up his face as if he had swallowed sour milk.  He turned away from Raylin.  “Vath.”  Baden walked closer to the half-troll, his voice pitched low.  “We need to hear your take on this matter.  There are men’s lives at stake.”

“Men’s lives are always at stake.”  The half-troll lowered his raised leg and turned. “The Valudian sage has gifted us with murderers and rapists so that we may deliver anguish upon them, as their victims once anguished.”  Vath squatted, his eyes of a level with Baden’s own. “The hand that delivers suffering is blessed.”

_You are mad, half-troll._  Baden blew air through his beard.  He spun on his boots and looked at Amelyssan. The elf seemed preoccupied, eyes nearly closed, as he leaned upon Margate’s hide-covered staff.  “Amelyssan?  What say you?”

The _horadrel_ shrugged, his aquiline features placid.  “I say nothing.”

For the first time in a long, long while, Baden wondered how he would be received should he return to Axemarch.  

The dwarf fixed his gaze, finally, on Kellus.  The former priest had not spoken the entire morning, not since Poridel had told them what he had about the ‘six sacrifices’ of the innocent.

Baden’s voice was almost – not quite, but damned near – pleading.  “Kellus.  We cannot – _must not_ - do this thing.  Those men have done nothing to us or ours.  You know me; I do not shirk from blood or duty-”

“Our duty is clear.”

“Clear?”  Baden squinted up at Kellus.

Kellus nodded.  “The staff still imprisons a portion of Ippizicus Child-Eater.  We must act while we have the initiative.  Six must be sacrificed to complete the ritual.”  Kellus glanced at Amelyssan, his face wrinkled with concern – or fear.  “Again, I say, our duty is clear.”

Baden threw his hands into the air.  “My axe is for battle, not executions!”

Raylin frowned.  “Not so loud, friend.”  The Larrenman shot a furtive glance toward the open barn door.

Vath interposed himself between Kellus and Baden.  “You may save your axe for the struggle with the demon.  I will mete out just punishment to the criminals.”

“Baden,” John quickly interrupted before tensions could flare into open argument.  “This is not an easy matter, nor one any of us are soon like to forget.  I do not trust many men, for I am one myself, but I trust this Tower Sage.  I believe him when he says it must be thus.”

The earnestness in John’s voice and eyes, so rare for the southlander, gave Baden pause. The dwarf frowned deep within his beard.  The sage had told them earlier that morning that Ippizicus need not be summoned at Olgotha, despite what Aramin had thought.  Indeed, Poridel claimed the demon could be called forth again upon the very site he was originally summoned – and be the weaker for it.  A site now marked by the ruins of an old church hard by the banks of the Bluehorn.

Yet, to summon Ippizicus, six innocents _must_ be sacrificed.  

It was obvious to the dwarf just who the original six sacrificial victims were to be. _And now,_ Baden thought, _we are to do what the Rornman attempted – only we shall send a half-dozen other poor bastards to the hells to accomplish the deed._

The six men now caged within a wagon inside the barn had been convicted of murder or rape in Val Hor.  They were not innocent in the truest sense of the term, but they were innocent of any relation to the imprisoned demon.  Such a fact offered Baden scant comfort.

But it was enough.  It had to be.

The Axemarch dwarf walked off in silence to gather his gear.




_Disclaimer:  Sorry for the (very) short update.  Would have liked to include it in a larger post, but them's the breaks.  Enjoy your soon-to-be weekend, everyone._


----------



## Cheiromancer

It'll be interesting to see if this works.  In a D&D context I usually gloss the word "innocent" to mean "good aligned non-combatant."

But that's mostly for an iron-clad example of an alignment violation.  Perhaps demons aren't so picky.  Or perhaps the prisoners are good men who were unjustly condemned?


----------



## Manatee

Cheiromancer said:
			
		

> *It'll be interesting to see if this works.  In a D&D context I usually gloss the word "innocent" to mean "good aligned non-combatant." *




As you say, it'll be interesting.  My definition of "innocent" probably wouldn't be as stringent as yours--I think some neutral-aligned people and some combatants would be included--but I wouldn't expect most murderers or rapists to count as innocents for magical purposes.  On the other hand, the Tower Sage presumably knows what he's talking about.  I guess we'll find out soon enough.


----------



## handforged

I think Baden's take on innocence is quite nice.  These people have not harmed him, or those he cares for, so why should he deem it his right to do ill on them.  Vath's opinion seems to be the overwhelming view in western civilization.  Suffering for making someone else suffer, an eye for an eye.  What was it Gandhi said about an eye for an eye leaving the whole world blind?

Might make a demon pretty happy to not only have his "innocent souls," but also corrupt the souls of six more in the process.

Great story again, Destan.  The characters are really coming into their own here.  I think it was an appropriate stopping point, especially since we get to discuss the concept on innocence.

~hf


----------



## Destan

*A Fear of Knowing*

John of Pell had once attempted to depart a lady’s bedchamber, and the oncoming press of the cuckolded husband and his men, by climbing out a fourth-story window and walking along a crumbling parapet.  That had been a mistake.

Not long thereafter, the southlander had managed to impugn an Aradeeti’s honor by simply brushing against the nomad during Midsummer festival.  The ensuing knife fight had been decidedly one-sided, and John, for the first time in his career, had blessed the timely arrival of the Merchant Prince’s guardsmen.  Knife-fighting an Aradeeti nomad had, also, been a mistake.

And then, perhaps only two summers past, John had accepted a Gordian raider’s challenge to finish a cask.  The ale within was heavily mixed with the blood of a snow leopard and the milk of a Gaardian yak.  Another mistake.

Regrets.  He did not have many, but he did have those three.  The Pellman now walked with a slight limp due to the leg he had broken in his four-story fall, bore a white scar along his collarbone from the edge of an Aradeeti kukri that had damned near killed him, and grew queasy whenever he so much as saw milk and ale upon the same banquet table. _And today,_ John thought ruefully, _I have added a fourth mistake to the list._

For the Pellman, despite his companions’ warnings, had opted to talk with some of the condemned men during the party’s journey across central Valusia enroute to the Bluehorn.

John had learned, in his travels, that discretion was the better part of romance.  Or, at least, the better part of romance with women married to influential husbands.  He had learned to step carefully around Aradeeti mercenaries, no pun intended.  He had also learned one could measure the difference between a Pellman’s and a Gordian’s digestion with about, oh, three bucketfuls of milky-red vomit.

But John had never - not yet, not ever - learned to keep his mouth shut.

***

Shamans read the entrails of goats.  Priests read scripture.  Wizards read tomes, and rangers read tracks.  John, for his part, read people, and his ability to recognize a falsehood had been honed from years spent lying himself. So it was that, after only two days’ spent escorting their prisoners, John was quite certain the men were guilty of those crimes Poridel had announced prior to their departure.  

Three of their prisoners were gruff longshoremen from the quays of Val Hor who had happened upon a rather unfortunate, and rather inebriated, daughter of a paladin of Torm.  What followed may have been consensual, but the judges had not bothered with even a single divinatory cantrip.  John, too, did not care.  Even if the trio were not guilty of rape, they were guilty enough within the bard’s mind.  Their deaths would not weigh upon his conscience.

Two others had worked in a tannery outside the town of Shoal, not far from the White City, and still smelled of the tanning vats.  The pair emphatically claimed they had killed their master only after ten years of incessant beatings.  John could tell they were lying – other motives had been at work.  Like the longshoremen, the bard thought both of them deserving of their fate.

But the sixth prisoner – a whey-faced Basilican named Aren Arens – was a different character all together.  For one, the boy had a pleasing singing voice.  For another, he could capably strum the lyre – an instrument John had, most regrettably, lent him during the third evening out of Ciddry.  The Basilican claimed a rival suitor had framed him for theft, then – during a subsequent duel – Aren had killed the man in honorable combat.  Yet the victim was an Apian, the son of a tribune within the Arensian Governor’s household, so the judgment had been both swift and final.

John sat far from the firelight and, for once, did not join the subdued conversation of his companions.  Across the campsite the wagon – the prison – was draped with the purpled shadows of approaching evening.  Upon its roof perched Baden, ever-vigilant during his turn on watch.

The party had made good progress along the Battlemarch road, and the weather had been only too accommodating.  Vath had taken to riding upon the wagon’s seat like any drover – the mules’ desire to flee the half-troll’s stench worked better than any stick or carrot.  Raylin’s scouting ensured their group avoided most travelers and – more importantly – their inevitable questions, for slavery was not permitted within Valudia.  Yet Val Hor was far from here, both in geography and philosophy, and the folk of these lands were as like to heed as piss upon the authoritative documents Poridel had given them.

John glanced southward to where he could still distinguish, despite the dying light, the taller spires of the Lantern Grove.  The forest, a rumpled quilt of greens and browns, seemed to be gathering its strength against the oncoming night.  If the stories were to believed, _gammedrel_ woodwards and their fey companions held nightly bacchant dances under those trees.  How the bard wished he could be participating in such revelry rather than traveling toward…toward what?  Success?  Victory?  Tragedy.

John let his gaze move eastward.  There, nestled within the pleasant vales of the nearby Cathen hills, lay the only gnomish village upon the entire Isle.  John had never been there, though he had often wanted to visit.  Gnomes were famous for their lyrical prowess, if not their musical imagination, and it would have done the Pellman a world of good to learn a few more limericks.  But the party had already made it clear they would skirt the thorp, if at all possible, in the interest of time and prudence.

John stared at the lyre in his lap, the weight in his stomach growing.  Finally, he stood.  The Pellman beckoned for Kellus to join him in the shadows.  The bard measured the former Helmite’s mood with a searching look.  “Kellus, I think we may have a problem.”

***

“How so?”  Kellus’ voice, as always, was as cool and plain as his archaic breastplate.

“The prisoners.  Or, rather, one of them.  I am not certain he deserves to be…I am not certain he deserves the fate Poridel would have of him.”

“Poridel?  Only Poridel?”  Kellus arched a brow.  “We all agreed what his fate must be.  Not just the Tower Sage.”

John sighed.  “By the baggy breasts of Beshaba, Kellus - I know that.  Hell, I was the one who first agreed.  Yet now…now I am not certain anymore.”

“None of us are.  We make decisions based upon what we know.  We are not infallible.”

“A sermon is not what I need from you, Kellus.  Not now, and certainly not one delivering a message about man’s ability to make mistakes.”  John chewed upon his lip.  “You could help.”

“Why would I help murderers and rapists?”

“Not them,” John sighed.  “You could help _me._”

Kellus’ look was guarded.  “Say what you mean.”

“I would know the truth.  One of the prisoners – the young Basilican – claims he killed a man in a fair duel.  I believe him.”

“Such is your wont.”  Kellus stared hard at John before continuing.  “I will not gainsay you, nor will I agree.  Believe what you will – all men do.”

“I’m asking you to help me, dammit.”  He pitched his voice lower when he caught Raylin and Vath looking in their direction.  “We have bled together – upon the Cormick plains, on the ledge of Borbidon’s Rest, at Olgotha Mound.  You owe me as I owe you.  Ask your…inner power, or whoever or whatever it is you ask, to see if he speaks truthfully.”

“I will not.”

“Why?”

“The decision has been made.  If you cannot sleep easily, then I am sorry for you – truly, I am.  We are in a world of men, not children.  I am not one to sing a lullaby in the hopes you will sleep more easily.”

“Don’t mock me, Kellus.”  John fought to retain his composure.  “A simple spell.  You have said so yourself.  Ask a few questions under your _Zone._”

“I will not, John.”

“Why?”  John nearly grabbed Kellus’ robe.

“We are on the open road, friend.”  Kellus’ voice turned uncharacteristically gentle.  “I must reserve my strength.  The sage believes we are hunted, or soon shall be, by those agents who would welcome Ippizicus’ return.  I must save my power should we need it during any confrontation.”

“That reasoning stinks like the plague, Rhelmsman.”  John’s eyes narrowed.  “Do it.  Tonight.  I will stand your watch, and – on the morrow – you will be fully rested once again.”

“No, John.”

John threw his hands in the air.  He no longer cared if his companions heard him, no longer worried if the prisoners could make out his words.  “This is wrong, man.  Wrong.  I am asking you – nay, I am _begging_ you – just cast a single, simple-”

“No.”

Vath ponderously rose to his feet near the campfire, his dark eyes blacker from the shadows around him.  John ignored the half-troll.  He gripped Kellus’ forearm.  “I will pay you-”

“I said _no_.”  Kellus pulled his arm away.

“Why not?”  John stepped closer to Kellus, his eyes inflamed.  “Why not, I say!  The Basilican may very well be speaking the truth!  One. Simple. Favor.”

“No.  Because-”

John practically shouted.  “Because why?”

“-because _I_ do not want to _know!_”  Kellus – for the first time since John had known him - lost control.  The priest’s face was flushed.  He stepped forward, his mouth close to John’s ear.  “Now - do you understand, Pellman?  Do you?”

John, without sympathy, “No.  I do not.  Say it, Kellus.  I think it is time _you_ say what you mean.”

Kellus ground his teeth for but a moment, his eyes locked upon John’s own.  “I do not cast such a spell…because I fear what it might reveal.”

Silence fell upon them with the weight of the heavens.  John stared at his friend’s face, only inches from his own.  His heart thudded within his chest like a banging anvil.  Finally, as Raylin made his way toward them to help diffuse the situation, John nodded, eyes downcast.  “I understand.”

“I wonder if you do.”  Kellus turned on his heel to go, but John grabbed him one last time.  

The Pellman and the Rhelmsman looked at one another.  John spoke in a voice thick with emotion.  “Perhaps you are right, friend.  Perhaps you give wise counsel.”

Kellus scoffed, his mouth a sour smile.  “If there are gods, John of Pell, then blame them.  Not me.  They made men into the fools we are.”  The Rhelmsman looked at the turf underfoot.  “Wisdom has nothing to do with it.”


----------



## Cinerarium

Great stuff.  Destan, you really know how to put the screws to your players.  It definitely makes for an interesting campaign.

I sense a theme in your games, that you like to force tough choices on your players.  Often when neither outcome is clean.

Would you admit to any overarching philosophy behind your campaigns?


----------



## Joshua Randall

Long time listener, first time caller.

I never really thought about this before, but the (relatively) easy ability to _discern lies_ or place someone within a _zone of truth_ would wreak havok with society. How many of us tell half-truths or white lies to smooth the wheels of civilization? Those little falsehoods usually do no one any harm, but they would be impossible under magical compulsion.

What about the big lies that are still sometimes worth believing: If your wife denied cheating on you, and you still loved her and wanted to keep the family togehter, would you really *want* to subject her to a _zone of truth_? Maybe, like Kellus, you'd be afraid to know.

Is is ever *right* to lie? To save someone's life, for example, when the secret police are looking for him. (Or take any of Kant's examples in the _Groundwork_.)

This is thought provoking stuff, Destan.


----------



## Wisdom Penalty

i think all of the party are utilitarian in their views.  IMO, they believe that by executing the six captives they will achieve a greater good for the greater whole.  

kellus is a realist, he understands what must be done.  jon still has some idealism left in his veins. baden probably is much like jon.  not sure yet about raylin and amel.  vath is mad 

for some reason i do not think the sacrifice will happen.  i guess i will have to wait n' see.

W.P. out


----------



## Tellerve

Vath isn't mad, he just has a dramatically skewed view on life and the philosophy that most others live by.  I actually like the way Illmatar is being portrayed through the flashbacks of Vath and from the little minor bursts of conversation he brings out.

Tellerve


----------



## Lela

Wow.  And I mean that.



			
				Wisdom Penalty said:
			
		

> *
> for some reason i do not think the sacrifice will happen.  i guess i will have to wait n' see.
> 
> *




What if John takes his place?  I could see that happening.


----------



## Tellerve

Noooo, don't sacrifice John of Pell.  *sniffles*  He's like a rakish chip of the old block.  I don't seem to have the psychic powers you possess Lela, and I hope your wrong, but I dunno.  Guess we'll just have to wait and see 

Tellerve


----------



## Lela

Tellerve said:
			
		

> *Noooo, don't sacrifice John of Pell.  *sniffles*  He's like a rakish chip of the old block.  I don't seem to have the psychic powers you possess Lela, and I hope your wrong, but I dunno.  Guess we'll just have to wait and see
> 
> Tellerve *




I hope I'm wrong.  But, short of finding another rapist, murdurer, or evil incocent, I don't see the secret option #3 that will allow John's consience to be clear and satisfy the good and the law.  Even leaving the group won't do that.

I would like to know exactly why Kellus has abandoned Torm.  Right now I could see him loosing Cleric status for not seeking out the Truth where he still in Torm's employ.


----------



## frostrune

> I would like to know exactly why Kellus has abandoned Torm. Right now I could see him loosing Cleric status for not seeking out the Truth where he still in Torm's employ.




Actually Lela, Kellus started his career as a priest of Helm.  LN vs LG.  Maybe a few more shades of gray as to right and wrong... if he were still a devout follower that is  

I'll leave the stroy telling to Destan.

Frostrune


----------



## Nasma

Destan, I can't believe how often you update, it seems every time I check the page, there is a new installment.  It's great.




> He had learned to step carefully around Aradeeti mercenaries, no pun intended.




Call me stupid (not really), but what's the pun?

Love the story btw


----------



## Karrisbane

Nasma, the arid desert land of the Aradeeti is often referred to as the Aradeeti Steppes.  I'm not sure Destan ever mentioned it in the SH, so you're not the only one the pun was lost on; you're just the bravest one for asking.   

Lela, at the time of this update, Kellus fell under the 3E rules and DM fiat.  He had "No Devotion" as his "deity."  Not because he wanted to stretch the rules and choose any two domains but because his background very much supported it.  Kellus's faith is a large part of the story, so like Baden (Frostrune), I'll leave the storytelling to the DM.

--Fitz (Amelyssan)


----------



## Destan

Nasma said:
			
		

> *...but what's the pun?
> *




Heh - looks like Karrisbane found a pun I didn't intend.  

The pun that I was referring to was the fact that he "stepped carefully" around Aradeeti mercenaries in both a figurative and literal fashion.

Figurative: John watched his behavior and his words when they were nearby, knowing their skewed sense of personal honor would launch them into duels at the slightest provocation.

Literal: John never, ever again brushed against them in taverns or marketplaces, hence he "stepped carefully" when physically next to an Aradeeti swordsman.  The first duel had been caused by just such a brief collision - Aradeeti believe all non-Aradeeti to be _quaschti_, and even touching one can mar a nomad's purity and honor.

We'll see more from the Aradeeti, and the other lands around Ostia Prim, as the story progresses.  Right now think of us in the stem of a funnel, and as we climb upward, the funnel widens during our ascent.

This story can be confusing enough without me throwing in _too_ many references to the lands, cultures, and peoples that dot the landscape through which the party travels.  Then again, you readers seem like an insightful bunch - maybe I should do more of that.

Thanks!
D


----------



## Destan

Cinerarium said:
			
		

> *Would you admit to any overarching philosophy behind your campaigns? *






> _Originally posted by Joshua Randall_
> *Is is ever right to lie? To save someone's life, for example, when the secret police are looking for him. (Or take any of Kant's examples in the Groundwork.)*




First of all, welcome to Valusia, Joshua!  I had been hoping for some time that I'd be able to rope you into this thread.  Vath's personal philosophy slightly resembels a warped version of Kant's _Golden Rule_ - we'll see more later.  Thanks for reading.

Second, the two aforementioned questions go hand-in-hand, really.  The 'philosophy' of this campaign is akin to real life in some respects, or at least how I preceive the real world's ethos to be.  

We have many, many shades of gray within Ostia Prim.  There is rarely a "right" and a "wrong" that's clearly defined, nor a "good" and an "evil" that can be readily identified.  Certainly they're exceptions to this theme - demons are evil incarnate, for instance.

Generally, though, I do tend to enjoy making the players think that they may have made the wrong choices, or they may have done something they shouldn't have.  A sense of doubt prevades the whole campaign, in a way.  

I'm able to have this shades-of-gray world because of my group's composition.  I don't think every gaming group would like this sort of thing.  We're about to see a scene that upset many of the characters, and a scene that probably wouldn't have a place in many campaigns.  So, to each her own, I suppose.

Thanks,
D


----------



## ForceUser

Destan said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Heh - looks like Karrisbane found a pun I didn't intend.
> 
> The pun that I was referring to was the fact that he "stepped carefully" around Aradeeti mercenaries in both a figurative and literal fashion.
> 
> Figurative: John watched his behavior and his words when they were nearby, knowing their skewed sense of personal honor would launch them into duels at the slightest provocation.
> 
> Literal: John never, ever again brushed against them in taverns or marketplaces, hence he "stepped carefully" when physically next to an Aradeeti swordsman.  The first duel had been caused by just such a brief collision - Aradeeti believe all non-Aradeeti to be quaschti, and even touching one can mar a nomad's purity and honor.
> 
> We'll see more from the Aradeeti, and the other lands around Ostia Prim, as the story progresses.  Right now think of us in the stem of a funnel, and as we climb upward, the funnel widens during our ascent.
> 
> This story can be confusing enough without me throwing in too many references to the lands, cultures, and peoples that dot the landscape through which the party travels.  Then again, you readers seem like an insightful bunch - maybe I should do more of that.
> 
> Thanks!
> D *



Herbert fan, eh?


----------



## WizarDru

Hmm.  Interesting moral conflicts mixed with a difficult situation.  

Side note: I can't help but notice that while Bards tend to take it on the chin in rules threads, they always prove outstandingly popular in Story Hours.  Go figure.

The characters are what truly makes this story hour shine.  That, and Destan's gift of word, of course.


----------



## LuYangShih

Great story, again.  Kellus is certainly a cowardly fellow, in many ways.  I have much greater respect for Baden and Jon, especially Jon.  Vath is just...  Vath.  I am still forming an opinion of the other party members.  I look forward to reading more.


----------



## Destan

*The Return of Ippizicus Child-Eater*

With each new morning came a new hell.

Amelyssan would end his trance, hours before dawn, the very moment he felt the _pressing_ bear down upon him.  The demon only partially trapped within Margate’s Staff was growing stronger.  Ippizicus’ mental sallies were entirely unlike those earlier caresses of Baphtemet; these were raw in their brutality, filled with an unmitigated urge to inflict pain for pain’s sake.  The battle of wills – Amelyssan pitted against the growing presence of the Child-Eater – lasted only moments during the first few days, but soon grew to span the entirety of the twilight hours before dawn.

And each day, when it was over - when Amelyssan once again proved resilient - the elf would lay backward gasping for air. His body would be drenched with sweat despite the autumnal cold, his joints wracked with aching pains.  The mental anguish, however, was worse.  Much worse.  Amelyssan had difficulty remembering who he was, after the _pressing_ ceased, if only for a handful of heartbeats.  His companions would inevitably offer him wine and water, breads and cheeses.  They would pound his back and slap his cheeks, telling him to endure, to remain strong.

Yet by the sixth day out of Ciddry, Amelyssan could no longer keep food down.  By the seventh, he was unable to enter the trances his people substituted for sleep.  And, by the eighth day, the _horadrel_ could barely sit atop his gelding; he was forced to ride upon the wagon with Vath.  Thus did Amelyssan’s days pass – each dawning in a cognitive war and dying in a sea of apprehension - as the party journeyed toward the Bluehorn at Poridel’s behest.

The battle of wills between elf and demon was no less terrible than the combat upon Olgotha Mound.  Certainly, there were neither shouts of rage nor cries of pain.  Lifeless bodies and spent arrows did not mark where blood had been shed.  The war was fought within the elf’s very essence – indeed, the war was fought _for_ his very essence.  Yet, as he had at Olgotha, Amelyssan felt confident in his abilities to persevere until victory – a final victory – was achieved.

Hence, during the pre-dawn hours of the ninth day, it was with no small sense of wonder that Amelyssan realized he had lost.

***

Or – to be truthful, and truth was all that mattered now – he had _nearly_ lost.

Kellus looked an unasked question at him.  “Two days,” answered Amelyssan.  “Perhaps…less.”

“Yet he has not yet claimed you?”

Amelyssan shook his head.  “No.  But the Child-Eater has won.  I have no defenses remaining – my mind is riddled with children’s laughter and Abyssal phrases.  I taste sulfur and blood on my tongue.  I see…I see death, Kellus.  The world is gray around me.”

Kellus did not hesitate.  “Then I shall take the charge.  Hand me the staff.”

“And hand you my life as well?”  Amelyssan weakly dragged a hand across the sheen on his brow.  “I have carried it for too long.  The demon knows me, knows it has defeated me.  It lets me live because I carry the staff – because I carry _him_ – to his summoning.  That is the only reason.”

Kellus blinked.  “Ippizicus knows what we intend to do?”

“Knows?”  Amelyssan laughed, though the sound issued as a hoarse cough.  “He _wills_ it.  He would have us do nothing else.”

“This is a fool’s errand.”

“Then we are fools.  Did you not say as much to John earlier?”

Kellus turned without comment and made his way toward the campfire.  The former priest looked at Raylin.  “How far do we have?”

“To the Bluehorn?”  The Larrenman looked up from where he was readying Amelyssan’s bedroll against the day’s travel.  “A day, most like, should we leave now and push into early evening.”

“You know the location of the ruins of which Poridel spoke.”  It was not a question, but the look in Amelyssan’s eyes had made Kellus nervous.  At Raylin’s nod, the Rhelmsman gestured toward the wagon.  “Can we move quickly enough to put us there before nightfall?

“No – not with the wagon.”

“We need the wagon.”

And, Raylin, softly, “I know.”

Kellus frowned.  “How long, then?  How deep into the darkness must we travel?”

Raylin smiled without humor.  “A question for another time, perhaps.”  At Kellus’ unaccommodating silence, the clansman shrugged.  “Two hours, mayhaps three.  We could be there by the mid of night, at the latest.”

“Can you still guide us at night?”

“Aye,” Raylin nodded without hesitation.  Then he looked toward Amelyssan’s emaciated form.  “But can you follow?”

Kellus, too, glanced toward the elf.  “He does not have a choice.  Nor do we.  We will again place Amelyssan on the wagon with Vath - he can rest as he may.”

“Then you mean to do it tonight?”  John had approached with characteristic stealth.

Kellus looked at the bard.  “_We_ mean to do it tonight.”  A long moment passed wherein Kellus returned the bard’s stare with one of his own, equally uncompromising.

Baden waded into the silence wielding breakfast - a block of hardtack and strips of jerky.  The dwarf measured the mood of his companions with a look.  “What is it?”

Kellus tore his eyes from John and fastened his gaze upon Baden.  “Pack your kit.  We leave, now.  Raylin believes we shall reach the ruins a few hours past nightfall.”

If Kellus’ words elicited any sentiments within Baden, they were hidden beneath his beard.  The dwarf pitched his voice low.  “Night is not a time for calling forth demons.”

“Is day any better?”  Raylin expertly tied the bedroll and threw it over his shoulder.  “I am with Kellus on this matter.  I would soon put the Bluehorn – and this child-eating demon – to our backs.”

Raylin continued, his own voice even.  “I must feed the mules and our horses.  See that the fire is stamped out.  I will ride ahead – no more than an hour in front of you.  As always, should you find four stones in a diamond shape, get off the Battlemarch and await my return.”

Baden hoisted the loaf of bread.  “I will feed the prisoners, then.”

John spat.  “Why bother?”

The group watched the bard stalk off in silence before they, too, began to break camp.

***

Amelyssan cursed the gods of men and elves.  The grace of his elven tongue served only to accentuate the vileness of his oath.  He was hoping his _Sleep_ spell would have affected all the prisoners.  But it was not to be.  He hated using his magic thusly; he wanted to reserve his dwindling power for the reckoning with Ippizicus.

One prisoner – the Basilican John seemed to think innocent, as it turned out – wrapped his hands around the bars of the cage and pressed his face against the grating.  The youth’s eyes darted from John to Amelyssan and back again.  He was very much awake – and very much afraid.  “No!  Please!  Master elf, I beg of you-”

It would not do.

Amelyssan, with a quick gesture, invoked another _Sleep_.  The man’s face instantly went slack, and he collapsed onto the inert forms of his fellows.

Amelyssan caught John’s glance, saw the accusation therein.  So be it.  _You, gentle Pellman, are not the one holding this staff._  The elf had no doubts that John, should his own mind have been raped daily by Ippizicus’ clutchings, would realize the inevitability of what they now did.  There was no time for misgivings.

“We must hurry – the sleep is deep but fleeting.”  Amelyssan looked toward Vath and Raylin.  “Be quiet, be quick.”

The world was dark around them; only a handful of stars peered downward upon the proceedings.  Though Amelyssan had not relished the thought of summoning Ippizicus during the night, he was oddly thankful for that fact now.  _I cannot see my friends’ countenances, nor they mine._

Baden unlocked the wagon’s rear door with hands made clumsy from the cold.  And, perhaps, from other things.  Vath and Raylin stepped around the dwarf and began to remove the slumbering prisoners from the cage.  “Easy,” Amelyssan warned.  The bodies were soon stacked like cordwood onto the flagstones of the ruined church.

When it was done, Vath climbed atop the wagon and drove it away from the ruins.  Amelyssan watched him disappear behind a half-collapsed wall.  The party had tied their horses there, out of sight from the ruined nave.  The half-troll returned, pulling the red cords around his wrists tighter, rolling his shoulders in preparation.

The party then gathered, quietly, around the handful of sleeping men.  The prisoners were sprawled upon the stones where the altar must have once stood.  Amelyssan was unsure what faith – holy or otherwise – had once been practiced here.  Nor did he know why Ippizicus was first summoned at this location.  If Kellus knew, the former priest did not share such information, and no one had asked.

Amelyssan looked toward the firmament.  The moon was but a sliver.  It was enough for him to see clearly, and Baden and Vath needed no illumination, but his other companions might be hindered.  “Should we light torches?”

John and Kellus answered as one, “No.”

Now that they were here, now that the prisoners were before them, now that it was time…now, suddenly, Amelyssan felt doubt.  _Lord Corellion, I have prayed to you but three times in my one-hundred and fifty seasons - upon the death of my mother, upon the death of my father, and when I cast my first cantrip.  I pray to you now._

Amelyssan licked his lips – he had no saliva.  The elf strode forward and placed the staff upon the stones, near the bodies, and stood. _Know that we do…what we now do…in the name of goodness.  We do this because doing nothing is not an answer._ For a moment the _horadrel_ was motionless, head down, eyes closed.  Vainly he hoped for some divine reassurance, some uplifting inspiration.  

His answer consisted only of darkness, and the cold.

Amelyssan sighed.  He backed away from the staff and rejoined the ring of his companions.  All eyes turned toward Vath.  Amelyssan withdrew his dagger, extended the blade to the half-troll.  “Let it be done.”

***

Vath waved a green-skinned hand at the offered blade.  The half-troll stepped forward, bent near the bodies, and gripped the first prisoner’s head – the Basilican - between meaty paws.  His arms corded for but an instant before he jerked his hands quickly.  An audible crack split the air as the man’s neck broke.  Someone, Amelyssan heard, was weeping.  _Is it me?_  Five more cracks followed on the heels of the first.

Vath looked upward.  His features were smooth.  He was doing what must be done, in his mind.  He was doing the work of his god.  Amelyssan cursed the half-troll in his heart, and – just as quickly – inwardly thanked the monk of Ilmater for staying the course.  _Would I have done the same,_ Amelyssan idly wondered, _were the roles reversed?_  He did not think so.

Should they live, this stain would be upon all their souls – Vath most of all.  Yet the half-troll did not shirk from that fact.  He did not seek the support of his companions, did not ask for their permission.  Never would he seek their forgiveness.  _In a way, he has taken the burden of the staff upon himself as much as any of us._

Amelyssan was surprised to hear his own voice, weak and quavering.  “Thank you, friend.”  So much emotion and so simple words.  _May I one day bear your guilt, as you have mine._

John, it seemed, had steeled himself.  His black looks and threatening glances, so common during their recent trek, were now gone.  They were replaced by a glint of resolve and clenched teeth.  The bard withdrew his rapier.  “Finish it.”

Vath needed no further encouragement.  He plunged a talon into the neck of one of the prisoners, withdrew it, and dripped blood onto the staff.  Where the red liquid splattered, a hissing arose, and mist – mustard-colored as it had been upon Olgotha – rose into the air.

Vath scampered around on his haunches.  Plunge, drip.  Plunge, drip.  With each application of blood, the mist grew thicker, higher, swirling now above the half-troll’s feet.  Then his waist, his chest, and finally above his head.  Vath punctured the throat of the last prisoner, let the blood leak onto the staff – now mostly hidden within the veil of yellow – then stepped backward.  The deed was done; the _six innocents_ had been sacrificed.  

The maelstrom arrived.  A sound arose, akin to wind roaring through a defile of the Balantir Cor.  Amelyssan threw back the sleeves of his robes, subconsciously tightened the grip upon his dagger.  He stepped backward in spite of himself, his flaxen hair whipping about him.  The presence of Ippizicus – the _pressing_ he had felt since leaving Ciddry – was suddenly gone.  

_“HE COMES!”_

A form took shape within the fog, coalescing into a bestial silhouette that bespoke of blood-soaked orgies conducted beneath primeval canopies.  Here formed savagery, untouched and unfettered by the words of philosophers.  Here was the hoary origin of pain, the fount of rage, the chasm of hope never known.  Here was the force which had raged across Valusia, a primordial bull, when the world had forgotten the day.

Here was the Child-Eater.  Here was Ippizicus.


----------



## Alejandro

Destan, you rock.

Sep's cosmology may be unrivaled, but your characters simply _live_.


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## LuYangShih

Agreed.  This is like reading a Song Of Ice And Fire, in many ways.  Which is why I am done reading the thread.  Great read, great writing, great characters, but not my type of story.


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## Wisdom Penalty

Destan said:
			
		

> *We have many, many shades of gray within Ostia Prim.  There is rarely a "right" and a "wrong" that's clearly defined, nor a "good" and an "evil" that can be readily identified.  Certainly they're exceptions to this theme - demons are evil incarnate, for instance.
> 
> Generally, though, I do tend to enjoy making the players think that they may have made the wrong choices, or they may have done something they shouldn't have.  A sense of doubt prevades the whole campaign, in a way.
> 
> I'm able to have this shades-of-gray world because of my group's composition.  I don't think every gaming group would like this sort of thing.  We're about to see a scene that upset many of the characters, and a scene that probably wouldn't have a place in many campaigns.  So, to each her own, I suppose.
> *




prophetic words, destan.

i for one would like to say that this *is* my type of story.  i commend u for pushing the envelope.

i play in a midnight d20 group and thought *that* was dark.  this story hour makes midnight positively cheery!

u have had the big wigs weigh in with their praise - piratecat, sepulchrave.  hopefully eric's grandma won't shut your thread down.  such would be a loss for all of us.

incidentally, the last update was brilliant.  and the last paragraph has yet to see its equal in what ive read.

W.P. out

P.S. i love a song of ice and fire, too!


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## Destan

Alejandro said:
			
		

> *Destan, you rock.
> 
> Sep's cosmology may be unrivaled, but your characters simply live. *




 Ahhh! The 'highs' of writing stories in this forum...



> _Originally posted by LuYangShih_
> *Agreed. This is like reading a Song Of Ice And Fire, in many ways. Which is why I am done reading the thread. Great read, great writing, great characters, but not my type of story.*




 ...and the lows of writing stories in this forum.

In retrospect, I probably should have done a better job warning would-be readers that this story was decidedly grim.  Truth be told, the majority of the recent update was written immediately after the one prior.  I just didn't post it.  And then I accidentally deleted it (talk about a "grim" tale!).

I didn't post it because I was worried about the controversy it might stir.  I don't have enough readers - no one does - to not feel the wound whenever one opts to leave.  I certainly can understand and appreciate any readers' opinions that I may have gone out of bounds.

The difficulty is, of course, that I'm recounting a campaign that was fashioned for a tight group of friends-first, gamers-second.  We've played in high fantasy worlds, and now we're trying our hand in a "low fantasy" campaign.  I generally dislike labels, but am unsure how else to phrase it.

Perhaps the adventures of the Olgotha Brotherhood are best left to player journals and tabletop discussions.  I dunno, to be honest.

Let me end by saying that I apologize to those who might have been offended, and I thank those who have emailed or posted favorable reviews.

Take care, all,
D

P.S.  Wisdom Penalty has me worried! If an admin happens upon this thread and plans to shut 'er down, please give me a heads-up so I can make sure I copy & paste what I've got.  Thanks!


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## Pillars of Hercules

*My kind of story too*

As much as I respect those who feel this story too dark after the last post, I feel it important to chime in and say that it's amazing and that I, for one, respect the risks Destan has chosen to take. 

I think we learn a lot about human nature in tales that maturely (emphasis on that last word) explore its grayer and even darker sides.  Sometimes we even find a perverse heroism in the person willing to pay the price of dishonor in the name of the greater good.  I think that's the point Destan made about Vath in the last post.  Of course, the price to pay is almost always more than just a stain on your heart, and what can seem like the greater good can be anything but, as I'm sure we'll discover in future installments!

OTOH, I too love ASOIAF, so I suppose it's no surprise I love this too.


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## darkbard

Destan said:
			
		

> An audible crack split the air as the man’s neck broke.  Someone, Amelyssan heard, was weeping.  _Is it me?_   [/B]




granted, i proudly wear my heart on my sleeve but this had me actually choking back sobs of empathy.

shut you down?  too dark?  destan, like with any other work of art, a discontented viewer can simply choose not to read your story.  however, i hope that i am not alone in believing that those of us who have become fanatical readers of your story would not have it any other way.  it is the depth of character and moral quandry, the grittiness and [relative] verisimilitude that make this the tale it is! 

please don't scale back your vision in the face of the occasional unease it stirs.


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## Seule

This is a good story.  It is not one for everyone, apparently, but it is one that represents a style of gaming that should be seen.  If you stop telling this story, that would be a shame.  I might suggest a disclaimer at the beginning that you deal with adult issues and moral ambiguities, but please don't stop.

  --Seule


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## Cheiromancer

Hey Destan,

Ask a moderator to take a look at the story.  I would be astonished if there were any objection at all to it.

And keep writing!  This is wonderful stuff.


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## Tellerve

umm, errr, I see nothing wrong with this story at all.  If it is the violence...is that it?, that is bothering some people then I guess they don't watch too many of todays movies, tv, or other media.  *shrugs*  Either that or I'm just way over scared as I didn't even blink when Vath broke everyone's neck.  

As it continues, a great story and very impressive imagery.  My lack of flinching at the story is by no means an indication it wasn't good.  Write on!!

Tellerve


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## Caliber

Personally I think the story is going great. And for every person who posts, I figure you can add about four or five readers for your story. That number only increases as your story hour becomes more popular. 

And heres another thing. The boards sometimes freak out, and it can take a LOT of time to write these things. So always store a backup copy. And if you really want to be sure store a backup-backup. On floppy or CD or on another HD.

Keep up the story, its great. You fill a niche left open between other stories here. 

And if A Song of Ice and Fire is anything like this ... well I defintely better go start reading it ...


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## Cheiromancer

And if by chance your back-up of your back-up should fail, e-mail me.  I'm backing it up too.


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## Olive

It would be a real shame if this stopped, and I'm sure that eric's gradma will be ok with it.

It's not going to be for everyone's tastes, but that's ok. It's certainly my tastes, so i'd like it to continue...


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## dpdx

Okay, I love Story Hours, and I have my reasons why. (I even outlined them in another thread, a long time ago.)

But this one actually evolved my criteria for a great Story Hour, and it is this: gut-check moments.

After reading this (especially the last update), almost everything else, though thoroughly enjoyable in its own right, is Candyland.

Rock on, Destan. Write _your_ story.


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## LuYangShih

You should not stop writing this story.  It is very well written, the characters have great depth, and the world seems very good as well.  I simply do not care for this type of story, and that is in no way a fault of yours or your players characters.  It is, as I said, reminscent of A Song Of Ice And Fire.  A great book series, it too has great writing and great characters, and would likely prove greatly enjoyable to most who read it.  

However, when I was reading A Song Of Ice And Fire, I began to tire of having no one to really cheer for (that lasted).  The despair and oppression of the world was just irritating to me, though I am sure others greatly enjoyed it.  If I want to study human nature, I will pick up a history book or pyschology article, not buy a book of fiction.  I have always read fantasy, and other fictional material, for pure enjoyment.  I enjoy having a hero who is clearly the hero, I enjoy having a villian who is clearly the villian, and I enjoy watching the hero nobly triumph in the end, and live happily ever after.  This is just my personal preference for entertainment, (which is why I read fantasy or fiction novels), and is in no way indicative of whether or not you should continue this story.  

As you can plainly see, many here greatly enjoy reading the story, and I would assume you enjoy writing it.  I encourage you to continue, if that is the case, and do not worry so much whether or not other people are enjoying it.  Just write your story, see who likes it, and let those who do not find other ways to spend their time without worrying about it.  Best of luck with the Story Hour, I am sure it will continue to be a success with your writing and the characters contained within.


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## Graf

Sep's pimping pulled me over. Nice story hour. 

I like the feeling of the different racial cultures, especially Baden's.
(and also the frequent updates).

Personally, I think that the question of whether it's acceptable to sacrifice something (someone's life, an ideal) for a perceived greater good is one of those classic story elements.
While the sacrifice the characters made in the story was definitely horrible, and the payoff low, I don't think you could really say that it was different from the prices/pay-offs of other games/SHs in any kind of fundimental sense. Killing six people for the opportunity of having a demon return to the material, and hopefully destroy it, isn't a great deal. But the character's motivations are good, there are no other options, time is limited and they are remorseful.

[not to story hop.... but in Seps story hour we see a character sacrificing the possible safety of thousands of people to try to save a single demon. While the payoff's may be different it's hard to say that there is any difference between the two structurally. In both cases you have people of power making choices without the consent of those who will be affected, based on their own worldviews and moral codes. Eadrick just has much better pay-offs to choose between than Baden and co.]

So story on I say.

[edit: P-cat, everyone's favorite SH mod, had a story where people were using babies as human shields....  So long as the heroes of the story don't revile in dark acts I really think you need not worry about the mods.]


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## WizarDru

Words of Advice, the first: _*Always* maintain an off-line copy of your work.  Then make a copy of the copy.  Really.  Have you read WizarDru's Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil Story Hour?  Not unless you've been around for a long time, you haven't...it went the way of all flesh when the boards died the first time.  The boards are great, but don't depend on them as your sole archiving method._

Words of Advice, the second: _*Don't worry about the story hour, and keep writing.*  Yours is far from the most controversial story hour on the boards, including the desperate act of the previous installment.  LuYangShih was merely pointing out that the nature of the story itself doesn't appeal to him.  To be likened to GRRM is a compliment of the highest order.  One of my players sent a message to our thread just a few minutes ago concerning the latest installment.  His comment?  _"Destan's story just keeps getting better.  Wow."_ 

You won't be able to appeal to everyone with your story hour, so don't try.  Just as some folks prefer GRRM, Jordan or Pratchett, so do some prefer (contact)'s story hour, yours, mine or Piratecat's or Sepulchrave's.  They're different stories, and different characters and tones.  _

Keep on keeping on, Destan.  Your story hour is one of the best I've read and that I'm glad to share.  The frequency of the updates is pure candy on top of it.


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## handforged

Put me in with the folks who say keep going, and don't change how you write.


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## Ithian

*Stop?  No way!*

Total agreement with the "write on" posts, Destan.  I don't see anything in your SH that any mod would think too extreme, and fact is, sometimes players have to do abhorrent stuff in order to do good.  A little while back I played in a campaign where we had to slaughter a tribe of Goblins? Orcs? who were constantly raiding a settlement and needed to be dealt with.  We killed them all, women, children, etc, because in this world, goblinoid children grow to adult size very quickly, and within about 5 years, the tribe would have threatened the settlement again.  Our Dm loved the guilt and remorse that the characters who chased down the non-coms went through, and loved the journals it produced for that session (we routinely write journals for our characters so we can all see the world through each others' eyes.

Anyway, my point is, lots of campaigns have elements similar to yours, and you shouldn't suppress that, or avoid detailing it in your campaign, because I think situations like these help to define your player's characters far more than saving the princess or or slaying the dragon.

Just so you know, I'm a Sep convert as well.  Followed the link from someone's post over in his SH, and promptly lost about 2 days worht of productivity at work reading from the first post until the then-current one.  Thanks for all your efforts in sharing your campaign with us.  I'll bet just about anything that for every person who decides that your SH isn't for them, 10 more are saying, "What the HELL is that guy talking about?  This SH is GREAT!"

Write on...

-Kev

PS-  Anxioiusly awaiting the next installment...


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## Greybar

Definitely keep going.  And no, I can't see what anything thus far would cause a moderator pause.

I'm off to recommend this to a friend or two...

John


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## Avarice

*Stop?!  Never!*

Honestly Destan, if you put up your pen and leave us hanging after that last update, I for one will never forgive you.  While the themes you're dealing with here are decidedly grim, they are _good_ themes, and have helped us see the characters as so much more than the simple stereotypes that they might have appeared to be at first.  Only by dragging them through these depths are we seeing what they are truly capable of.  So write on, and keep telling your story the way you want to tell it.  I know I won't be the only one still reading.

By the way, I'm in total agreement with Wisdom Penalty about that last paragraph: that was brilliantly written.  I could almost hear cultists chanting in the distance as I read it...


----------



## Cinerarium

I noticed all of the activity on the thread today and popped in to take a look.   Now I'm starting to think Destan payed off the other posters to stir up some controversy and get his page count up 

In all seriousness, there's no way a moderator would think of taking the thread down yet.  If the story had gone, "Baden and his friends cheered as the Child-Eater came back to wreak havoc on the prime!" then maybe it'd be different.  But we just had the previous couple posts' worth of the characters agonizing over their decision, and they still feel unclean.

That's quality storytelling.  Personally, sure, I like high fantasy.  But I also like compelling drama and thick characters -- which this story has aplenty.

So to add to the pleas, keep writing Destan.  It's high quality and a continuous inspiration to my own writing and campaign.


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## dpdx

Cinerarium said:
			
		

> *I noticed all of the activity on the thread today and popped in to take a look.   Now I'm starting to think Destan payed off the other posters to stir up some controversy and get his page count up *



I can't be bought, bro. There isn't enough free product on the planet to make me read a poorly-written SH. Life's too short.


----------



## Destan

Cheiromancer said:
			
		

> *Ask a moderator to take a look at the story.  I would be astonished if there were any objection at all to it.*




I did just that.  Sent an email last night to Piratecat and, unfortunately, he let me know that he's gonna have to shut this thread down.  

I'm kidding.  PC's response was as quick as it was kind.



> _Originally posted by Seule_
> *I might suggest a disclaimer at the beginning that you deal with adult issues and moral ambiguities.*




Good idea - done.  

Thanks for the support.  And, as always, thanks for reading.

D


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## Tumakhunter

*KEEP WRITING!!*

(In awe at the depth of story)

Dude!  Definitely keep on going.  I'm on the edge of my seat over here!


----------



## rigur

Good to hear that we got that "Shut down by a mod" out of the way.

It has been a while since I added my praise. So I thought I might say a few words.

Awe-inspiring
Transubstantiation
Adamant
Addictive
Malefic


So keep up the good work.


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## papa_laz

The day a story hour as superb as this is banned because of controversy will be the day I leave EN World.

Without fresh ideas and the controversy that comes with them, there can be no progress. All the musicians, artists and writers that we now consider great were controversial in their time because they challenged the norm by expressing themselves in ways that others found unconscionable. They went against what society or religion believed was acceptable and made people think in different ways.

I know this is an unecesarry rant because the thread is safe, but even the idea of this story hour being shut down because some people found it too hot to handle makes me extremely angry. 

Rock on D-man.


----------



## Destan

*Luke's First Laugh*

In the end, the rain had made their decision an easy one.  The morning after…the morning after they had faced Ippizicus Child-Eater, the black-fleeced heavens opened with a vengeance.  A deluge lasting three days had settled upon central Valusia, turning the Battlemarch into an infestation of muddy pools and near-concealed bogs. After their wagon had become lodged in the mud for the third time in as many hours, the Larrenman directed the party south across the plains until reaching the Great Coastal Road.  The rolling fields were pockmarked with rocks and rivulets, but the land thereabouts was higher than the Battlemarch and not nearly as sodden.

Hence, the party made their return to Ciddry along a different route than that utilized on their departure.  Travelers – mostly merchant caravans heading between Val Hor and Mon Mith – were more common along the Coastal Road than they had been on the Battlemarch, and the terrain to either side was devoid of much in the way of cover.  Thus Raylin no longer scouted ahead of the group, for attempting to avoid fellow travelers was a hopeless proposition.

So it was that, when the lumbering wagons of the southbound caravan first came into view, the party could do nothing but pull over to the side of the roadway and wait.

“Ale and warmth, friends,” called the lead drover in Valusian.  The man pulled on the reins of his team, doffed his cap, and nodded.

Raylin spread his hands from astride his own mount.  “Ale and warmth.  What news from the north?”

“Wet.  But clear.”  The man dug into his cheek, pulled forth a badly-worried sprig of root, and tossed the herb into a water-filled rut.  “’Least ‘tis clear this side ‘o Jedborough.  Drier, too, once ye be travelin’ underneath the Grove.”

Raylin nodded.  “Those are glad tidings.”  The ranger jerked his chin southward.  “The road south is much the same.  Lots of traffic in and out of Mon Mith, though.”

“Sure there is, sure there is,” agreed the man.  “There’s soon to be a war, and Mon Mith is a welcoming harlot for those carrying food.  You come up from the city, then?”

“Aye,” Raylin lied.

The man took a moment to eye Raylin’s companions.  His gaze lingered on the dwarf and the half-troll.  “Yer an odd bunch, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

A horseman wandered forward.  The man was garbed in a sodden cloak of mouse fur, a great helm hanging from the cantle of his saddle.  “An odd bunch,” he echoed, “with an odd wagon.”

Raylin let his smile fade as he watched the rider approach.

The man peered through the bars into the now-empty cage.  John leaned forward and likewise looked into the wagon.  Both men eyed one another silently before John said, simply enough,  “Bears.”

“Eh?”  The caravan guard squinted.

“Bears from the Borsk.  We sold ‘em to a tavern owner in Mon Mith.”  John paused before continuing.  “The man holds a bear-baiting about this time each year.  Stuffs the beasts’ snouts full o’ pepper before loosing the hounds on ‘em.”

“Does he now?”  The man frowned.  “I been to Mon Mith more times than ye have hairs on your groin, sir.  Never seen no bear-baiting.”

The man sat back in his saddle.  “Thought that was some fool sport they did down by way of Reynholt and parts south.”  He eyed John.  “You sound like a southlander.”

John recalled how Edric of Tarn Cal had once said much the same thing, only to be struck dead by Amelyssan’s arcane bolt.  The bard desperately hoped it would not come to blows – the past twenty days had shown him enough bloodshed to last the next twenty winters.

Still, one needed to be prepared.  John looked over the speaker’s shoulder at his fellows.  Ten men.  Two on each of their four wagons, and two on horseback.  Cudgels, crossbows, leather armor.  The rider before him was the only one in mail – it glistened with rainwater underneath the mouse-fur cloak.  John tried to sound friendly, “Perhaps because I am from Pell-”

“Pell?”  A voice suddenly called out from the second wagon.  An overweight man stood, huffing, and dropped over the side.  He strode forward with his hands in his belt.  As he looked up at John, recognition spread across his face.

John threw back his head and laughed, relief flooding his veins.  “Laughing Luke!  By the sixty great gods, you _do_ get around, don’t you?”

Luke held his belly as he chortled.  “Well, John, these parts are surely far from the Pink Brothel, but – you know me - I go where I smell coin.”

John dismounted and embraced the fat man as the two groups bore silent witness to the sudden turn of events. John held Luke at arms’ length for a moment.  “You always could smell gold, couldn’t you?”

“Always,” Luke said without hesitation, pressing a finger to his bulbous nose.  “And them fool Luc Valusians will pay damned near my asking price for food, arrows, oil.  They be quaking in their boots, fearing the Apians mean to invade with the spring.”

John nodded noncommittally, apparently unconcerned with any talk of military conflict, “What has it been – a year?  Two?  The last I saw you, you had nearly choked to death.  I told you no man could stuff ten prawns in his mouth…”

“Ah, well,” Luke had the grace to appear sheepish.  “You offered to pay five crowns for each o’ them, so I was determined to do my best.”

“What have you been doing since then, Luke?”

“Growing rich,” Luke answered at once.  “My purse is nearly as heavy as my belly. Been so long here in the north that I even bought a house  - on the Fenfinger south and west of Jedborough.  Ever been there?”

“No,” John shook his head.  “I heard it’s a miserable place.”

“Worse now, for I brought Mia and the girls up here with me.”  Luke earned his moniker with another guffaw.  “But what of you?”  The merchant glanced at the caged wagon.  “Bears, truly?”

“No, not truly.”  John winked at the horseman that had been questioning him earlier.  The man’s face grew flushed.

Luke followed John’s look and grinned.  “Corban is a good man.  I pay him to be suspicious.  And he don’t like southlanders too much.”

“You’re a southlander,” John reminded.

“Aye, well, I pay him enough to forget.”  Luke looked at the stone-faced guardsman.  “In the southlands, ‘tis a well-known fact that one must ask John of Pell the same question three times before digging the truth from him.”  

Luke patted John on the shoulder.  “But, enough of me!  What of _you_, John?  I see you have made friends.”  The merchant leaned forward and whispered with feigned conspiracy.  “They’re not nearly as easy on the eyes as them you used to frolic with.”

John feigned surprise as he studied his companions with Luke.  “Why, I don’t suppose they are…but the dwarf is considered a real looker among his clan, or so he claims.  And, I must admit, the elf has grown on me.”

Luke and John were alone in their laughter.  Neither seemed bothered by the fact.

John continued.  “Alas, we were hired by the Lord of Longsnow to pull some rabble from his dungeons and transport them the Mon Mith.  The poor fellows will doubtless be manning the battlements when the Imperials arrive, but I suppose it’ll be a sight better than scratching ticks on a dungeon wall.”

Luke digested this latest fabrication for but a moment.  “Ah, Johnny,” he chuckled, “that seems like an awful lot o’ traveling just to deliver some poor fools for the fighting this spring.  I see no colors of Longsnow, nor Valudia, on your breasts or beasts.  And since when did those lords north of the Jaspar give a fig about helping those to the south?”

“Since the Queen offered three crowns for each able-bodied man to aid in the defense of Mon Mith.”

“I don’t believe a word of it, Johnny.” Luke waved a hand. “Working for some Longsnow noble ain’t your style.”

John shrugged.  “I’ve matured.”

“Auril’s ass, I say!”  Luke slapped his fat hands against his legs.  “Tell it true, John.”

John allowed the mirth leave his face.  “Since you asked me a third time, I suppose I shall have to.”

“Do not,” warned Raylin.

John ignored his companion, relishing the theatrical drama of the moment, then answered, almost casually.  “Five days ago we - my homely companions and I - were on the banks of the Bluehorn in a ruined church.  While there, we summoned a demon.

“And then we killed him.”

Luke took a moment to collect himself.  “Gods and devils, but I believe you.”  His eyes were as wide as platinum plates.  “Now _that_ would be a story I’d like to hear you tell.”

“Happy to,” John quickly answered.

The bard glanced, somewhat guiltily, at the smoldering faces of his companions before wrapping an arm about Luke.  “Tell your men to pull off the road.  If I know you, you’ve enough wine and food to feed an army – and do it in style.  You share your meal with my companions and I, and I'll share our tale with you.”

“Done,” Luke said at once.  “What is the story called?”

John stopped walking and tilted his head in thought.  _The Larrenman’s Last Stand?  The Abyssal Battle of the Bluehorn?  Children’s Vengeance? No, no, and no._  Suddenly, John snapped his fingers.  “Why, the tale is called - _How John of Pell Slew Ippizicus Child-Eater._”

“Not entirely imaginative,” observed Luke wryly.

“Nor entirely true,” agreed John, unruffled.  “But let’s not let that ruin the story.”



*I'm placing this little 'Easter egg' here. Since the advent of the Word documents that include all the posts from this first Sins' thread, I'd imagine no one actually reads the orginal internet updates. If you are here, then it means I was wrong. Go ahead and post, on this old thread, and I'll send you a free copy of the Valus sourcebook and the Return of Ippizicus Child-Eater module. Just my way of saying thanks to anyone who's slogging through these old posts.

UPDATE: Dolza won this little contest about one day after I posted it. Thought it would last longer. If you're reading this now, I apologize - but I'd still like to hear from folks who are reading through these old messages!*


----------



## Ithian

*The Fate of Demons...*

Destan-

Love how you left everyone hanging for the whole post.  This is really great stuff...just wish you had had more time to write...the cliff hangers are killing me!

-Kev


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## pogre

You have made me anxious to read a tale I already know the ending to - well done!


----------



## Lela

Well, I have missed the hubub, haven't I?

First, I'd like to say to Destan that you definitally did not loose me as a reader (he had expressed concern via e-mail).  If anything, I have been drawn depper into this tale.  My absence has been due a large commotion involving a 17 page research paper (not mine, thank every good-aligned thing in existance) that prevented internet access on my part.

Truely, this really is one of the best stories I've ever read.  My hopes to become both a better DM and a better writer because of your story are, IMO, very well founded.  And, even if I didn't, I would enjoy reading it just the same.

And, hay, if a mod were to have shut you down, I would insist you e-mail me updates regularly.  I'm sure others would too.

So, on to the last post,



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> * “Why, the tale is called - How John of Pell Slew Ippizicus Child-Eater.”
> 
> “Not entirely imaginative,” observed Luke wryly.
> 
> “Nor entirely true,” agreed John, unruffled.  “But let’s not let that ruin the story.” *




You've got some of the best lines I've ever read.  If there's one line that describes John, that's it.  That's sig worthy, that is.

Now I just have to bite my nails until the next time you update.

Edit: As a side note, how does one pronounce Ippizicus?


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## Karrisbane

Lela said:
			
		

> *Edit: As a side note, how does one pronounce Ippizicus? *




ih-PIHZ-ih-cuss.  All the "i"s are soft.

Amelyssan


----------



## Greybar

Destan, you are a devil.

Now I can't wait to hear John tell the tale...

john


----------



## Maladrac

*A self-portrait*

Ale and Warmth to all.

Since Destan is out of town for a bit, I thought I might throw out a little treat for all his fans.

The attached file not only allows you all to feast your eyes on my rugged good looks, but also shows the basic size and shape of the Isle of Valusia in the background.  The little red circle over my shoulder is my beloved home port, the free-city of Pell.

John of Pell


----------



## Cheiromancer

Bump!


----------



## papa_laz

Need....more....story.....


----------



## Destan

*A Soul-Stirring Story*

Moments after John had announced the title of his tale, a squall swept eastward across the Conomora, trailing sheets of rain in its gray wake.  Were Kellus a reader of portents, he might categorize the sudden storm as a harbinger of things to come.  As it was, however, the former priest ignored the elements as capably as he ignored those men scrambling for cover.

“Careful, you dolt!”  Corban slid from his horse and began barking orders.  “Eamon, if  you move your wagon another two paces in that direction, you’ll spend the next tenday regretting it.  As sure as Auril is a cold bedfellow, the rest of us won’t be helpin’ you dig her free!”

Luke and John, oblivious to the sudden commotion, made their way under the spreading boughs of a large oak.  The bard stopped and looked over his shoulder at Kellus.  “Hurry, friend – your breastplate has enough rust upon it!”

Kellus shook his head –he did not feel ready to squeeze amongst Luke’s men beneath the tree.  That was John’s element, not his.  Kellus was never one for camaraderie – at least not since his father’s death.  

The rain – though cold - felt surprisingly good upon his face.  _Clean._  Kellus sat upon a log, just off the roadway, and let the rain splatter upon his uncovered brow.  Perhaps he was wrong to be so concerned with secrecy.  They had achieved what they had set out to do, even if their methods had been…not what he would have hoped.  Ippizicus was gone, the staff destroyed, the threat passed.  Let the bard spin his tale; he earned it.  They all did.

Two of Luke’s drovers pulled a barrel off the rear of one of the wagons.  They rolled the cask across the spongy turf before standing it upright next to the Pellman.  Another of Luke’s men stepped forward with alacrity, as if saving a companion from a deadly fall, only to wipe mud from the lid.  John sat, smiling his thanks, and withdrew a reed flute he had whittled during their journey from the Bluehorn.

Kellus was as uncompromising when judging himself as when judging others.  Moreso, really.  Thus, he did not attempt to ignore the dawning realization that – now more than ever - he missed his Church.  He missed his God.  Kellus sat upon a log in the rain, but he wanted nothing more to be sitting upon a pew within the Helmite Temple of Tarn Cal.  He heard the laughter and voices of Luke’s men and his companions as they clustered around John, but he instead yearned to hear the soothing hymnals of Helm being recited from Matins to Compline. 

The memories brought visions – in rapid succession – of his earlier life.  His life under the protective eye of Helm. The flickering candles, the massive stone shield above the altar, the childhood antics of Helm’s acolytes.  His father’s beaming smile when Kellus’ own Ordination was complete.  The way his mother came alive while within the Temple, when she felt closer to the two infants she had lost.  She would hold the hymnal book open before her while singing, but never did she need read the words.  

He did not want to remember, but remember he did.  And – when he tasted the salt upon his tongue – he broke his silence.  Kellus spoke to Helm for the first time in fourteen years.

He thanked the Lord Protector for the rain.

***

“Hold up,” John raised a hand for silence.  “Who is this dour-faced and rain-soaked person that now approaches?”  The bard stood, his eyes alight, as he squinted dramatically at Kellus.  “Tell me, traveler, are some undead creature doomed to wander the Coastal Road?  Perhaps the storm has drawn you forth from your grave?”

Luke’s men laughed, clustered around John’s barrel like a gaggle of school children.  The Pellman pretended to rub the disbelief from his eyes.  “You wear armor that seems older than these hills.  Surely you are neither alive nor dead.  For what living man would be caught dead in such attire?”

Raylin smiled.  “I seem to recall you being very thankful for his armor when you had that oversized helm perched upon your head-”

“Yes, yes,” agreed Baden.  The dwarf was already on his third cup of ale.  “At first I thought you a cowardly southlander when you did not assault the wyvern with the rest of us.  Now I know it was because you could not see the brute – the iron cap on your head covered your eyes!  Ha!”

John frowned with mock seriousness.  He glanced askance at the dwarf.  “Tell me – is that what passes for humor among the Halls of Axemarch?”

Baden grumbled within his beard.  “Three more drinks and I will be funny.”

“Three more drinks for you,” John asked, “or for us?”

“Both.”

On cue, one of Luke’s men pulled the cork from a bottle with his teeth and refilled the dwarf’s tankard.  The drovers passed around the drink as they made room for Kellus to join them.  The former priest tipped a bottle, drinking deeply, and wiped the foam from his chin.  “So, friends, has the bard sung his tale yet?”

“No,” Luke said sullenly, “he has not.  He seems more interested in blowing wind through that reed and drinking my hard-earned mead.”

“He needs time to think up some lies,” Baden offered.

John sat upon the cask and pressed a hand to his chest.  His face wore a look of hurt.  “You wound me, dwarf.”

Baden coughed mead from his nose.  “For letting these men know you lie?”

“No,” John answered easily, “for letting them think I need time to do so.”

Luke rolled his eyes.  “Out with the tale, John.  I have enough ale and food for the Mon Mith garrison, but apparently not enough for you and your companions.  Would you leave me destitute?”

John sighed.  “First, would someone give the half-troll some meat?  He cannot drink alcohol, and his eyes appear like those of a kicked puppy.  I cannot concentrate on the story while staring at such a face, however comely.”

Luke stood and fished around in the back of a nearby wagon.  He turned, holding a jar to his chest, and deposited it near Vath’s sandaled feet.  The half-troll wasted no time – soon his chin was drenched with slaver and verjuice.

“Now, then,” John began, a bit ruffled as to the distraction the feasting Vath posed, “let me begin the tale of _How John of Pell Slew Ippizicus Child-Easter._”

***

“We knew the demon was imprisoned within the staff, but also did we know he might soon break free.  I argued to my companions that we must strike now, while we held the initiative, regardless of the terrible dangers we could face.  The world, I told them, was depending upon us.  We must do what must be done.

“So it was that we set the staff upon the rocks of that old temple.  Thousands of virgins had been sacrificed there during the Age of Darkness, and I could hear their voices calling to us on the wind.  I began to sing, gentlemen, to drown out their carnal pleas.  I feared we would lose Kellus to their sultry promises – he has been long without companionship.”

A few of the younger drovers shot Kellus an empathetic look.  He returned their gazes stone-faced.

John continued.  “And then the Child-Eater arrived amidst a chorus of those infernal maidens.  Have you ever seen a Cymerian galley as she breaks free from a fog bank?  Hmm?  No?  Well, then, let me tell you – Ippizicus reminded me of just such a scene.  He was large, swathed in the mists, and bespoke of power both visible and hidden.

“A foul stench wafted outward, then.”  John crinkled his nose for effect.  “Have any of you ever had the misfortune of being close to a Rorn grizzly?  No?  It is not a pretty position to be in, let me assure you.  Ippizicus smelled just as those great, red bears often do – wet fur, blood, decay.  I pushed our elf behind me even as I placed myself in the fore of our group.”

John ignored Amelyssan’s quizzical expression.  “The demon was more animal than man, though he stood upright.  He was twice as tall and twice as ugly as the half-troll you see eating mutton.  Black fur covered his chest and ran down his back, and his arms ended in taloned hands the size of yonder horse’s head.  He grinned at me with crocodile teeth, marking me as a threat, and even as I strode forward with my blade, he stepped from the mists to meet my challenge.”

John drew his rapier and thrust it through the air.  “It was a hard-fought battle.  One of the hardest, gentlemen, I have chanced to be in - and I have been in some very rough spots, let me tell you.  Soon I was left virtually alone against the monstrosity – the dwarf was sorely wounded and the clansman had retreated behind a nearby stone wall.”

John sheathed his sword with a flourish and leaned forward, his voice pitched low enough to cause his listeners to do the same.  Even Corban’s face was rapt with attention and awe.  “We traded blow for blow, as my companions did their best to distract the demon.  Yet Ippizicus, though he appeared a beast, was not stupid.  He knew that he must defeat me should he gain his freedom to terrorize these lands.”

John leaned back.  He looked at a beardless youth of Luke’s company, and when next the bard spoke, his voice was filled with passion.  “I knew that – should I fall – the demon would rampage across Valusia as he did in days of yore.  He would tear infants from their mothers’ breasts; he would devour children by the hundreds.  I steeled myself, then, to give my life in defense of all those who travel the roadways in these parts – though they might never learn of my sacrifice.”

John ruffled the hair of a nearby drover, smiling to dispel the mood of doom.  “But ol’ Ippizicus had met his match.  And he knew it, as did I.  I moved in, sword held low, ready to deliver the strike that would send him to his death-”

“Demons do not die,” Kellus interrupted.

“What?”

“They do not die.  Not if you slay them on this world, on this plane.”  Kellus smiled.  “Killing them only banishes them to their home plane of existence.  For Ippizicus, that would likely be somewhere in the Abyss.”

John frowned.  “You mean – he is not dead?  Truly dead?”

“That is exactly what I mean.”  Kellus folded his arms over his chest.  “Please, continue.  I apologize for the interruption.”

It took a moment for John to regain his composure.  The Pellman gazed upon his listeners for support.  “As I was saying, I stepped forward.  By now the Larrenman was down on the ground, bleeding, and I knew his life was forfeit if I did not strike quick and true.”

“You said the clansman was behind a stone wall.”

John sighed.  He fixed a pedagogical gaze on the youth near his feet.  “What?”

The boy looked suddenly unsure of himself.  “You…you said earlier that the clansman – the Larrenman – had retreated behind a stone wall.”

“So?”

“But,” the boy looked around, glanced at Raylin, then looked to John once more.  His voice was meek.  “But…you just said he was on the ground bleeding.”

“Tell me, child,” John said in an even tone, “were you there?”

Baden snorted with laughter, mead splattering against those sitting next to him.  He winked at John.  “Judgin’ by what ye been saying, I’m beginnin’ to wonder if _you_ were there, Pellman.”

The crowd tittered with confused laughter.  John bit his lip so hard it nearly bled.  “Please,” he raised his hands, affecting the posture of an exasperated lecturer, “I am trying to tell it true.  There are those here who would appreciate some silence so that I may finish the tale.  Yes?  Good.”

John once more lowered his voice.  “As terrible as the sight of Ippizicus was – terrible enough to freeze a veteran’s blood.  And as horrible as his smell – more horrible than all the midden heaps you have ever passed upon.  The worst, friends,” John shook his fist, “the worst was when he spoke.”

“Spoke?” Corban asked.

“Spoke,” John answered without missing a beat.  “He sounded like a dying destrier – his voice was part scream and part growl.  His words spilled forth in waves of pure evil.  Do any of you know the speech of Old Gordia, the black tongue they use only in the most remote mountain canyons of that wintry isle?  I understood-”

“I do,” came a voice from the rear.  The drover Eamon raised his hand tentatively.

“What?” John’s mouth opened and closed a number of times like a fish out of water.  “You speak Black Gordian?”

Eamon nodded over the sudden explosion of laughter from Baden and Raylin.  “Not well, but some.  Me father was a fisherman outta Deepcove.  Some of the men on his boat were from the northlands, and they would teach me some curses in their Black tongue.  I never-”

John spat in the mud at his feet.  “Enough,” he said.  “Ippizicus spoke a tongue I learned while traveling through the jungles of Genn…none of you have been to Genn, correct?”  John looked uncertain for but a moment.  “Good.  It was not Black Gordian, but sounded somewhat like it.  Very low, guttural.”

John screwed up his face in a demonic pantomime.  “The Child-Eater fixed his yellow cat’s eyes upon me and said, ‘You are a worthy opponent, manling.  Step aside and let me leave these ruins, and I shall reward you with thousands of coins I gathered during the Age of Darkness.  I have coffers of emerald, and necklaces of diamond.  I have drinking horns fashioned from the teeth of dragons, and pendants glinting with sapphires from Genn.  You will be as rich as any King or Queen.  Only let me pass.’”

John let the words hang in the air for a long moment.  Only then did he continue, his face now set with resolve.  “And I said unto the Child-Eater, ‘Never will I allow such, for you would kill those innocent babes and children that live under these stars.  You would slay those good and honorable men that drive and guard the caravans between the Valusian cities.  You would lay waste to entire towns, leaving naught but death in your wake.’”

John sat back and drew himself up.  “Then Ippizicus’ eyes flickered with an emotion not seen in them for an eternity…”

“What was it?” came the hushed question from the back.

“Fear,” John answered.  

The bard slapped his hands together, causing many of those in the front ranks to spill some of their mead.  “It was at that precise moment I stabbed him through the eye, then through the other eye as he fell, and finally through his neck as he lay twisting upon the stones.”

John spread his arms.  “And lo!  As the demon perished a hundred souls were released from his body.  Light, wispy things – like mists upon the mountainside.  They spiraled and dived about the clearing, wrapping around each of us – myself and my companions – murmuring their thanks in childlike voices.  Some of the spirits even passed through us, and in their wake left emotions of relief and gratitude.”

John’s voice softened.  “It was more than enough reward for our exertions – to know we released those trapped souls from torment.  Better than all the gems and jewelry we might have gained should we have let Ippizicus purchase his freedom.”

John’s earlier discomfort melted as he basked in the wondrous murmurs of his audience.  “But,” he held up a finger, “I did not slay him alone.  No, sirs.  Do not give all your praise unto me.  For my companions bought me valuable time so that I might puncture the demon with the tip of my rapier.”  John inclined his head toward his companions like an actor upon the stage.

Luke stood after a moment and pounded John on the back.  “A good tale, and well told, friend.  It appears the lot of us owe you our lives and livelihoods.”  He laughed and ordered for another crate of bottles to be brought forth before measuring John with a look.  “But what of your wagon?  Why do you travel with a wagon that appears more like a prison upon wheels?”

John’s smile faded from his face.  He glanced at Kellus, at Vath, at all his companions in turn.  He then looked to Luke.  “We had hoped to cage the beast, to bring him to the nearest Temple, and thereby end his existence on this plane and all planes.”  John studied the ground.  “Alas, it was not to be.”

“Ah well, John,” Luke commiserated, “’twas noble in thought, if not in deed.”

***

Neither Luke’s men nor the party left the oak the remainder of the day, since the rain showed no signs of lessening.  Thus the night was far advanced when Eamon the drover approached Baden; the dwarf was noisily relieving himself against an outlying bush.

“Master dwarf,” Eamon began as he fumbled with the strings of his breeches.

“Aye?”

“Tell me, sir, please,” the drover asked, “was John’s story true?”

Baden shrugged, the movement causing him to curse with surprise and step backward a pace.  “Some of it.”

Eamon was bold from drink.  “John didn’t kill the demon single-handedly, like he made it sound, did he?”

“No.”

Eamon nodded sagely.  He began to urinate and, like most simple men, felt his mind clear as his body did likewise.  “And the Larrenman – he never done run away like John said, did he? To hide behind some wall?”

“No.  Raylin was in it from the first, and till the end.”

“And the demon – was he really as tall as John said?  Twice as tall as the half-troll?”

Baden finished his work and pulled his breeches upward.  The dwarf craned his neck to stare at the sky, a few drops of rain pelting his upturned face.  Bolder stars had begun to show themselves.  “No.  He was not quite so tall as that.”

Eamon frowned as he retied his pants.  “About them souls of the children the demon done ate – was that true?”

“What part of it?”

“Well,” Eamon’s face grew taut with drunken concentration, “were there spirits set free when Ippi…when the demon done died?”

“Aye, that part was true.”

Eamon’s eyes widened.  “Truly?”  Then, after a pause, “And they passed through ye, then?  The children’s spirits – they passed straight on through ye?”

“No,” Baden shook his head and turned back toward the campfire and the wagons.  “Some of them decided to stay for a while.”

Eamon watched the dwarf walk toward the men and horses.  He was at first confused, but then began to laugh.  The dwarf had nearly had him fooled – just like John did – but Eamon was no simpleton.  He had made the Mon Mith to Val Hor ride more times than any of them, save maybe Luke and Corban.  The drover ran to catch the dwarf.  “I nearly believed you, master dwarf!”

Baden gave a slight grin.  “Believe it or not, ‘tis all the same to me.”

And then, within Baden’s head, came the voice he had been hearing – a child’s voice – since Ippizicus had been slain by Raylin’s two swords.  _I like you, Baden.  I am glad I am with you now._

_As am I, little one,_ Baden replied, never saying a word aloud.


----------



## Greybar

ooooooooooooooooooooohhhh

(I'll come back when I think of some words -john)


----------



## Gidien

Guess it's about time I chimed in. Excellent story Destan. The writing is always top quality, the story flows well, and the characters are all very interesting. I can't wait for the next update... Please keep this up. Don't be afraid to write controversial stuff. I think the though decisions the characters were forced to make was the high point of the story. Looking forward to more.


----------



## starwolf

Wow


----------



## grodog

An excellent tale, all-around


----------



## Lela

Destan said:
			
		

> *A Soul-Stirring Story
> 
> He did not want to remember, but remember he did.  And – when he tasted the salt upon his tongue – he broke his silence.  Kellus spoke to Helm for the first time in fourteen years.
> 
> He thanked the Lord Protector for the rain.*




Whoa.  And, to think, you managed to overshadow even this with this next section.

I'm starting to really like Kellus too.



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> And then, within Baden’s head, came the voice he had heard – a child’s voice – since Ippizicus had been slain by Raylin’s two swords.  _I like you, Baden.  I am glad I am with you now._
> 
> _As am I, little one,_ Baden replied, never saying a word aloud. [/B]




Oh, wow.

Dozens of questions fly through my head.  What effect will these children have in the future?  How much influance will they have over that which is around them?  What the heck _are_ they?

I can't wait to see it all unfold.


----------



## handforged

wow.

that was awesome.  When I read the line about the men leaning forward tensely listening to John's story, I realized that I was doing the exact same thing in front of my computer.

Kellus's revelation was enjoyable as well.

Would it be possible to have a meta-story post about some of the details of the fight against Ippizi... I mean the demon.

Great story


----------



## frostrune

*Meta-game post*



> Would it be possible to have a meta-story post about some of the details of the fight against Ippizi... I mean the demon.




Based on yours and other folks' comments, Destan has been buggin us (his players) about the little 'details' and rogues gallery type stuff.  

Unfortunately, the stuff Destan is posting right now was played about 18 months ago in January '02.  The details of these encounters are far from fresh for any of us and we all did a poor job of keeping old records.

To the best of my memory the fight against Ippi was very one-sided.  We were buffed to the max, or as buffed as 3rd level guys get, and had all readied actions just waiting for him.  We laid a lot of damage on him before he really could react.  I don't think the fight lasted more than 3 or 4 rounds.  Somewhat anti-climactic after the build up.  

I simply love the way Destan presented it.

For those of you out there looking for Rogues Gallery stuff we ask for your patience.  We'll get there.  Our group records start to improve considerably after about 4th or 5 th level. 

Thanks for the interest,

frostrune


----------



## Lazybones

I've only just finished page 1, but I wanted to offer my (preliminary) comments.

Great description and characterization; the various characters really come alive in your narrative and dialogue.  The vivid imagery in your text is generally really good; a _lot_ of similies, some better than others (dragging entrails like a wedding dress?), and it can get a bit overwhelming when everything is compared to something else, but overall I really like the style.  As someone else noted above I really want to learn more about these characters (luckily I've got 5 more pages to read through). 

Thanks for writing.  I look forward to getting caught up with everyone else in the coming days.

Lazybones


----------



## Destan

handforged said:
			
		

> *Would it be possible to have a meta-story post about some of the details of the fight against Ippizi... I mean the demon.
> *




I echo frostrune's response - the party completely annihilated the poor demon.  It was a very good lesson for me, as DM, to realize just how much of a difference it can make when the characters know when and where combat is going to occur.

I know some of you probably didn't like the way I ended the one update with a climatic "HE'S COMING!" and then started the next update post-battle.  I struggled finding a way to tell the anti-climatic story while making it at least somewhat interesting for the readers.  Putting the words in John's mouth - which did not truly occur in the campaign - was the method I chose.  Hopefully it worked for you.



> _Originally posted by Lazybones_
> *... a lot of similies, some better than others (dragging entrails like a wedding dress?), and it can get a bit overwhelming when everything is compared to something else, but overall I really like the style.*




Glad to have you aboard, Lazybones.  Would you be surprised if I told you I used to be much, much worse?  I seem to want to drop a simile into every sentence.  Maladrac (John of Pell's player) offered the same criticism regarding a novel I had written a couple years ago.  It's feedback like yours that is exactly the type of thing I'm looking for with respect to this story.



> *Thanks for writing. I look forward to getting caught up with everyone else in the coming days.*





I'd be interested to hear your thoughts once you get to where we are now.  I actually went back and found a second 'wedding gown' simile.  Embarassing, it is.  I removed it.

The Valusian group meets in little less than a week for another Thursday-Sunday marathon session.  Just reinforces my belief that I'll never truly catch up to the campaign in this story hour thread.  Ugh!

Here's hoping all of you have great weekends,
D


----------



## pogre

Forgive me Destan.


> The Valusian group meets in little less than a week for another Thursday-Sunday marathon session. Just reinforces my belief that I'll never truly catch up to the campaign in this story hour thread. Ugh!




Yay!!! [Jumps around like JHS cheerleader.]

Edit: Hey while I'm at it a quick request:
I would like to know if your group plays any differently next weekend due to your Story Hour. I think mine does in very subtle ways.


----------



## starwolf

A "Must stay on the first page" BUMP


----------



## starwolf

OH Wow my first double!


----------



## Lela

starwolf said:
			
		

> *OH Wow my first double! *




Congrats!  A true rite of passing, that.


----------



## Lazybones

Okay, just got caught up to where the story is. 

Overall, the story and style are very strong.  The descriptive text is quite good; the description of Ciddry, for instance, was evocative and gave me a good mental picture of the town.  In hindsight I could better recognize the "in between sessions" postings, as the amount of character interaction dropped off significantly, but they still contributed to the overall story.  I also appreciated the flexible approach to the narrative structure; i.e. telling parts of the story through flashback, switching perspective with each chapter, etc.  I'm not sure if I personally would have done this with such a major plot event as the battle with the demon, but having heard the meta comments on it (that the session took place so long ago that the details were fuzzy), I understand your approach.  

I empathized totally with the discussion about posting at ENWorld spoiling the writer.  I've been posting fiction here for quite some time now, utterly neglecting my "serious" writing in part because I get addicted to the positive feedback (as opposed to the silence and/or ambivalence one gets from agents and editors). 

As to the earlier "controversy" over the material (the one "negative" post wasn't really that harsh, as we saw in LYS's follow-up post), I wouldn't worry about it.  As someone else noted, we've seen some pretty stark stuff in PirateCat's and Wulf's story hours, and those two are the most popular on the boards.  Heck, I had a demon rip out a character's internal organs and hang the carcass up on a wall for his friends to find.   

I look forward to future updates. 

Lazy


----------



## Tumakhunter

A-Hem.

Bump


----------



## pogre

Shhhhh, I think he is sleeping after 4 days of gaming madness. Give him a month to recover 

Oh and BUMP


----------



## Maladrac

*54 hours of gaming madness*

*yawn*  *stretch*  *blink,blink*

What day is it?
     I just came out of a sleep-deprivation induced coma myself, so it may be some time until Destan makes it back.  Plus, I heard him saying something about being "creatively tapped".

     But be patient, he'll be back.  And if you stick around long enough to hear him tell the tale of what happened this weekend, you won't be disappointed.  We're accustomed to Destan 'dropping a bomb' during a weekend session, but this time was more like 'carpet bombing'.

     Keep reading.

Maruvan,
Maladrac (aka. John of Pell)


----------



## Lela

Destan, Destan, wherefor art thou Destan?  Deny thy eyelids and refuse thy yawns.

Come back to us.  We can't live without you.


----------



## Destan

*Old Acquaintances Revisited *

Baden waited for Poridel’s guardsman to close the door before tossing a large leather sack onto the table in front of the Tower Sage.  It landed with a meaty report.

Poridel stared at the unopened bag for some time before looking up to regard each member of the party.  “You have done a great and noble service to this Isle, friends.  One that may remain unknown and overlooked-”

“I doubt that.” Kellus shot a glance in John’s direction.

“-but, nonetheless, a deed that deserves an entry in the annals of heroes.”

The sage stood up, clasped both hands behind his back, and began to circle the table.  He stared at the sack like a child watching a viper.  As the party settled into comfortable seats around the trestle, Poridel’s face softened.  His tone, when he next spoke, was filled with respect.  “And so Ippizicus Child-Eater, bane to ancient Valudia, terror to the peoples north of the Jaspar, now lies slain – banished to his own infernal plane.  Within the sack is the great demon-beast’s head, I presume?”

“Breakfast muffins, actually.”  John kicked off his boots and crossed his legs upon the table.  “Filled with just enough berries to make them crumble when grasped.  Annoying, actually – I would have thought the bakers hereabouts were more skilled.”

Poridel arched his brow.  “Indeed.”  The sage took a moment to gather his thoughts after taking his own seat.  He placed both his palms upon the table.  “So, friends, what now?”

Kellus rested his elbows upon the table and fixed a hard stare at Poridel.  “You mentioned the Twin Prophecies, when we first met. I would know more.”

“Ah, well,” Poridel nodded, “that is a rather confusing tale.”  The sage watched as John opened the sack and began to toss muffins to those seated around him.  “Hundreds of years ago, after the last Basilican city-state fell to the new Empire of Apia, two monks began to chant.”

“Fascinating,” John quipped, his mouth stuffed with muffin.

“Each monk was of a different church and, though both were within present-day Basilica, they were hundreds of miles apart.  Their chants, however, were nearly identical.  They were gripped in the throes of prophecy, and their respective abbots recognized oracular words when they heard them.  Thus, the chants were recorded by their fellow penitents.”

Kellus nodded.  “And these records – they are what you refer to as the Twin Prophecies?”

Poridel nodded.  “Nearly identical, but not quite.  For one presaged the doom of Ostia Prim-” 

“And the other spoke of how Good would triumph.  Eh?”  John smiled, his lips stained with berry juice.  “Seems like the beginning of a cliché.  It would make a poor song.”

“No, friend,” Poridel answered, not unkindly.  “The second also alluded to Evil overcoming all, in the end – though in a slightly different manner.”

John frowned.  “Make that – a _very_ poor song.”

“I do not disagree.  The abbots and their brothers were horrified of what the chanting monks foretold.  The world, it seemed, would descend into a time of despair.  The Lamia Imperator, the demonic ruler of the Rorn who was last seen during the ending of the Sin War, would return to once again seek godhood.”

Baden grimaced.  “What does this have to do with us?”

And Raylin:  “Sage, do you hold these prophecies to be true?”

Poridel continued.  “I believe they hint toward the truth, but – like all prophecies – may be interpreted in a myriad number of ways.”  The sage eyed Baden.  “As to your question – the Twin Prophecies concern the lot of you because you, friends, set them in motion.  Both chants commence with the return of Ippizicus.”

Kellus rolled a berry between thumb and forefinger.  “What do the prophecies say shall occur next?”

“A good question, friend.”  Poridel leaned back in his chair.  “Most scholars – of which I am one – would agree that nothing is certain.  The prophecies do not tell how events will unfold, but only that they shall.  And even then, the passages are cloaked in riddles and buried beneath enigmas.”

Baden grunted.  “There is a clan of my folk not far from Axemarch - the Foxfurs.  They kill mountain bears and their runethanes afterward poke about the entrails with stoneshod staves.  They mutter prophecies, too, yet none can understand what they mean.”  The dwarf plucked a crumb from his beard and tossed it onto the floor.  “In the end, I think, they mean nothing.  These so-called holy men just bide their time until events unfold and then they marry the truth to what they said previously.”

Kellus spoke before Poridel could reply.  “We could debate the validity of prophecies until the end of this Age.  What concerns me, however, is what these monks said would occur next.  You must have some idea, Master Poriden.”

“I do.”  Poridel raised a hand to the party, palm outward.  “Pretend that my wrist symbolizes the return of Ippizicus.  The prophecies do not state whether he would be slain or not.  But they do discuss other names-”

“Other demons?”  At Poridel’s nod, John sighed.  “Give me a Gordian reaver or Cymerian buccaneer – and I will shower the world with tales of my heroism.  But demons…I grow tired of ancient demons and ancient tales.”

Poridel acknowledged John’s complaint with an empathetic nod. “From the return of the Child-Eater, the chants splinter into various threads.”  The sage wiggled the fingers of his upraised hand.  “Many of these branches are – presently – nonsensical.  We do not know to what they refer.  But two names are mentioned, as I said, and these names belong to demonic contemporaries of Ippizicus.”

Poridel lowered his hand.  He measured each member of the party in turn.  “One has been lost, but the other has not.  His name is Ral, called Torturer, and he slumbers beneath the Duskingdell Barrows not a tenday from here.”

***

“And why do you tell us this?”  Baden shifted uncomfortably.

“Because you are ensnared in the Twin Prophecies,” Poridel quickly answered.  “I told you earlier that many know of these Basilican monks and their chants – not just myself.  Those who released Ippizicus – that would be the lot of you - have a part to play in the rest of the tale.”

“What part?”  Kellus did not appear eager to hear the answer.

“A major one.”

“For good or evil?”

“Forgive me, but I simply do not know.”  Poridel patted the back of Kellus’ hand before continuing.  “And neither do those who are our enemies.  But they are the type to hedge their bets, so to speak.  I have little doubt they will endeavor to remove you from contention so as to not worry over your influence upon fate.”

“By that, you mean: they will seek to kill us.”

“Yes, most certainly.”  Poridel intertwined his fingers and leaned forward.  “But we must not let them-”

“For once,” John declared a trifle too loudly, “I am in agreement with you.”

“Just as the lot of you took the initiative at Olgotha, and later at the church along the Bluehorn, so must you take it now.  Strike those beings we know to be evil, before they grow in their knowledge and their power.”

John raised his eyes heavenward.  “Why do I feel like an errand boy?”

“I should think you would feel more like a hero.”

“A hero?”  John’s face grew dark.  “Do you know what we have done these past tendays, sage?  Do you?”  The bard glowered.  “We have killed mercenaries from Tarn Cal – husbands and fathers, most likely, who simply were doing their duty to gather enough coins to put bread upon the table.  Then we trekked across this godforsaken land and climbed a mountain to fully gaze upon the evil of the dwem.  I went through one pair of breeches from my fear at seeing the wyvern on Borbidan’s crest, and another from having a nightmare about the encounter the following evening.”

“I honor those sacrifices you and your companions have made, John of Pell, but-”

“Ah, yes,” John continued, the bitterness now full in his voice.  “Sacrifices.  I had the pleasure of watching our half-troll shove his thumb through the neck of a Basilican – little more than a child – while he slept.  Let us not forget our sacrifices, eh?”

***

The room was quiet for some time.  Poridel appeared uncertain.  “Friends – and I call you such because you are friends to all those who would see Good in this world – I know your path has not been easy.  This world is more gray than white, and more black than gray.  Hopes fade with each setting of the sun.  These are bleak times – hard times – and none who walk within this interminable twilight are untouched by sadness.”

“A sermon worthy of Ilmater,” Kellus opined.  The former priest wearily rubbed fingers into his bald pate.  

“I have nothing.”  Kellus looked away from the sage and instead addressed his companions.  “My father is gone.  My faith spurned.  I have no home, no hearth, and no aim.  If…if slaying this second demon would somehow give meaning to an otherwise wasted life, then…then I shall do it, or die in the attempt.”

John was quiet.

Raylin spoke after an awkward moment.  “Do you have coins to pay us?”

“No.”  Poridel shook his head.  “I have used what little funds I possessed to learn the scant knowledge I now have.  If you do this thing, then your reward will not be in gold.”

When Kellus next spoke, his gaze did not leave the table.  “I left the Church of Helm when my father was killed.  This is known.  But I had begun to doubt long before that tragedy.”  The Rhelmsman drummed his fingers on the table.  “It is taught in the Helm catechism that the demons and devils fell from the heavens.  They were once angels, celestial beings of great power and beauty.  They lived within a cosmos that was perfect.  But they desired more than their lot, and they reached for it, and they made war amongst the stars.  And for that, they were cast down.”

The former priest looked up to regard his companions.  “The heavens are _perfect_, I say.  Thus – any change from that pinnacle could only be, by logic, a change for the worse.  For how can one achieve greater perfection?  Perfection itself is an absolute.”

John rubbed his face, trying and failing to hide his exasperation.  “Why this, Kellus?  And why _now_?”

“Because, should I fall, I would have this known.”  Kellus challenged John with a stare before once again addressing the entire party.  “The reason why I first doubted Helm is rather simple: if these demons and devils once basked within absolute perfection, then – why did they have any _need_ for more?  In a state of perfect bliss, there should be no need.”

Poridel opened his mouth to respond, but Kellus held up a hand.  “I do not want answers, less so debate.  I only know this – I _need_ to rid the world of those that do not belong here.  I do not know why.  These demons, these devils, they are not of this plane.  They are abominations.  They stained the very heavens with their cloven passage, and I would not have them make this shadowy world any more grim than it need be.”

Kellus sat his mace upon the table.  “Sage, I would go to find this Ral the Torturer.  Alone, if need be.  And I need no payment other than knowing I have done what I could.  But…but when will this end?  Will it end?”

Poridel looked upon the Rhelmsman like father to son.  “No, friend.  I do not think it will end.  We must do what we can in the time allotted to us, in the hopes the great darkness will be delayed.”

Vath spoke for the first time since entering the chambers.  “Then both prophecies have this creature – this Lamia Imperator of whom you spoke – being victorious?”

“I am afraid so,” Poridel answered.  “He can be delayed, harried, injured, and weakened.  But not destroyed.”

“I will pretend I did not hear your last comment,” John muttered, “else I would think myself twice the fool I already am for agreeing to this second quest.”

Poridel smiled, though without humor.  “Then you, too, will seek the death of Ral?”

“I will.”  John looked about at the faces of his companions.  “And since my friends are, on the whole, less intelligent than myself, I have little doubt they will go on this fool’s errand as well.”

Amelyssan gave his assent with a slight nod.  “Master Poriden, one last question – you mentioned two demons, yes?  The first is Ral, and we know he resides within the Duskingdell.  Yet you did not elaborate on the second.”

“Ah, yes,” Poridel sighed, “the second was a man, at one time, and was granted his demonhood by the Lamia Imperator himself.  I do not know where he now is, though I am rather certain he is upon this plane.”

John felt his stomach sink.  “His name?”

“Baphtemet.”

“Baphtemet?” The entire party echoed the sage as one.

“Aye, Baphtemet.”  Poridel appeared confused.  “Do you know of him?”

“Aye,” John answered, his voice hoarse, “you could say that.”


----------



## Greybar

> This world is more gray than white, and more black than gray. Hopes fade with each setting of the sun.




Oh, so yoinked....

Great stuff.  Great, dark stuff.
Thank you,

john


----------



## Lela

Baphtemet.

Yeah, that's when I'd change my mind about the whole thing.


----------



## Branok

I'm a newcomer to this SH part of ENWorld, but I must say, Destan, that your tale has kept me glued to my computer for the last couple of days as I tried to wolf down the story along every post. I must say that I'm awed by the focus on the little details, but at the same time never losing the big picture, all of which brings your tale to life in a way that few fiction novels ever accomplish (and I read a LOT ).

I'm a relatively new role-player (been playing for about 3 years), and an even newer DM (just this year), but you've managed to make clear to me what a good RPG, and what every DM worth of the name tries to accomplish: an envolving story, with a plot to keep all involved interested at all times, and above all, an atmosphere that makes you quiver with anticipation of what could happen next.

I may be somewhat younger than your average player (18), but I believe that input should come from all age ranges, and mine is, apart from the sucking-up part  , just simple praise for a job very well done. I sincerely hope that you heed the advice coming from your readers (myself included), that you never manage to catch up with your current story, so we have lots and lots of happy times reading your posts.
Continue with the good work!!

P.S.: I don't mind the themes one bit. In fact, it makes for very interesting role-playing from the characters, and we get to see how they evolve throughout their actions and decisions. Keep it that way.


----------



## Destan

*Of Demons and Discourtesy *

“Beneath that snow is a whole lot o’ ugly, that’s for damned sure.”

Baden eyed the snow-covered corpse of the wyvern at his feet.  His companions gathered around him, their mood one of reflection.  “By rights,” Kellus breathed, “we should be dead.”

“At the least, _I_ should be dead.”  Raylin’s face was half-grin and half-grimace.  “I canna’ even remember being stung, but the wyvern’s poison left a bad taste in my mouth for damned near a tenday.”

“We know,” John answered.  “Your breath smelled worse than the half-troll’s sandals.”

Amelyssan scanned the broken horizon with his elven vision.  In all directions, save the west, the mountains of the Balantir Cor rose upward to pierce the sky’s underbelly with peaks and crags.  To Amelyssan, a _horadrel_ from the Gruns, the mountains were at once inspiring and intimidating.  It was as if some vengeful god had crushed a world of rock within his hands, then scattered the broken shards onto Ostia Prim.

Amelyssan shielded his eyes and looked to the east.  “Where do they end?”

“The ‘Cor?  Two hundred leagues.  Mayhaps more.”  Baden shrugged.  “Eventually, the rock turns to dirt and the mountains to hills.  Perhaps another fifty leagues east of the foothills, the land drops over cliffs onto the breakers of Nurdunger Deepe.”

“And are there not elves that live in these mountains?”

“In the mountains – no.”  Baden punched a finger toward the southeast.  “Behind those crags lays the Godspring, a lake of unknown depths and the fount of the Dwem River.  Follow that waterway long enough, then cut east over the ‘Cor – the mountains aren’t as high thereabouts – and you’ll find yourself descending into the Arn Vale.”

“Aye,” John sighed, “the birthplace of Arn brandy.  May Tymora and all the gods bless those fancy lads brewing the stuff.”

Amelyssan seemed to chew upon the knowledge.  “You have a magnificent homeland, friend Baden.”

“I know,” Baden replied.  The dwarf frowned in his whiskers before repeating himself, more softly, “I know.”

Vath reappeared.  The half-troll stood, silhouetted in the cavern’s entrance.  “The stone disk has been moved.  The crypt lays open.”

“What?” John sputtered.  “But we plugged that hole with the disk ‘ere we departed.”

Vath did not reply.  He did not need to.

***

Raylin idly shook his hand, watching the handful of teeth bounce upon his open palm.  The Larrenman was squatting within the corridor just beyond the once-concealed door, deep within Borbidan’s tomb.  Sprinkled upon the tiles at his feet, spreading outward in all directions, was horror and gore.

John winced.  His voice was hushed:  “How many?”

Raylin let the teeth drop quietly from his hand.  He surveyed the myriad body parts.  Eyes, arms, hands, genitals, more teeth.  Two tongues.  “Four?  Five?  Truly, I do not know.”

John toed a cloak at his feet.  Something was beneath the cloth, something that stank like the rest of the hallway, something he had no desire to see.  The material had once been green, most likely, but now was black from dried blood. “What did this?”

Raylin stood.  “They did.”  He gestured to the ambiguous piles that had once been men.  “They did it to one another.”

Kellus did not wholly agree, but he kept his counsel to himself for the moment.  The former priest eyed Raylin.  “How long ago?”

“Days.  The blood is dried and the bodies hard.  Still…”

Baden pulled upon his bead.  “Your face bespeaks your doubt, ranger.  Tell it true.”

Raylin nodded.  “If days have passed since their deaths, as I believe, then surely the animals of these mountains would have been drawn to the stench.  Snowcat spoor is sprinkled everywhere outside – this place is not bereft of scavenging wildlife.”

“Perhaps they feared the wyvern, and did not know the beast to be dead.”  John looked to his friends for support.  “Or maybe those damned cats are smarter than we are, and realize crypts are no place for the living.”

Raylin wiped the filth from his hands.  “There is wisdom in your words.  We should leave.”

Baden stepped aside and looked past the Larrenman, his darkvision probing the blackness.  “Let us go, then,” he whispered hoarsely.  “We have answered the dwem’s evil already; we sent their black priest back to his hells.  There is naught here for us, save death.”

Raylin grabbed the torch from John’s hand and thrust it toward the exit.  “Move, then. I will follow.  Elf, stay close.”

“Hold.”  The corridor was silent save for Vath’s labored breathing.  The half-troll stared at Kellus, both of them sharing an unspoken understanding.  “You would know for certain.”  It was not a question.

Kellus nodded.

“Then I will go with you.”

“Know what?”  John squinted at the half-troll before locking gazes with the Rhelmsman.

“Whether _he_ remains caged.”

***

Kellus walked, alone, down the long corridor.

His companions were behind him, huddled at the intersection, as quiet as admonished acolytes.  At the very edge of his flickering torchlight, he spied the door.  The same door that they had opened days ago.  The portal that led to the former resting place of Borbidan Elfkiller.  Within that chamber he and his companions had slain the unholy dwem-priest Morgad.

But it was not the door, nor what lay behind it, that concerned him.  Not now.

He was careful where he stepped.  Chunks of flesh festooned the floor like strewn rushes, the stones darker from bloodstains.  There was a forlorn helm, and next to it a mace.  Resting against the wall was what could only be the torso of a man, still draped in green robes of Gond.

Something splattered onto the cobbles in front of him.  He felt a cool drop land upon his cheek.  _But this is a dry cave,_ Kellus thought.  He looked upward, holding his torch aloft, and strangled back a cry.  The ceiling was not unlike the floor – bodies had been smashed into the stone above, the red-black pulp still glistening in the torchlight.  _Fresh bodies, still bleeding._

He bent lower, the torch before him like a holy ward, and stared at the culvert – knowing what he would see and yet hoping he was wrong.  The uneasiness in his stomach exploded into terror.  

The bars had been sundered. 

Kellus drew back, the torch dropping from nerveless fingers.  He stared with dawning horror at the black hole that once served as the demon’s prison.  “Run,” he moaned, though only he could hear.

Kellus turned, looked down the hallway that now seemed to stretch the length of the entire mountain range.  “Run!” he screamed, loudly now, heeding his own advice.  Kellus sprinted down the corridor, his clanging armor and thudding boots mercilessly echoing throughout the crypt.

“He is loose!” he cried, his own fear rising with the realization.  “Baphtemet is free!”

_Indeed I am, Godless One._  The voice was a soft purr of promised pain.  _And I believe you shall now answer for your earlier discourtesies._


----------



## Karrisbane

Man.  I was THERE and this is still scary to read.  This was nowhere near the rout that the Ippizicus fight was...

Fitz
a.k.a. Amelyssan


----------



## Lela

Never piss off a Demon.  Never.

And, dangit Destan, you've got me all psyched again.  If I was reading this on paper I wouldn't be able to stop myself from continuing on.  Then again, if I had it on paper, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from reading period.  So perhaps its better this way.


----------



## Alejandro

I lurv it when a PC gibbers with fear. This is probably why I like Mostin and his angels more than unflappable supermen like Eadric or Malachite. Go Kellus!


----------



## Joshua Randall

The advice to *run* is often a PC's best option. But how often do they heed it? *shakes head sadly*

Didn't Gandalf put it best in _Fellowship of the Ring_: "This foe is beyond any of you. Run!"


----------



## Greybar

Joshua,
That is such a good comment that I was inspired to start a new thread in the General forum to discuss it.
john


----------



## Piratecat

Yeah, you really, REALLY don't want an enemy who can _teleport without error_ at will.  

Great stuff!


----------



## Lela

Very true, P-Kitty.  It's far worse when there's more than one.  Let's hope he didn't bring friends.


----------



## grodog

Good update Destan!  

I love demons (heh), so let's hear some more about the demonic backstory in your game.  I'm also still curious to learn more about Ippizicus---what kind of demon was he, why was he a push-over, etc.?  Yes, this is another request for a Rogue's Gallery thread, not so cleverly disguised ;->


----------



## Destan

grodog said:
			
		

> Yes, this is another request for a Rogue's Gallery thread, not so cleverly disguised ;->




I'll give it a shot.  Again, most of the information folks seem to want concerns the characters' stats, and - as far as I know - those are lost beneath numerous erasings and pencil marks.  As we progress down the story hour lane, we should be able to throw up PC stats - eventually.

I did take a moment to throw Ippizicus' stats onto a new Rogue's Gallery thread.  Nothing too flashy - he's a CR5 and the party, at that time, probably consisted of six 3rd level characters.

You can see the ape-demon's info, along with a couple words on his tactics and those freed child-spirts, here:

Sins of Our Father's Rogues Gallery 

Take care,
D


----------



## Nasma

Can't let this stay off the first page


----------



## kane

Karrisbane said:
			
		

> Man.  I was THERE and this is still scary to read.  This was nowhere near the rout that the Ippizicus fight was...
> 
> Fitz
> a.k.a. Amelyssan




I was not there Karrisbane, but I wish I was.  Just wanted to drop in and say that it's nice to read about all the things I missed out on before joing the group.  Keep it up Destan!  Can't wait.

Kane


----------



## Graf

Destan said:
			
		

> And then, within Baden’s head, came the voice he had been hearing – a child’s voice – since Ippizicus had been slain by Raylin’s two swords.  _I like you, Baden.  I am glad I am with you now._
> 
> _As am I, little one,_ Baden replied, never saying a word aloud.




Uh huh. That's right. You killed the eeevil demon and now the adoring voices in your head are really little kids. Uh huh. Really.You just keep the little voice all to yourself and don't tell anyone about it. Things will turn out for the best that way.

SH still great btw.


----------



## Nasma

Bump


----------



## iwatt

Destan..... I need my fix. 

 By the way thanks for the Rogue Gallery. Really love what you've done with the "soft possesions" of the children. I also liked Baden a lot. But please, show us Vath....


----------



## Destan

iwatt said:
			
		

> Destan..... I need my fix.




Tonight - finally.  This latest update was written, then tossed, then written, ad nauseum.  If I go "on record" by posting that I'll have it done tonight, that'll force me over the proverbial hump and make it happen.  

I hope.



> But please, show us Vath....




I'll let Vath's player know.  He's a packrat, so you may just have some of his old character sheets.

D


----------



## Destan

*A World Bereft of Song*



First, the death of Ippizicus.  Then – the rippling.

***

The once-man cocked his head to one side.  Was the planar tempest abating?  He listened, his heart beginning to beat more rapidly with each passing moment, as the sound of the storm’s fury lessened.  _He returns!_  The once-man sprinted down the corridors, his hooves leaving bloody gashes in the backs and faces of those bodies that comprised the floor of the demi-plane.

The once-man had forgotten what it was like to _run._  For hundreds of years he had simply willed himself from one place to another – whether that be from plane to plane, or from corridor to antechamber.  Sweat – _sweat!_ – sprung from his alabaster skin.  

The once-man slowed his pace, flexed his hands, and watched as the sinews contracted beneath the skin of his wrists.  Tapered, ebony talons pierced the soft flesh of his palms – _oh glorious pain!_  His face twisted into an orgasmic grimace.  He had forgotten what it was like to _feel._  The wound instantly healed, but it was no matter – he bled, as the world would soon bleed.

The storm was not abating!  Never did the planar maelstroms lessen in their rage.  If the sound died – as it did now – such could only be a harbinger of Him.  For He would not suffer any distractions – even that of nature itself.

***

A tickle upon the edge of his consciousness.  Over thirteen hundred years of waiting were forgotten in an instant.  

It begins. Again.  He opened his eyes.

The sand pressed down upon him, the very firmament of the world upon his massive shoulders.  The blackness was absolute, the heat blistering.  Mere annoyances.

He brought his fist toward his face in the darkness, pushing aside tons of rock in the process.  He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, smiled as the sound of groaning joints and cracking bones reverberated throughout the stone.

A day passed.  Two.  A tenday.  He waited.  He had waited a millennium.  A few more weeks or months, even years – this was nothing.  He possessed two traits rare for his kind – patience and loyalty.  He had displayed them both; he displayed them now.

And his reward came fifty-three days after his eyes had opened.

Above him, faint but growing stronger, the sounds of pick and shovel could be heard.

***

The man stopped his advance.

His enemies – hundreds of misshapen demons – did not pause to question their good fortune.  In the respite they clawed and gored one another to escape from his wrath.

Carceri flamed around him.  The umber sky shot through with flames of crimson.  The ground bubbled and popped like lava.  Geysers of steam and ash exploded at random, throwing the bodies of less-quick fiends hundreds of feet into the air.

The man knelt, oblivious to the primal fury being exhibited around him.  He pressed his face against the hilt of his sword.  He had not wept in spite of everything.  He wept now.

His vigil was long.  Above him, the sky turned orange then black then red once more.  Again and again, always changing and always unchanged.

He opened his eyes, hot from the tears, and looked down upon his body.  His armor was dented, smeared, covered with gore and soot.  His fingers ached, for they had clutched his sword for what seemed an eternity.

There was little hope for his world.  None for him.  He felt as if the Circles of Hell and the infinite pockets of the Abyss vomited their hatred and spite at his presence, his promise.  Indeed they did.

And then he recalled a thought – a memory – of the time before his Betrayal.  He had watched, during the second year of the siege, as a cow wandered from one side of the cobbled street to the other.  The beast was emaciated and weak, the flesh hanging from its bones.  Diseased, else it would have been eaten as other…as others had been.  It was starving, its tongue swollen from thirst, its eyes mad with the coughing sickness.  But…but it did not lie down.  Nor would he.

He stood.

***

The Abbot sat down, the refectory silent.

Around him his flock watched.  He knew their own emotions, their own resolve, would be based upon what he would now show in his face.  He was not strong – he knew that now – but he believed he was strong enough for the pretense.

“Eat,” he commanded.  It was the first word spoken within the cloister in over two years, since she had first faltered in her Song.  “And talk.”

He needed to repeat his command three more times before his fellow monks began to speak.  Their words were stunted, confused.  The vow of silence had been comforting in its own way.  Men who cannot talk cannot so easily despair.

Only Brother Martinicus had not been sworn under the vow of silence.  It was he who conducted business with the townsfolk and the lay persons of the monastery.  The Abbot noted that Martinicus did not talk now, regardless.  The Abbot glanced at his friend and brother, his eyes inexorably sliding downward to stare at the wooden box sitting innocuously beneath his chair.  _No,_ he thought, _I would not speak, either, were I him._

The Abbot watched as his brethren passed victuals to one another with all the levity of a funeral.  When they did speak, their words were soft – as if they feared he only tested their holy vow, and would soon announce those that broke the silence would be sent out from the monastery and into a world soon to be lit only by flame.

_No, my sons.  Would that I could grant you such a kindness._

For his own part, the Abbot attempted to speak in a normal tone.  His words seem forced.  It was forbidden to laugh or smile within the refectory, but he felt such a transgression warranted; his penance would be eternal.  So he chuckled and discussed mundane matters like any tavern patron, but his laugh was grating in his own ears, his anecdotes drab.

The meal was awkward.  The food tasteless.  The mood unbearable.  Still, the abbot fervently and silently prayed it would last – forever if need be.  When the bells sounded vespers, his chest clenched and for a moment he thought he might die – _please let is be so!_

He looked up after a moment.  His heart still thudded within his breast, and he felt shame for his inward cry for release.  Yet the shame served to bolster his resolve, so perhaps the gods were kind in their own way.

He stood, and the abbey stood with him.  “Come, my sons.”

He led them from the refectory, past the balneary and the cloister proper.  Their procession was quiet – none of the monks spoke, their earlier vowed silence descending upon them once more.  Around them laymen stood from their work and stared, their eyes confused and questioning.

The Abbot had strength enough for his brothers, but not for those others of his flock.  _May the gods forgive me._  He ignored the inquisitive and fearful stares of the monastery’s common folk, and so did his flock behind him.

The monks walked under the gatehouse and into the aedificium.  The Abbot waited, hands clasped beneath his robes to hide their shaking.  Soon they were assembled.

He was not one to dissemble.  “She has stopped Singing.”

He watched – the grief threatening to crack his breast – as his flock’s fears were confirmed.  Some of the younger monks began to weep.  It would not do.

A righteous anger grew within him, lending him strength.  “Each of us knew, when we entered this Brotherhood, that one day she may stop Singing.  Indeed,” he shouted, his voice now filled with the authority of a pulpit he had disdained years ago, “we knew that one day she _would_ stop Singing.”

He removed his hands from beneath his robes.  They no longer shook.  “Brother, the vials, please.”

Martinicus produced the small lockbox from beneath his own vestments.  He inserted a key, turned the latch, and lifted the lid.  Forty-two crystal vials stared upward at the Abbot as he gazed within, and upon each he saw the faces of his brethren.  

He must be quick now – ‘lest he lose his nerve.  The Abbot reached into the box, grabbed one vial, and promptly hurled it upon the flagstones at his feet.  It shattered.  A clear liquid spread across the stones.

“Brother Martinicus will not drink with us.”

At his words, the assemblage erupted into prayers and moans.

The Abbot was quiet.  He had wisely chosen his flock against a day such as this.  They would recognize _what must be_ in their own time, their own way.  In the end, it took even less time than he had hoped.

Martinicus did something, then, he had not done in forty years of devoted service – he questioned.  “Father, I beg of you.  Let one of the younger monks take this charge.  I am too old.”

The Abbot turned to him who had been his friend and fellow for half a century.  “What do you say, Brother?”

“I say – I will drink.”

“You will not.”  The Abbot let anger he did not feel show in his face and voice.  “I have decided.”  Then, under his breath, he hissed, “Do not make this harder than it is, Martin.”

The Abbot held Martinicus’ stare for a long moment before turning to his flock once more.  “It is known – when the Singing ends, the Twin Prophecies commence.  Our charge has finished.  We are no longer for this world.”

The Abbot retrieved a second vial.  This one was his.  “Come, my children, each take his own.”

The monks filed forward and each man grabbed a vial.  Soon, it was finished.  Only Martinicus stood without.  The Abbot turned to him.  “Go, now, Brother.  Tell those that must be told.”

“And then?”

“And then?” the Abbot echoed.  He frowned with thought.  “Then, pray.  Pray that you do not envy us.”

Martinicus left.

The Abbot popped the lid from his vial, forty-one monks did likewise.  He raised the small decanter.  “For the gods and the world they made.”

“For the gods and the world they made.”

They drank.


----------



## Destan

And now, the apologia.

I know most of you - including my rather annoying players - wanted an update to settle the Baphtemet situation.  I can only say that it's coming, and will be posted the moment it's worthy of such.

In the interim, I decided to throw an update on the boards that touches upon some other threads within the campaign.  This type of update is different in that I have to be careful what I post - some of the revealed threads have not yet been visited by the party, and I'm not one to give away secrets.  I apologize for their inherent ambiguity.  All will be made clear, but it may - no, _will_ - take some time before we get to those points in this story.

As a peace offering, I'll try to post Vath's stats over on the rogue's gallery thread.

And always - thanks for sticking with me and this story, even through this no-update wasteland.  Even if every "bump" didn't produce an update, it did force my butt into the writing chair.  Which, as Sepulchrave mentioned, is damned important.

Hopefully I'll be back and killing off those PC's dearest to you in the very near future!

D

_Edit: Added Valusian half-troll information to the Rogue's Gallery thread as well._


----------



## Justinian

I haven't posted here before, but I've been reading since you started posting this SH. I find updates like this most recent one are, in some ways, more compelling because of their ambiguity than the storyline proper. In my opinion, the more background snippets or parenthetical asides that a story hour contains, the more the world and the overall story are illuminated.

The image of a single man in Carceri, still fighting, impressed me a great deal. I'm looking forward to seeing how that links into the main arc, and I'm already thinking of ways to evoke that kind of image in my campaign.

Some of the best story hours only update once a month or so. That doesn't make them any lesser, and I'll still be here if it's another month before the next update.

Thanks to you and your players for the great story.


----------



## pogre

Destan said:
			
		

> And now, the apologia.
> 
> Hopefully I'll be back and killing off those PC's dearest to you in the very near future!
> 
> D




Hey, no apology needed - write when you feel like it. Just know that your words are much appreciated. Obviously, RL is about to hit you again in a BIG way and there is no way to keep up when that happens. Remember this about fun, not work!

Let the players whine - it's what they do best


----------



## iwatt

Yup. Any update is appreciated. And I agree with Justinian, these snipets give the world breadth and the story an even greater style. So keep it up.

Thanks for the rogue gallery update as well.


----------



## Caliber

I defintely enjoyed it. Its these kinds of things which I sometimes try (whether or not I'm successful is another story) to convey to my players. 

The beautiful way you've conveyed them to us ...

Well ... wow!


----------



## Cyronax

Why is this on the third page? I don't even remember if I've praised Destan for his efforts before, but I'm doing so now. Great stuff, you're the cream of the crop imo. 

Thanks,
C.I.D.


----------



## Destan

*Hope When Hope Has Fled*


John dragged a hand through his hair and stared at the blackness.  His emotions had ranged from utter panic to anticipatory dread to, now, resentment.  _Baphtemet, you whoreson, stop toying with us._  It was the seventh time he had had a similar thought, and it was the seventh time the Pellman half-expected and half-feared to hear the demon’s response - within his head or otherwise.

The period of time immediately following Kellus’ half-choked scream was, understandably, one of madness.  The group had ricocheted and bounced off numerous walls and archways before Amelyssan was able to cast a _light_ spell on Baden’s axe.  Once the humans could see, their retreat was no less hurried but certainly more organized.

Yet they had reached the final cavern – the former lair of the now-dead wyvern – without incident.  No pounding, pursuing footsteps.  No telepathic warnings or demonic cajoling.  Nothing.  The sun had been balanced on the western horizon when they first exited the tomb; it was now nearly hidden.

Amelyssan had been the first to break their terrified silence, urging in his characteristically soft tones for the lot of them to relax, listen, and let some of the tension leave their muscles.

_Tension?  What tension?_  John made no effort to hide his scowl as he furiously, and unsuccessfully, worked his flint and tinder.  The southlander was fairly confident not one of them would survive the upcoming confrontation – after all, he had seen what Baphtemet had done to those hapless Gondians within the tomb.  

John interrupted his own train of thought.  “Do you mean to tell me that not one of us – _not one_ – dropped a crown or two for a single, thrice-damned sunrod?”

His companions pointedly ignored him.  John looked at each of them in turn, though none returned his gaze, before recommencing his self-pity with a sigh.  Despite the imminent doom, he could not help but curse the little things: his toes were cold, his cloak threadbare, his mouth tasted like a dwarf’s backside – not that he had firsthand knowledge – and…“Bah!  These damned torches won’t catch fire!”

Raylin threw his own last, lit torch forward into the cavern’s darkness before turning toward the bard.  “Your hands are shaking, friend.”  His tone was more of comfort than accusation.  “Be easy on the flint, ‘lest you chip so and it loses its edge.”  

John spat and threw his pair of unlit brands at the ranger’s feet.  “I know how to light a torch, Larrenman.”

Raylin studied him quietly before bending to retrieve the torches.

John opened his mouth of if to say something, thought better of it, and closed it once more.  He watched the Larrenman kneel and begin to strike flint to steel, a small bough of dried nestles and tinder at the terminus of the sparks’ arc.  He turned away the moment the fire took.

***

Raylin looked away from John’s back and glanced about the cavern for perhaps the twentieth time.  He did not like the idea of fighting here, within the wyvern’s former lair; it was too dark, for one; the floor too uneven, for two.

But he liked the idea of fighting outside upon the ledge even less.

Once they realized Baphtemet had not decided to immediately pursue them, Kellus had told of the bodies smashed against the tomb’s ceiling outside the demon’s prison.  _Strike that – _former_ prison._  The Larrenman was uncertain as to what powers the demon possessed, but great strength was obviously one of them.  Raylin did not relish the thought of being thrown or pushed over the cliff’s edge any more than his companions did.

So the encounter would be here - within the mountain instead of outside it - and well away from the dizzying precipice.  And since the humans of the group – himself included – could not see through the gloom, Raylin and John had busied themselves illuminating the place as best they could.

The ranger dipped both of John’s torches into his makeshift flame. He allowed the fire to lick the beeswax for a handful of heartbeats before throwing both brands deeper into the tomb, down the lone corridor leading to their current position.  If Baphtemet was indeed coming for them, he would be coming down that avenue – unless the demon had other means of transportation.  Raylin ignored that final thought; no sense in belaboring the already-evident sense of futility.

The Larrenman paused, ensuring neither torch extinguished upon impact, then moved backward toward his companions.

His mind wandered as he sought a decent spot of ground upon which to make his stand.  Raylin was not so vain that he would not admit fear – at least to himself.  An inner voice, borne from that fear, pleaded with him to roll the stone plug back into place and bound down the mountainside like a fleeing snowcat.

_Aye, sure I could run,_ Raylin thought, replying to his own suggestion.  _But if I can move that plug, as Vath did, then the demon certainly can as well.  And then what?_  The ranger shook his head, mouth moving with silent words.  _Then what, you mud-between-your-toes clanner?  Fight the demon while clinging to a cliff?_

Raylin ceased his inner monologue with an audible sigh.  He had located a swath of ground, relatively even, directly opposite the hole.  Should the demon want to escape, it would need to go through Raylin.  And if some of his companions decided to flee…well, he would do as best he could to slow the demon’s pursuit.  _There are worse ways to die._

Raylin drew his swords.

***

Baden watched Raylin cut the air with his swords.  The blades actually _whistled_ with the deft strokes.  The dwarf was uncertain which he admired more – the craftsmanship of the weapons or the man who wielded them.  Baden waited for Raylin to pause before stepping forward to look up at his friend.  “We killed a wyvern here.”  The Axemarch dwarf jerked a thumb toward the snow-covered corpse in the dying sunlight behind them.  “Why not a demon, too?”

“Indeed,” Raylin laughed softly, “why not?”

Baden did not know what to say, so he said those things that came easiest to him.  “Remember Olgotha?”

“I remember.”

“Do ye recall how we worked them dwem between the two ‘o us?  Let us do that with this black bitch as well.  Stay clear for a moment, let our friends pepper the lout with a couple bolts, mayhaps a bit o’ magic, and then we’ll move forward.”

Baden gestured toward the rocky ground just on their side of the gaping hole.  “Pin him there, I am thinkin’, and hope he concentrates on us rather than those in the back ranks.”  Baden cocked his head to one side, listening intently, before continuing.  “If we be lucky, the half-troll may get behind him – much like he done to that wyvern.  Hearin’ ol’ Baphy’s neck snap – well, t’would be a pleasant enough sound, I am thinking.”

Raylin rested each of his blades on his shoulders, pommels toward the ground.  “I remember Olgotha.  I also remember that you are not the fleetest of foot.”  The ranger laid a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.  “I think it took you the better part of a tenday to reach the summit-”

“Ah, well,” Baden interrupted with a cough, “that was all according to me plan.  Tactics, friend ranger, tactics.  I wanted to surprise them dark dwarves whilst they was concentrating on you and the other boys.”

Raylin nodded.  Neither of them believed Baden’s statement.  “If it begins to go badly for us, then you had best get a head-start down the mountain.  We’ll need to move fast.”  The ranger withdrew his hand.  “I will catch up - after.”

Neither of them believed that, either.

***

Vath cut the air with his hand.  The group immediately went silent.  The half-troll loped forward and shoved his shaggy head into the black hole.  “I hear him.”

Vath stepped away from the opening, positioning himself to Raylin’s left, the dwarf remaining on the far side of the ranger.  The three of them – half-troll, human, and dwarf - comprised the front rank.  Should they fall, each of them knew, the battle would be over before it began.  They would need to purchase time with their blood – such was ever the lot of warriors.

Raylin’s discarded torches served their purpose - a shadow appeared against the tunnel wall, dancing in the flickering torchlight, though a turn in the corridor prevented the party from yet seeing its owner.  Vath bent at his knees, half-crouched, and brought his fists up before him.  He shifted his weight from one foot to another in a practiced, rhythmic motion.

Then, without further preamble, Baphtemet stepped around the bend.

The demon was half-again as tall as Vath, his mottled skin the color of pitch and stormclouds.  Above and behind his head were two boney points of vestigial wings.  His teeth were bared in the rictus of a grin – needle-sharp and gleaming white.  He carried no possessions save his tangible hatred, no weapons save his talons.  Taken on the whole, it was a sight that would unnerve most men.

“We meet again,” came his greeting, his voice at once both soothing and terrifying.

_Twang!_  Only the head and chest of Baphtemet could be seen through the hole, for the tunnel sloped downward past the tomb’s entrance.  Nonetheless, John’s bolt flew true.  The acid-laced projectile shot through the air, passing through Baphtemet’s throat with no sound of impact or change in its trajectory.

The bolt shattered harmlessly against the rock wall behind where the demon…once stood.  For Baphtemet, in the bat of an eye, had disappeared.

“Ilmater bless us,” Vath said, his eyes darting left and right.

Beside him, Raylin swore.  “Invisible!”

Yet even as the ranger shouted his warning, Baphtemet appeared once again.  He walked around the bend – a repeat of what they had just seen.  And then another Baphtemet followed.  And a third, a fourth.  Each of the demons seemed to occupy the same space, and yet each was distinct.  Their forms wavered and flickered, much like the torchlight.  _What in the name of all the gods-_ 

***

“Illusion!” barked Kellus.  The priest wrapped four fingers around the trigger of his massive crossbow.  His bolt went wide of Baphtemet – of all the Baphtemets – and exploded with sparks against the cave wall.  “A _mirror image_ – there is but one of him!”

Kellus reached for a second bolt.  He looked up to locate his target as he hastily slipped the quarrel into his crossbow – and stopped.  The demon – including each illusionary image – was staring directly at him.

The winged fiend nimbly walked up the slope, ducked under the entranceway, and strode toward Kellus – for all intents ignoring Kellus’ companions standing between the two of them.

The former priest discarded his crossbow and drew his mace.  He wanted to unsling his shield, but feared he would not have the opportunity.  His knees were weak and the mace felt unbearably heavy in his grasp.  Yet if Baphtemet meant to destroy him first, then so be it.  He would sell himself dearly.

Baden, however, seemed to have a different idea of how things should proceed.

Even as Kellus walked forward, the dwarf stepped closer to Raylin and swung his axe at the back of Baphtemet’s knee.  The half-moon edge bit deeply, and the demon’s black face paled with transitory pain.  The wound would have hamstrung a normal man – but Baphtemet was no normal man.  The horrid gash began to knit itself together the moment after the strike.

Thus was the battle joined.  John fired again and again – and with each report of his snapping bowstring, another of the demon’s images was snuffed out.  Vath dropped to a low crouch and swung his foot outward, attempting to trip the fiend, but he, too, only struck an illusionary double.  Raylin fared better – of his two initial cuts, one hit home – the audible sound of steel cutting flesh reverberated throughout the cavern.

Baphtemet seemed to recognize his danger.  He looked away from Kellus for the first time, and fastened his eyes on the Larrenman.  With a sneer and a flick of his hand, the clansman was slammed backward by an unseen force, ribs cracking from the thrust.

Suddenly the air around the demon exploded with sparkling motes of dust.  Baphtemet roared.  “He’s blind!” cried Amelyssan, first in elvish and then in the common tongue.

Kellus did not hesitate.  He smote the demon, all his effort focused on imploding the fiend’s skull.  Yet his mace traveled only through air, winking out the final image, and it was all Kellus could do to recover without falling prone.

Baphtemet stepped backward and murmured arcane words.  His eyes refocused on the enemies before him, though his outline remained draped within the golden nimbus of Amelyssan’s dust.  Raylin slashed, Baden hewed at the beast’s legs, and Vath leapt upon him, delivering a terrible bite to the fiend’s unarmored shoulder.

The demon shook Vath from him like a wolfhound might a puppy.  He gestured toward Baden and the dwarf’s breastplate bent inward as yet another invisible burst of force rent the air.  Baden stumbled backward, nearly dropping his axe, his mouth opened wide for air as the breath was knocked from him.

And a new combatant entered the fray, for Amelyssan sent a bulbous flame bouncing across the rock to impact against the demon’s back.  The globe of fire, a near-spherical sponge the color of sunset, crackled and roared.  Yet Baphtemet paid it no mind, and his skin seemed impervious to the heat that would undoubtedly melt mortal flesh.

Again Vath attempted to latch his fangs upon Baphtemet’s body, but this time he missed.  Baden struck the fiend in the hip and was rewarded with a shout of surprised pain – not all of the wound disappeared, this time.  Raylin stepped forward and landed two equally telling blows even as another of John’s bolts – this one trailing a trickle of blessed water – punctured the demon’s chest and remained transfixed therein.

“Enough!”  Baphtemet roared.  A palpable wave of dread exploded outward from him.  Kellus grit his teeth and fought against the urge to run, the bile of fear threatening to vomit from his mouth.  _I shall not flee from you, abomination!_

But, Kellus saw, others of his party were not so fortunate in their defense.  The cave echoed with the sounds of steel on stone as swords and axe clanged onto the ground. “Hold!” he cried, but he was powerless to shield his friends against the demon’s mental onslaught.

Raylin and Baden sprinted away from the demon, toward the ledge outside the cavern, their faces twisted in terror.  Even Vath’s complexion was more white than green.  The half-troll monk slunk away from Baphtemet like a whipped dog before disappearing into the tomb’s tunnel.

And with them, Kellus knew, went any chance the party had at survival.

***

Amelyssan’s fingers danced through his pouch – wax, crickets, string, webs, packets of sand, and – _there!_ – a folded scrap of parchment holding ground mica.  He glanced upward as he produced the spell component, and willed his flaming sphere to once again strike the demon.  It did.  But, as the elf suspected, once again left no smoking scars in its wake.  The demon was immune to such damage.

Amelyssan murmured arcane words and tossed the mica into the air.  Golden motes showered Baphtemet, and for a fleeting instant the demon appeared worried – even fearful.  But the instant passed.  And his eyes marked Amelyssan for but a heartbeat before the demon impaled Kellus with his glare.

John stepped forward, in front of the former priest, his rapier now in hand.  He thrust with amazing quickness, leaving a neat hole the size of a fingernail in the demon’s stomach.  “Run!” the bard cried over his shoulder.

Baphtemet ignored the minstrel and his steel.  He stepped aside, gestured with casual indifference, and smiled as both Kellus and John collapsed into a comatose slumber.

“And so - it ends.”  Baphtemet coolly regarded Amelyssan.  “You have the stink of that ape Ippizicus upon you.”

Demon and elf faced one another, each representing races which had fought one another since Saficea the Fathergod first wept his tears onto Ostia Prim.  Amelyssan had not the courage to speak – not yet – but neither would he run.  His friends lay at his feet, helpless.  The elf drew his sword.

Baphtemet’s smile dripped mockery.  “So then, have you exhausted your charlatan tricks?”  The black-skinned fiend thrust one arm into Amelyssan’s hovering globe of flame.  “Depleted your simpleton spells?”

Baphtemet stepped over Kellus’ still form and closed the distance toward the elf.  He was in no hurry, not now.

The battle was won – the demon knew it, and Amelyssan knew it.  The elf was decent with a blade – all of his kind were – but he was no match for the demon.  Even though Baphtemet bled from numerous wounds, even though Amelyssan could see the demon was but a hair’s breadth from collapsing, it was over.  One more telekinetic thrust and Amelyssan would join his companions upon the blood-splattered floor.

“Really, elf,” Baphtemet cooed, “I expected more from you.  You, of all these fools,” he waved a hand toward the bodies at his feet and toward the tunnels wherein the warriors had fled.  “You should have known fire cannot harm one such as I.”

Amelyssan licked his lips.  He did not trust himself to speak.  In spite of his will to remain steadfast, he felt himself backing away.  _If I can buy time, if I can keep him busy, perhaps-_

Baphtemet shook his head.  “I am sorry, but no.  The fear will last long, and the sleep longer.  I will destroy your companions piecemeal.”  The demon stopped his advance, eyes never leaving Amelyssan’s own.  “Though some – such as your faithless dog of a one-time priest – will feel my anger a bit longer.  Yes, yes – quite a bit longer.”

Amelyssan stopped just under the archway leading to the ledge outside.  His shadow was long before him; the demon but a handful of paces distant.  The elf gripped his longsword with both hands, holding the blade before him like a beacon.

In those last moments of his life, Amelyssan thought of his childhood.  So long ago.  The pain of knowing he would never again see the Grun islands, never again sit beneath a _lefalas_ tree with a tome of knowledge opened upon his lap – it was nearly overwhelming.  Elves were masters at masking their emotions, but Amelyssan felt his lips quiver.

Baphtemet's laugh spoiled his memories and stained his yearnings for home.  “You intrigue me, elf.  Were you not so misguided, I may have taken you on as an apprentice.  Under my wing, as it were.  Alas, I would rather not see you weep – it might ruin the glory of this moment.”

The demon raised his hand, fingers outstretched.  “Tell your petty gods a new god will soon be joining them, and they had best learn to kneel.”

And then…then Amelyssan smiled.  The sounds of burning flesh crackled faintly in the cavern, followed shortly thereafter by a soft scuff of leather on stone.

Baphtemet had eyes only for the elf, his own face evidencing a tint of astonishment.  “You smile at your own death?”

Amelyssan finally found his voice.  “No,” he said, even as he watched a terrified understanding dawn in the demon’s eyes, “I smile at yours.”

For the elf had burned his friend with the flaming sphere, the very moment before it winked from existence.  And thus Kellus had awakened from his magically-induced slumber.  The priest stood behind the demon, mace raised toward the stalactites overhead, his face covered with soot and blood but set with a fierce and deadly determination.

The spiked mace fell-

-and Baphtemet’s head _exploded_ with the impact.

Amelyssan wiped a bit of demonic brain from his cheek, his smile wan but shining.  “Thank you.”

The former priest stared at Baphtemet’s body where it spasmed at his feet.  He returned Amelyssan’s look.

“No, friend,” Kellus shook his head.  “Thank Helm.”


----------



## Lela

Holy cows among us Batman.

  While I'm normaly loathe to use the traditional Wyre greeting, I find myself with little else to say.  So:

  Wow Destan.  Wow.

  I mean, really,  you blew me away and the view was wonderful.



> For the elf had burned his friend with the flaming sphere, the very moment before it winked from existence. And thus Kellus had awakened from his magically-induced slumber.



  Brilliant!  Who thought of this?  I mean it, astoundingly brilliant.  And the way you led up to it Destan.  Beautiful.



> “No, friend,” Kellus shook his head.  “Thank Helm.”



  YAY!

  I think. . .


----------



## Avarice

What Lela said; this was a mind bogglingly good read.  I was literally on the edge of my seat by the end.  Well done!


----------



## grodog

Very nice Destan!


----------



## Olive

The best post yet Destan!!!


----------



## Greybar

_Faith yet endures_

Huzzah!

Excellent, even more so than usual.

john


----------



## Alejandro

Fantastic! Destan, I can't tell you how happy I am to see an actual update, after your posts in the Rogues Gallery. Well done, Kellus and Amelyssan!


----------



## Nasma

Go Amelyssan!!!!!!!  Brilliant tactics


----------



## Nifft

Wow, awesome. Makes me want more demons in my games. 

 -- N


----------



## pogre

Is it wrong that I was cheering for the bad guy?

Great job Destan.


----------



## Tellerve

eh, maybe a bit Pogre 

I have to chime in with everyone else about that last post.  That was...was just awesome, and so well written.  I can just imagine that battle at the table.  Those kind of near death super battles are so great.

Tellerve


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## wolff96

That was INCREDIBLY cool.

I really wish I'd been around the table when that fight occurred. That's one of the conflicts you remember for a long, long time.


----------



## dpdx

That may well be one of the greatest single updates ever on this board. Baphtemet, in character 'til the end.


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## Lela

pogre said:
			
		

> Is it wrong that I was cheering for the bad guy?



 Nah, I don't think so.  It's one of the signs of a well done named bad guy IMO.  You find yourself kinda on his side and almost want him to win.  It's that moment when you're on the edge of your seat wondering who wins, knowing you'll be thrilled to watch the good guys triumph but also knowing you'll feel a little sorry for the bad guy who biffed it.

 Dangit!  Now I find the good ideas for a paper.  And with no class to write it for too.  Of course I'll forget it when the next assignment comes up too.

 Oh well, it happens.  And, regardless, I'll still have more Destan to read.  I'd be lucky if I could anything written at this point.  That scene is still running through my head.


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## pogre

Destan,

Congrats on the arrival of your third child! Our kids were only born three days apart - our Stephen was born on Sept. 26th. I know you said you have time to write a bit more with the odd hour snippets - so I'm looking forward to another update in the near future.

As you may be able to tell from my postings last night - I'm spending my "up anyway" time at the modelling desk.

What's getting more difficult is any time away from home. "Hi honey - I've got gaming tonight, so good luck with our three kids under four." As you can imagine that is not real popular on the home front. As a compromise we're playing over at our house this week. A drive into the country is good for my players.

Oh, and this story should never be on the second page - so this is a disguised bump!


----------



## Destan

> AUTHOR'S NOTE:  The following update, _A Death Too Soon_, occurs _after_ the subsequent update, _A Man Called Dog._  In short, they are not in chronological order.  I attempted to bounce around the story hour's timeline and, as a result, confused some readers.  If you're reading this for the first time, you may want to skip ahead and read _A Man Called Dog_ then come back to read _A Death Too Soon._  Sorry for the inconvenience and the confusion!  - D






*A Death Too Soon*

The man pulled his cloak about him, fighting and failing to ward off the autumnal chill.  _Gods, but this weather goes straight to the bones._  The winds were coming directly off the Bucklers, unabated, tasting of salt.  

Within bowshot of the Coastgate, the man suddenly halted his stroll.  _No guard._  He cupped both hands, blew warm air into them, and let his gaze drift along the mist-shrouded ramparts with feigned indifference.  The torches blazed merrily enough above the closed gate, but the firelight only revealed an empty catwalk.  _Red Brungart may not be the most capable mayor, but nor is he a fool._  With rumors of Gordian raids drifting down from the Amber Coast, the man was certain Brungart would have Ciddry’s walls manned, and manned well.

Just as a spell was upon his lips, the silhouette of a guardsman’s helmed head peered over the wall.  _Sleeping, were you?_  The man frowned; he had no doubt that these central Valusians, who had so long basked under a veil of peace, would soon learn the price of lacking vigilance.  _But I am not his guard captain, nor am I citizen of this town.  It is not my place to chastise.  At least, not yet._

The man waved to the guardsman, watched the head disappear once more, and then pulled a pipe from his robes.  With well-practiced efficiency he thumbed some root into the bowl, tamped it down, and used a minor cantrip to set it alight.  A few puffs, a few long exhales, and the tension eased from him.  

“Foul weather breeds fools and felons,” he murmured, remembering a former mentor’s words.  The man had felt oddly uneasy all this day; something was brewing.  Yet the town slept around him, the guard was on watch – or some semblance thereof- and the gates remained locked.

_Why, again, am I out here?  I’m prowling about like a constable.  This is not my duty._  He had no answer for his own question.  With a shrug the man upturned his pipe, stepped on the ashes, and replaced it within his robes.  _Enough.  Time for a drink, perhaps some cheese, and then the _scrying.

Still, when he once more placed his hands under the shelter of his robes, he allowed his fingers to pull back the leather lid of an arcane component pouch.  Only then did the man recommence his walk, head bent against the wind, and if his pace was only a trifle faster – _Well, one could never be too careful._

A drop of cold rain splattered against his cheek, then another.  _Talos, you inconsiderate ass.  I suppose it would have been too much to ask for you to allow an old man to reach his inn before you commenced your pissing?_  The rain, as if in answer, increased in intensity.

Above him, unseen in the utter blackness, storm clouds roiled with thunder.  The man spotted the glimmer of the _continual flame_ at the base of the town’s statue, and he made for the illuminated plaza like a wayward ship toward a beckoning lighthouse.

He never reached it.

***

_Held!_

He bent his will against the force, but it was useless; he was as powerless as he was paralyzed.  _Interesting, interesting._  Since he could do little else, the man scanned the ubiquitous shadows as he willed his heartbeat to slow.  He was fairly certain his assailant – whoever he might be - was an accomplished spellcaster.  _Hold Person_ was not an enchantment that would normally work against him.  This particular dweomer, however, was uncommonly powerful.  _Perhaps it was heightened?_ 

A figure detached itself from the darkness of a nearby alley.  _Breof?!_  If his facial muscles had not been paralyzed, doubtless they would have twisted into an expression of utter disbelief.  _By libram and lover, have I been bested by a _pig farmer_?_

Just then, however, a flash of lightning revealed more of the situation.  Breof’s face was a ruin – bruised and swollen, with one of his cheeks shorn and hanging like a flap of meat.  The pig farmer’s homespun tunic was covered with blood, and his eyes were wide with terror.  _So, hapless farmer, if you did not ensnare me, then who did?_

On cue, a second figure stepped from the shadows, stopping just behind Breof.  The newcomer spoke, and his accent marked him as a southlander.  “Is this him?”  His question was directed to the pig farmer.

Though his face was concealed by the night, the sound was unmistakable – Breof wept.  “Aye, h-he is the one.”

Another sound came, then – an abrupt tear of garments and flesh.  Breof crumpled to the ground and his murderer stepped over him without delay.  “You are Poridel Poriden, Tower Sage of Valudia.”  It was not a question.  

Poridel tried to nod, realized he was still _held_, and resigned himself to standing mutely.  _For now, at any rate._

Lightning again spiderwebbed across the heavens.  The killer wore the breastplate and cloak of a Ciddry guardsman.  He was slender, nearly effeminate.  In one hand was a thin blade, red and glistening.  In the other, a rag or cloth of some sort.

For the first time this evening – indeed, for the first time in many, many evenings – Poridel Pordien tasted fear.  His terror was not born from the bloody knife, nor from the body at his feet.  Rather it was the killer’s face, highlighted briefly from the harsh whiteness of the crackling sky.

His face…his face was _melted_.  His nose was a mass of formless flesh, his cheeks appearing verily like kneaded clay.  He had no eyebrows, no eyelids – these had been ritually burned away with his former identity.  One ear lobe dangled nearly to his collar, and the other ear was but a swath of ruinous flesh.  Poridel had seen a similar countenance years ago, outside Pell, and that encounter had ended in terrible tragedy.  

_Please gods, I beg of you – this time, let it end differently._

***

Poridel’s vision swam with green and purple swirls as darkness mercifully covered the visage once more.  _Easy, sage - stand easy.  The spell will not hold forever._ The Tower Sage swallowed with effort.  _He wants something from you, and will need you to speak.  Just…be patient, be calm._

“You are him - the one who offers aid to those who fought upon Olgotha?”  The disfigured man stepped forward.  “Blink once if this is true.”

_Blink._  Poridel felt confidence begin to seep back into his sinews.  No sense in denying his involvement or attempting to dissemble.  The killer would not suffer evasion or hesitation; his kind never did.  _Yet, if I can blink, then – the enchantment already begins to fade._

“And these men of Olgotha – they departed Ciddry yesterday morn?”

_Blink._  Poridel’s fingers twitched, he wiggled his toes within his boots.  With each heartbeat more feeling returned to his extremities.  _A few more moments, but a few more…_

Poridel’s index finger curled around a slender rod of iron within his component pouch.  He debated opting for something more dramatic – his fingertip brushed against a clip of fur and a prism of amber.  _Aye, sizzling this miscreant with a bolt of the same stuff that flashes above us – that would be most enjoyable._

Poridel, however, let his finger return once more to the iron; there was a perverse joy in knowing he would soon have his assailant _held_ much the way he now was.  A _dimension door_ would have been the wisest course, all things considered.  But he had opted to prepare a _scrying_ in its place, so that he might witness the Olgotha band’s progress later that evening.  Memorizing more than one such dweomer at any single time was beyond his ability.

And so both men – hunted sage and hunting southlander - reached an impasse.

For Poridel understood what the next question would be – “To where do these men of Olgotha now travel?”  No amount of blinking could answer such a query.  _Thus,_ Poridel mused, even as more of his fingers began to flex and curl, _the assassin must wait; he must wait until I have the power of speech.  And then…then, by the sixty great gods, this charade will end._

_First things, first._ Poridel’s eyes moved with the killer as the man stepped yet closer.  He stank of fish and sweat.  _First, find out who hired him; men from his sect do not offer their services cheaply.  Then-_

The assassin interrupted his reverie.  “I must know where these men of Olgotha now travel.”  The voice was high-pitched, somewhat pubescent, and seemed odd issuing from the mutilated face.

If he dared or had he been able, Poridel might have smiled.  _Yes, yes – I’m sure you _do_ want to know.  But that answer, friend, must wait until I can speak.  And I believe I shall then have a few words to utter, not all of which you will enjoy._

The killer’s eyes narrowed as he observed Poridel’s face.  He glanced downward at the sage’s hidden hands, and when he looked up once more - his eyes held a hint of wary indecision.  

At that precise moment, yet another man entered the scene.  _Hellfire!  How many others hide in that damned alley!_  Poridel studied the newcomer as best he could in the pervasive gloom.  This man wore armor, a white skull on purple sunburst emblazed upon his rain-soaked surcoat.  _A Cyric priest - and the Twin Prophecies have barely yet begun their course!_  The sage was startled for the second time in as many minutes; he had never expected the Cyrics to act so overtly.  _Or so soon, dammit._

The priest spoke, his sonorous voice the opposite of the southlander’s falsetto.  “The enchantment fades.  Finish it.”

The assassin stepped forward without hesitation, expertly thrusting a blade into Poridel’s stomach even as he shoved the rag into the sage’s gaping mouth.  Poridel was still _held_; he toppled like a statue to lay inert upon the ground, still frozen in mid-stride.

The priest hitched up his surcoat and knelt, his mouth close to Poridel’s ear, his voice like a lover’s.  “We shall ask our questions later, sage.  _Speak with dead_, yes?  Until then.”

Only then did the _Hold Person_ expire.  Thus it was that Poridel Poriden, famed Tower Sage of Valudia, regained full command of all his faculties; he was completely free to clutch at the hole in his belly as life bled from him.

After a moment, the priest stood.  “He is dead.  Too painlessly, but it could not be helped.”  He studied the assassin’s melted face – it was as unreadable and unmoving as stone.  “One can never be too careful, yes?”

When lightning next lit the avenue, only the body of Breof remained, alone upon the mud.


----------



## pogre

Updates from Sep and Destan in the same night! What could be finer. I really love the intimate background action you reveal - I wish I was so skilled. Well done!


----------



## Lela

Oh man, you just created one of the best scenes of all time with but a simple _Hold Person _spell.  Astounding.

 I'm going to stretch out here and, in spite of (or because of) the dramatic increase in quality of Story Hours of late, I think I now consider you the sister Story Hour to Sep.  While that's only my opionion (and I haven't read P-Kittie's fully yet), I do mean it. 

 Simply in awe.  Again.


----------



## grodog

Things move apace in both story hours, eh, pogre?


----------



## Alejandro

Bah! Who is Destan, really? George RR Martin? 

Shortly after a sympathetic character is introduced... *WHACK* Dead.

Just kidding Destan. Grats on the baby! And now, more baby-soul goodness, please!


----------



## Destan

*A Man Called Dog*

John would have crossed his arms over the pommel of his saddle, smiling with contentment, except – he didn’t have a horse.  None of them did.  Their poor mounts had broken free from their hitch at the base of Borbidan’s Rest.  Thus their march back, along the Elfride to Ciddry, had lasted damned near a tenday.  The journey was enjoyable, however, for a number of reasons.

First, they were alive.  Always a good thing.

Second, John had not been overly impressed with his now-lost gelding – the infernal beast had snored as loudly as Vath, and no creature under Shaundakul’s stars had a right to leave such an unbroken and prodigious trail of excrement in its wake.

Third, and most importantly, Baphtemet was dead.  

Or banished, according to Kellus, though John was uncertain just what that entailed.  It did not matter, truly.  The southlander was fairly certain Baphtemet would not be found frolicking in the seedier brothels of Pell, which was where John intended to be just as soon as humanly possible.  Baphtemet might have been a counselor, a wizard, a lich, a demon, or a devil – so long as he wasn’t a dancing girl, the bard was satisfied.

After nine days the party had returned to Ciddry to the fanfare of…well, nothing.  No one paid them much mind.  They weren’t even a novelty any longer – the mud-smeared farmers and homely-faced townsfolk had seen them come and go a number of times.  John was confident their success against Ippizicus and Baphtemet would – eventually – reap them some measure of fame.  But such a reward proved elusive, at least for the time being.

Oh, for certes, Baden garnered his fair share of curious looks.  The Axemarch dwarf had re-entered Borbidan’s tomb after Baphtemet’s death.  He now was encrusted – head-to-toe – in the sigil-covered black plate of the now-dead dwem.  He even carried Borbidan’s dwarven war axe, his former weapon all but forgotten where it lay strapped to his back.  And the former dwem raider’s shield, replete with silver and platinum skulls across its face, also became part of Baden’s martial accoutrements.

And speaking of Baden – John had always thought the dwarf a bit odd.  He was too melancholy, for one.  But now the little stump* was downright weird.  John had heard the dwarf speaking to himself no less than four times since they had departed the Balantir Cor foothills.  Baden seemed to refer to himself, or his imaginary friend, as “Ilvar” – a word John was intimately unfamiliar with, even though the bard knew a smattering of the dwarven tongue.

Poridel had thanked them – with words only, to the world’s eternal shame – and had the audacity to suggest they make haste to slay yet _another_ demon.  As if that wasn’t enough, John found himself nodding in agreement with his companions.  This demon-killing bit was beginning to grow on him.  Doubtless, some day, it would make for a fine song.

And did the eminent Tower Sage gift them, at the very least, with six horses to replace those the party had lost?  No – he gave them but one.  And his name was Dog Bigby.

***

John walked alongside the results of Poridel’s questionable benevolence.  Dog Bigby was an odd sort.  His nose was pushed to one side of his face – the consequence of stopping a thrown tankard in mid-arc.  He wore a beard, but his chin was so badly scarred that most of his face below his lips was covered only in tufts and patches.  He shared the same level of cleanliness as Breof and the other Ciddry farmers – that is to say, none.  His teeth were as brown as his boots, his breath as foul as the stench of Ippizicus, and the man had about as much tact as a shoehorn.

Bigby, it seemed, was an accomplished tracker and traveler.  He earned what few coins he possessed – John had lifted his purse, inspected its meager contents, and re-tied it without being noticed – escorting people along the Great Coastal Road.  So it was that while Bigby ferried the party northward toward the Duskingdell, he had also accepted a pair of crowns from an overweight matron and her hired hand enroute to Lonely Heath.

Lady Mavis resembled an over-tall and over-weight dwarf.  Her attendant’s good looks matched his personality – non-existent.  Yet John was always one who favored the fairer sex, and he had tried, repeatedly and unsuccessfully, to garner a smile or two from the newcomers.  After being rudely told to “cease his pattering” while the group shared a cheerless dinner in the town of Mapple, John had given up.

So be it - if he could not make the lady laugh, he would make others laugh at her expense.  Enter:  Dog Bigby.  Bigby, apparently, laughed at anything and everything.  John tested his theory by, once, fabricating a story that made no sense whatsoever and held not a shred of humor within it; Bigby had howled with mirth long after the party’s campfire had turned to embers.

So it was that John found himself marching northward across the Reaversward with Bigby beside him.  Occasionally the man would scout ahead, oft-times accompanied by Raylin, but – upon his return – Bigby gravitated toward the bard.

“No offense,” John said, “but your name is rather odd.”

Bigby nodded sagely, as if he had heard as much many times.  “T’not even my name, to tell it true.”

John waited for him to continue, realized Bigby wasn’t a practiced conversationalist, and hence prompted him, “Do tell.”

“Me mom named me Themblintul, but me dad never liked it.  Said it was too hard to say.  Said he was tired from working the fields, and damned if he’d be bothered by saying a hard name when he come home at night.”

“Ah…so your father named you Bigby?”

Bigby frowned.  “No, was t’not him. He called me many things – ass-chin, horsehead, dunderface, bullocks-“

“I see,” John interrupted.  The bard had no doubt Bigby would continue the litany until they reached Duskingdell if he were not stopped.  John cursed himself for a fool for having started the conversation; he should have just sung some limerick about a harlot and a gnome.  “So, then, how did you get the name Bigby?”

Bigby frowned again, an expression that seemed familiar to his face.  “I canna remember, friend John.”

They walked in blessed silence for the better part of an hour before Bigby slapped his thy so hard that John nearly tripped from startlement.  “It was Bigby!”

John rubbed his eyes with exasperation.  It was nice having a companion who enjoyed his lies, but the bard wasn’t sure if it was worth this amount of pain.  “Yes, yes – your name is Bigby.”

“No,” Bigby laughed as if _John_ were the one making no sense, “I hired onto a caravan down by way of Cymeria some time ago.  And there was this fat man, our cook, and his name was Bigby.”

“So,” John nearly wept, “how did you get his name?”

Dog Bigby frowned.  Before the large man could speak, however, John’s hand shot out to cover his mouth.  “Forget I asked.”

_And to think,_ John mused, _I had also planned to ask him how he had gained the ‘Dog’ part of his monicker.  Now I would sooner have my skin tacked to the palisade of Corm._

The party, which had been traveling upon a slight upslope for the better part of the day, finally reached the crest.  Below them, to the north, the land declined into a gray morass of thickets and scrubs.  Bigby motioned for them to halt.  “Best to camp a bit yonder, off the top of this here hill so that the wind canna freeze our manhood.”  The guide ignored Mavis’ glare.  “There be other places to camp, for sure, but t’not better than this.  T’not for some way, at least.”

Raylin studied the land before eyeing Bigby.  “The lands continues downward for some time, no?  All the way to Calahen Creek?”  The Larrenman looked to his companions.  “These are clanlands, and not my own.”

“Aye,” Bigby said.  “Five leagues, mayhaps a bit more.  Down there the ground turns as foul as _rucken_ undergarments.  We’ll cross at the Dusk Ford.  Another day o’ walking after that and we should hit the outskirts of the Duskingdell.  That be where I’ll drop all o’ ye off.”

“Not all of us,” Mavis sniffed.

“Well, no,” Bigby allowed, “t’not you and yer man.”

Baden grunted.  “What in the name of mithril is this word you keep saying – _t’not_?”

Bigby frowned.  John didn’t know who he wanted to kill first – their guide or Baden.  The tracker showed brown teeth.  “’Tis me own word.  I made it.”

John set off down the hill before what could only be a horribly frustrating explanation commenced.  Bigby was quick to catch him.  “When we stop, friend John,” the man asked, “I was wonderin’ – if t’not too much trouble – if you could sing me a song or two whilst we make camp.”

John’s face brightened, a stark contrast to their drab surroundings.  “Certainly, Bigby, certainly.”

_Taken on the whole,_ John thought, _Dog Bigby is not that bad of a fellow._

***

“He is an ass,” Baden hissed.  

The dwarf stood, feet shoulder-width apart, and stared through the darkness in the direction of the camp.  The above canopy shunted most of the light but steady rain, but it also blocked the starlight.  The moon had yet to rise.

Bigby had not let them light a fire, though he was characteristically ambiguous when it came to divulging his reasons.  “Why did Poridel even send him with us?  By Moridin, it is not as if the Duskingdell is hard to locate – even for us who have never been.”

Kellus nodded.  “Patience, friend, patience.  The sage had heard ill rumors of the road ahead.  Bigby has made the journey hundreds of times, and the hilt of his sword is stained with sweat, the blade well-cared for.  We may well be thankful for another fighter amongst us.”

Baden spat and looked to Amelyssan.  “And what say you, elf?  Mayhaps we should strike off on our own, I am thinking.”

Amelyssan rested upon a staff he had purchased in Ciddry.  His golden-hued eyes surveyed the silent woods around them.  “We have but a day left, friend.  Poridel is no fool, though – I admit – his estimation of Bigby seems overly inflated.”

“Overly inflated!”  Baden echoed the elf with a huff.  “The man’s a fool!  Bigby, not Poridel.  He listens to John all day long, wanders ahead once in a blue moon, then sits on his ass and tries to sing the bard’s lyrics instead of helping make and break camp.”

Kellus smiled softly.  “Is he an ass because he listens to John, or because he offers little help around the campfire?”

Baden opened his mouth, then closed it.  The dwarf smiled in spite of himself.  “Both, if you must know.”

Amelyssan produced a rolled sheaf of parchment from his belt pouch.  He uttered a word and the end of his staff suffused with _light_.  Kellus watched the elf unroll the scroll and frowned, “Should we be reading that now?  Your light marks our position for any eyes in the forest that may be watching.”

Amelyssan held the paper before him without looking up.  “Vath and Raylin are on watch.  If anything lurked within these boughs, they would know it.”

Kellus decided it wasn’t worth debating – the _light_ was already evident.  He and Baden pressed forward to, again, read the parchment Poridel had given them.


...the scrub was thickest upon it and it took two full hours of clearing the top, mostly from Gomlor’s dwarven axe, before we discovered the stone door – the _real_ entrance - deep-seated within the turf and covered with the sigils of the Lost Elves.  Ju’thethian believes the runes are both warning and curse, but his arts were not capable of a true reading.  The human from Mith, a small fishing village, claimed to know the gist of the signs.  She suggested we leave the hill undisturbed but Agemem would have none of it...

…Agemem had the right of it when he spied the gouges.  The dwarf confirmed his thoughts and we set about the heavy task, the bodies of our comrades standing a watchful vigil in the outer room beyond the false...My back nearly broke from the effort yet soon the way…

…and then I finally understood!  The Lost Elves hated all men, the sages and mages of Valudia most of all, so that was the first…third came the Pe-…and lastly, I’m certain of it, the greenish Arn moss, for they hated their brother elves but least of all...yet I persuaded Agemem to wait until I could replenish my spells and record these words…



Baden sighed.  “It tells us nothing.”

“It tells us everything,” Amelyssan countered.  “We just do not understand it.  Yet.”

Kellus rubbed his forehead.  “I dislike riddles.”  When his friends offered no comment, he continued.  “Let us review everything the sage told us about this parchment.”

Amelyssan nodded.  “This sheet was a page from the Bullhide Tome.  Its author was Boddynock Nigel, a gnome, and a Mage of the Sunset Tower in Valudia.  Written in – what was the year? - 637 D.R.”

“Seven hundred years ago and more,” Baden offered.

Amelyssan continued, “Poridel believes the rest of the book is unimportant – at least to our current situation.  I agree.  This parchment,” the elf tapped the paper with a tapered nail, “whispers to us across all these Ages.  Clearly, the author and his band met with misfortune within the Duskingdell, in the very barrow we now seek to enter.”

“How do we know Ral is within?”

The elf shrugged at Kellus.  “We do not.  But Poridel believes it.”

“Poridel,” Baden growled, “had no idea where Baphtemet was - until we told him.  And he was conveniently absent during our troubles with Aramin.”  The dwarf threw his hands in the air.  “Honestly, friends, I like the man – I do.  But all he did was give us six men to sacrifice and told us how to summon Ippizicus.”

“And because of it,” Kellus offered, “the ape-demon is now slain, at least upon this plane.”

“With no help from Poridel.”

Kellus shrugged.  “Were it not for him, Ippizicus may have returned to hunt us when we were unawares.”

“Or he may not have returned at all!”

“Enough.”  Amelyssan’s voice was soft.  “Poridel is no Aramin; he is not a traitor.  He tells us what he knows, and he tells us what he does not.  If the former is not enough to trust him, the latter definitely is.  We have agreed to slay this third and final demon.”

The elf staked his staff in the dirt before looking up.  “Let us talk now of how it can be done.”

“Well said,” Baden allowed, his own voice calm.  “The others will want to discuss it as well.”  

Amelyssan replaced the parchment and extinguished his _light_ before the three set off toward the camp.  Suddenly, Baden halted.  “Hold, please.

“You cannot see my face in this blackness, I know, but – if ye could – you would see that I am worried.  We have survived, all of us, through…through events that, by rights, we should not have.  I am no coward, you know me well, but I do not like having questions hanging above us whilst we plunder a barrow of the Lost Elves.”

“Nor do I,” Kellus agreed readily enough.  “Amelyssan, I am of a mind with you when it comes to Poridel.  But I am less certain of his man, Bigby; even the most learned of men can err when labeling friend and foe.”

“True,” Amelyssan said.  “What do you suggest?”

“First,” Baden interrupted, “we get Bigby away from that woman and her lackey; these talks are not for their ears.  Then the lot of us surround our happy guide and put some questions to him.”

“Such as?”

Baden spread his hands, somewhat at a loss.  “I’m not sure.  But if he’s traveled these lands as often as he claims, then he may know more than he’s telling.”

Kellus folded his arms in the darkness.  “Good counsel, friend Baden.  Poridel, for all his faults, is not one to jump at shadows.  If there are rumors of evils being done on the Weedsea, as the sage stated, then such tales must stem from more than banditry.”

***

“On your feet, Bigby.”  Baden kicked the toe of their guide’s boot.

Bigby sat up, rubbed sleep from his eyes, and swiveled his head around in the darkness.  “My turn on watch, eh?”

“Aye,” Raylin answered.  “But that is not why we wake you.”

“Oh?”  Bigby stood and rolled his shoulders.  His odd quirks and strange personality sometimes made it easy to forget how large a man he was.  Bigby laid a hand on his hilt, spat phlegm dangerously close to Baden’s feet, and squinted.  “I canna see ye.”

“I know,” Baden answered gruffly, “else I may have had something to say about how close your spit came to my boots.”

Bigby laughed quietly.  “A wee bit grumpy.  Me dad used to-”

“Not now, Bigby,” John said, not unkindly.  He pulled back the shutter of a lit lantern only a finger’s width.  It was enough illumination for Bigby to see that the entire party stood around him.  Mavis and Huarto, her guardsman, still slept.  John closed shut the lantern, and the world plunged once more into blackness.

John cleared his throat.  When he spoke, it was with a half-whisper.  “We are concerned, friend Bigby, about the road ahead.  Our friend and yours, Poridel Poriden, spoke highly of you.  He said the road hereabouts was unsafe, more so than normal, mayhaps.”

Baden and Vath could see Bigby’s guarded nod, but the others only waited quietly for his response.  John sighed.  “Now, friend, is when you answer us.”

“What is your question?”  Bigby’s voice was still light, and hushed, but held a hint of steel.

John stared at the ground, and Baden answered.  “Tell us about the rumors.”

“T’not wise to be talkin’ of such things at night.”

“We are not children,” Kellus answered, voice even.  “Answer the dwarf.”

Bigby scratched himself.  “I ain’t one for books and the like, and I canna say I know much o’ history, but Master Poriden says such things have happened before.”

“Such things?”  By now, John was accustomed to having to prompt Bigby for every answer.

“Such things,” Bigby repeated.  “Beasts, but not beasts.  They roam the Weedsea.  Mostly to the north, hard by the Bramble River, but mayhaps some are down this way, now.  Master Poriden thought it best I take ye as far as the Duskingdell, maybe help if we get into a pinch.”

“You have seen these things?”

When Bigby next spoke, his voice held a trace of a heretofore unheard emotion.  “I have.  Lost a friend and the folks we was escortin’.  Big brutes, and smart.  Smarter ‘an any animal should be.”

Raylin spoke into the darkness.  “What do they look like?”

“Wolves.” All eyes turned in the direction of Vath.

It was Bigby’s turn to ask a question.  “Aye, wolves - but how do you know?”

“I hear them.”  Vath stood and looked across the vast expanse of plains behind them.  “They sound like wolves.”

“They ain’t wolves, half-troll.”  Bigby reached behind him, found his bedroll, and sat down.  “I could fashion a road o’ wolf pelts from here to Mon Mith from the numbers of wolves I done kilt.”

Vath turned back to the group without comment.

“Best get dressed, friends, and right quick.”  Bigby began to pull on his boots.  “Woman!  Get yer arse up, and your little man with ye!”

Mavis screamed, sat bolt upright, and clutched the cover to her ample bosom.  “W-what?”

“Yer arse.”  Bigby stood, stamped his feet into his boots.  “Get it movin’.”

“Now hold one-”  Baden began, his tone dangerous.

“No,” Bigby answered, “I canna hold.  If the half-troll hears howling, it may be wolves.  But it may t’not.  I’m paid to get you to the Duskingdell, and to the Duskingdell I will get you.”

“Wait, please,” Amelyssan reached out, found Bigby’s arm, and squeezed it.  “You said Poridel mentioned that these things happened before.  Did he say when?”

“I canna remember.”

“The Time of Huntings?”  Amelyssan released his hold in the ensuing silence.  “That was it, wasn’t it?  The Time of Huntings?”

Bigby nodded, realized the elf couldn’t see him, and answered, “Aye, I believe it was.”

Amelyssan looked as if he _was_ a child, and had just heard a particularly frightening ghost story.  At John’s urging, the elf spoke in a soft voice.  “Ages ago there was a period of years wherein men were hunted like prey.  The dwarves shut themselves within their mountains, the elves within their fortresses among the boughs, and the humans within their towns.  Walls were built, ditches dug, and knowledge, trade, and travel fled the land.  It was a time of darkness, a Time of Huntings.”

“Throw open the shutter of that lantern, John,” Kellus said quietly.  The priest began to gather his gear, and the others followed his lead.  “We have slain demons, friends – we can slay wolves.”

“Not wolves,” Amelyssan answered, “but wolven.  And worse, mayhaps.  For the Horned Hunters, called Dreth, would lead wolven packs-”

“Enough, friend.”  Kellus voice was at once gentle and firm.  The priest looked to Bigby.  “Time for you to earn your coins, friend.  We follow you.”

Bigby nodded.  “The lantern can stay lit until we be out of these trees.  On the plains, there will be enough starlight to see by.  Stay close – each of you.  No scouting, and no straggling.  These – wolven?” Bigby looked to Amelyssan before continuing, “These wolven are silent trackers, for the most part.  If they be howlin’, methinks they have yet to gain our trail.  So don’t let them sounds steal yer courage.”

“And if they go silent?”

Bigby grinned, though his eyes shone with something other than amusement.  “Why, then, draw yer swords and stop runnin’ like a rabbit.  We’ll need to become wolves ourselves.”

“I’m slow.”

Bigby measured Baden.  “Lose the armor.”

“Never.”

The big man shrugged.  “Then – for now - we move at yer pace, or whoever be the slowest.”

Bigby turned and began to lead the group from the shelter of the trees.  He spoke as he pushed away brambles and branches.  “Me dad used to say, ‘Make decisions when you have to make ‘em, and not before.’  But he was never much for smarts.  So I went ahead and made mine now.”

John ducked under a branch.  “And what have you decided?”

Bigby stopped, turned, and eyed Baden.  “If the dwarf canna keep the pace, then I will stay with him.  The rest of you strike north.  Don’t worry about your trail – these things track with more than eyes and scent.  If you can reach the Dusk Ford, cross it, and make a stand.  Mayhaps you won’t need to, but – if you do – ‘tis as good a place as any.”

“I was wrong about you, Bigby.”  Baden returned the big man’s stare.

“T’not nothing to be worried about, stump.  Most folks are.”








* There are a number of racial epithets within the world of Ostia Prim.  While such terms are unequivocally in bad taste, and most often derogatory in nature, the way they are used is often the measure of whether one is giving insult or not.  Some of the more common terms include _stumps_ (dwarves), _pointers_ (elves) and _groaners_ (half-trolls).


----------



## Nifft

You know, I was about to post impatiently that today was _over half over_ and there was yet to be a "daily update", when I saw this gem.

Thank you, Destan!

 -- N


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## Lela

I'm liking Bigby. T'not a bad guy.

And a great way to show a low Cha score.


----------



## Destan

Metagame post

[1] Real quick - Just to clear up any confusion that may be out there, the last two updates are _not_ in chronological order.  That is to say: Poridel sent the party north from Ciddry and _then_ had his little run-in with the Cyric and the assassin.

Two of my players were somewhat confused, and if _they're_ confused - and they were there - then chances are some of you other readers may be confused as well.  

Sorry about that.

[2] Now seems as good a time as any to let you in on a little shameful secret from our Valusian campaign.  Remember the fight with Baphtemet wherein Amelyssan directed his _flaming sphere_ so brilliantly so as to awaken his _sleeping_ companion Kellus?  That happened as I wrote it, _but_ there was a gross violation of our "house rules" to make it so. 

In the Valusian campaign we have something called "cookies".  If a PC does something incredibly heroic or roleplays an encounter extremely well, he may receive a "cookie" - which is worth 100 XP * Character Level.  This instance I'm now relating was the _only_ time I ever took away a cookie.

Baden's player - Josh - was out of the fight.  Baden had run from Baphy's fear spell.  Vath was gone, so too was Raylin.  Kellus and John were in a magical slumber.  The only player left at the table whose character could speak and act was Amelyssan's.

The initiative came to Amelyssan's player and he sat there in thought.  The encounter had gone badly for the group, obviously.  We were looking at a pogre-class TPK.  That was when Baden's player suggested Amelyssan burn Kellus or John to wake them up, since the _flaming sphere_ obviously didn't work against Baphy.

Amelyssan did, Baphy died, Baden's player lost a cookie for "tabletalk".

I think it only fair to note that there was a decent chance of Amelyssan slaying Baphtemet without such a wonderful use of his spell.  He had an obscenely high AC at the time due to arcane buffs, and was decent with the longsword.  Chances are that he may have survived long enough to get in a blow on the badly wounded demon.  If he were lucky enough to do enough damage to defeat the DR, the party may have achieved victory that way, as well.

Anyway - hope this clears up some confusion and sheds light on _what really happened_ around the gaming table.  I can't allow these players to look _too_ clever!

As always, thanks for reading, for posting, for questioning, and for commenting.

You folks make my day, repeatedly.

D


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## Avarice

Destan said:
			
		

> Metagame post
> 
> [1] Real quick - Just to clear up any confusion that may be out there, the last two updates are _not_ in chronological order.  That is to say: Poridel sent the party north from Ciddry and _then_ had his little run-in with the Cyric and the assassin.
> 
> Two of my players were somewhat confused, and if _they're_ confused - and they were there - then chances are some of you other readers may be confused as well.
> 
> Sorry about that.
> 
> <snip>




And here I'd been thinking you'd cleverly replaced him with a doppelganger, and that his lackey was leading the party to their doom.  But I guess Dog t'not such a bad guy after all.


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## Caliber

Avarice said:
			
		

> And here I'd been thinking you'd cleverly replaced him with a doppelganger, and that his lackey was leading the party to their doom.  But I guess Dog t'not such a bad guy after all.




That was my guess. Or that not in order thing. Yeah.   

Awesome story. Theres something about nasty wolf-thingies that always inspires me. I kinda hope they don't get away!


----------



## Destan

*Of Wolven and Sheep*


Throughout it all, the howling was incessant.

Kellus half-walked and half-slid down the slope, mud fountaining behind him.  He had had enough of this running – they all had.  There’s something horribly demoralizing about being chased, about knowing there’s something or someone behind you that wants you dead.  Battle is not easy, certainly, but at least you’re face-to-face with your opponent; closure, whether for good or ill, is at hand.

_That’s the difference,_ Kellus thought, _I never have much time to _think_ during combat.  But I have all the time in the world now._  He stopped at the bottom of the gully, placed both hands on his knees, and sucked in huge gasps of air.

Kellus watched as Baden came tumbling – literally – down the slippery fold.  The Rhelmsman extended a hand and helped the dwarf to his feet.  A few moments passed – and all moments wherein they weren’t moving seemed to last an eternity – before Dog Bigby appeared upon the crest and began his own, more-controlled descent.

Their guide, Kellus noted, wasn’t even winded.  “How does-”  A wheezing cough exploded from Kellus’ chest and forced him to take a moment.  He swallowed, spat, and ran a hand across his bald pate.  “How does it look?”

“T’not good,” Bigby answered.  The big man studied the rearward ridgeline. If he had other thoughts, he kept them to himself.

“Onward, then,” Baden said, his voice still strong.  The dwarf, despite the weight of his black armor, seemed in remarkably good shape.

And move they did, albeit more slowly.  _Indeed,_ Kellus thought, _our pace slackens with each pause.  It will not be long now._  He looked toward Lady Mavis.  Raylin and Vath were practically carrying the woman between the two of them.  Kellus was amazed she had endured this long, and with little complaint.

Her henchman, however, was an all together different story.  Huarto seemed to have spent the past four years within a tavern’s common room, and his body now protested the abuse.

Kellus watched without sympathy as the thin mercenary dry-heaved amber fluid onto the dying weeds.  “Done?  Good – now move.”

Huarto glanced upward at him with tearing, pleading eyes.  “I canna do it.”

Kellus looked past the doubled-over man at the fleeing party.  There was no time for caring.  _In this world, when had there ever been?_  “Then drop to your knees, Huarto.”  Kellus hefted his mace.

The man apparently still possessed enough energy to appear horrified.  “N-No!”

“Then let the wolven do it,” Kellus shrugged with indifference.  “Though I doubt they’ll be as quick about it.”  On cue, the howling – always closer – grew shrill.

The man clutched at Kellus’ cloak as the priest pushed past him.  Kellus wordlessly helped him to his feet, shoved him in the right direction, and followed in his wake.

Through the ground fog, perhaps a half mile distant, Kellus saw a sinuous, black ribbon that could only be the Dusk Ford.  Its banks had been overrun by the churning waters – swollen and angry from the recent rainfall.  As Kellus stumbled toward the water, Bigby helping him maintain his balance, the priest had to chuckle.  He looked to their guide.  “If that’s the ford, we’re dead men.”

Bigby winked.  “That’s the ford.  And we been dead men since first settin’ off last night.”

At that precise moment, the howling ceased.

***

John flung mud from his hands and eyed Bigby where he stood near Kellus.  The bard was supporting Amelyssan; the elf had not uttered a word of complaint, but his pallor was ashen, his eyes sunken.  “Bigby!  They stopped.  Are we safe-”

“No,” Bigby murmured, though only Kellus could hear, “now we _are_ dead.”

Their guide drew a hand-and-a-half sword from the sheath upon his back.  “The water’s high, friends.  You’ll need to remove your armor.  Get to it.”

Baden's face seemed to wrestle with conflicting emotions.  Bigby pierced him with a stare.  “'Tis your armor, stump, or your life.”  For a fleeting moment, Baden’s face twisted into a mask of rage not wholly his own.  Yet, it passed quickly enough, and the Axemarch dwarf nodded before beginning to unbuckle his greaves.

“I will _not_ cross that!  We're certain to drown.”  Mavis placed one hand on her hip and lectured Bigby as if he were a wayward child.  “You must be mad!”

“I know.”  Bigby walked past her without a second glance, studied the ground, and seemed to find a patch to his liking.

Mavis, finally, broke.  She tore off her cloak and threw it into the water at her feet.  “’Tis them they want, anyway!”  She combed her hair with shaking fingers, eyes wide.  “Huarto!  Lead on.”

Huarto had taken the opportunity, while the others were removing their armor, to lay spread-eagled upon the ground.  He rolled to his side with effort.  “M-milady?”

Mavis pointed eastward, away from the ford.  “They will not follow-”

Her words stopped with a gurgle.  It was hard to talk, after all, with a half-troll’s hand wrapped about your throat.

Vath held the woman by her neck, his arm unbent.  Mavis’ feet kicked futilely a full pace above the turf.  

Huarto scrambled to his feet, grabbing the hilt of his longsword with one hand.  Raylin, his own swords sheathed, arched a brow.  “I’d think again before drawing steel against the half-troll, friend.  I’d think real hard.”

Huarto, for all his faults, wasn’t stupid.  He removed his hand, slowly, and took a few steps backward.

Kellus purposefully walked forward, breastplate hanging from one last strap, and laid a hand on Vath’s shoulder.  “Easy, friend, easy.  You’re killing her.”

“I know.”

“If she dies, we learn nothing.”  Kellus removed his hand and walked to put Mavis between the two of them.  “Nothing, Brother Vath.”

After a long, long time thinking, Vath lowered his arm.  He relaxed his grip only enough so that Mavis could breathe.  The woman’s face began to lose its bluish tint.  She vomited onto the half-troll’s forearm, but Vath ignored the bodily fluid.

Kellus stepped forward, aware time was short.  “Mavis – listen to me, and listen well.  We have no time.  If you hesitate, you will die.”  The priest shot an unnecessary glance toward Vath before continuing.  “You said – ‘Tis them they want’ – what did you mean?”

Mavis shook her head, tears streaming from her eyes.  “I do not…” Her voice collapsed into a choking sob.  “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Let her go, Vath.”  Kellus measured his half-troll companion with an even stare.

Vath, after but a moment’s hesitation, released his grip.  He turned without further comment and made his way toward the water’s edge.

Mavis rubbed at the welts on her neck.  She looked at Kellus with an odd mix of emotions – both appreciation and hatred.  “I suppose…I suppose you want my thanks.”

“No,” Kellus unclasped his breastplate.  “I want nothing of the kind.”  The priest drew his mace, turned away from Mavis, and let his eyes drift across the southern ridgeline. He did not watch her as she picked her way through the mud, away from the party, away from the ford, alone.

***

Bigby joined him.  “Women.”

“Women,” Kellus echoed.  The two men watched Mavis disappear behind a bank of thorns.  “Think she’ll make it?”

“No.”

“Do we have time to cross, Bigby?”

Their guide ignored his question.  Instead, he swept about one arm in a large half-circle.  “I’ll let you in on a little secret, friend.  Them wolven, they ain’t been chasin’ us.  No, sir.”

“Then what have they been doing?”

“_Herding_ us - like dogs with sheep.”  Bigby smiled as if he admired such tactics.  “Told ya – they be smart bastards.”

Kellus stared hard at Bigby for a moment, then turned to look at his companions.  There they stood, not one of them – not even Baden – wearing armor.  A horrifying sense of hopelessness washed over him.  

He thought of all the places they might have stopped to make a stand.  Good, defensible places.  He thought of how he may have paused to pray to Helm – how some of his divine gifts may have better served their evasion.  He recalled how John suggested they take to the trees, spread out the missile weapons to those that could use them.

He thought of many, many things they could have done – _should_ have done.

But then, of course, the wolven came - exactly when and where they had intended.

And Kellus no longer had time to think.


----------



## Cinerarium

Wow Destan!  Great post!

I'd wondered what you'd mentioned in passing about Frostrune's talking out at the table!  Heh, good to know.

Keep up the daily updates!  And get some sleep!  We dads have to stick together.


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## Lela

Holy crap and a half batman.  Edge of my seat time here Destan.  I hope you don't make us wait too long.

 My group does what you call "Tabletalk" constantly.  But we're really not a group filled with extremely experienced players.  Don't get me wrong, we generally have a good idea of what we're doing.  It's just that we often aren't fully aware of what our spells can do or what effect actions will have on the rest of combat.  As a result we bust out with suggestions all around.  We give advice to everyone and I, though I'm DM, am not above joining in.

 Perhaps I'll consider imposing the "Tabletalk" rule for two or three sessions when the next campaign starts.  Just to force them to get to know their characters and abilities pritty well.  After that I'll relax and let it go on as it has.  Maybe if they have a firm grasp of what they can do at lower level it won't seem such a challange to add new things on as they get more powerful.


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## Alejandro

What an AWESOME update.

That Bigby: such a rat bastard! I can't believe he convinced everyone to take off their armor.

That Destan: such a rat bastard! I can't believe he successfully distracted the PCs with a panicked woman and caused them to fritter away precious time! Bravo!


----------



## Karrisbane

Alejandro said:
			
		

> That Bigby: such a rat bastard! I can't believe he convinced everyone to take off their armor.




Nah.  He's not a traitor.  We had to decide, as a group, whether it was worth the gamble of unbuckling armor in the hopes of fording the river before the wolven arrived.  We decided it was.

We have since deemed that a "poor decision."

Actually, Dog Bigby FORCED the woman to leave in an attempt to save us.  Due to her...uniqueness...in this group of travelers, she was producing a...scent...that the wolven found...attractive.  But Destan thought that might be too R-rated for the boards.  Certainly, as a non-storyteller, I can dance around the issue more deftly.

Anyway, Dog's a solid guy.

Fitz
a.k.a. Amelyssan


----------



## Tellerve

Is it just me or did anyone else get a twing of feeling that Bigby is not on the up and up?  I originally thought that, but sorta flip-flopped to the other side.  But that last bit, it seems quite the RBDM thing to do, to have them be exhausted from a hard run, get to a river and tell them they should get out of their armor, just to have them get slaughtered by their guide and his wolfen friends.

*shrugs* maybe I'm wrong, but it seems to me that I'd be swimming across that river really quickly after getting off my armor.  No sense in sitting around unarmored ya know?

Tellerve

p.s. Hey Cin, how's the wee one?


----------



## pogre

No inside information here, but I get the _feeling_ dog is an exception to the rule: Never trust a Destan-made NPC. Exceptions prove the rule remember


----------



## dpdx

*4 of 4?*

You can't just leave us like this, Destan!


----------



## WizarDru

Hi, Destan and crew!

Been a few weeks since I've had a chance to get to read the story hour and catch up (although my players have definitely commented on it).

Simply fantastic stuff, as usual.  The showdown with Baphtemet?  Pure brilliance.  Excellent pacing, your usual deft way with words and imagery (the image of missing his book reading under a tree as he thought he breathed his last) and a darn good story to tell make this story hour a genuine pleasure.  Your ability to infuse each character with a solidly unique voice is one of your strengths, and you and your players should be dutifully proud of their characterizations and your interpetation of same.

The juxtaposition of the assasination made for some confusion, though.  You might want to edit that one and put a disclaimer above it, to make it easier for new readers.

Oh, and I hope you're getting sleep!  It's been a couple of years since my second (and we haven't decided on a third or not), but I remember the sleep deprivation all too well.


----------



## Destan

WizarDru said:
			
		

> The juxtaposition of the assasination made for some confusion, though.  You might want to edit that one and put a disclaimer above it, to make it easier for new readers.




Done!  Good advice, thanks Dru.  

On a somewhat related note - _do_ new readers come along when story hours are this far advanced?  I know, personally, it was somewhat intimidating to dive into story hours that include so many updates.  Piratecat's excellent tale could (and should) encompass four to five novels!

Certainly, there's the professional SH readers - Lela, Darklone, Broccli_Head, Horatio - but I wonder if the normal bored-in-his/her-cubicle reader will take such a burden upon his/herself.  Should I end this thread and start a new one, or doesn't that make much of a difference either way?

Bah, I'm rambling.

More to the issue at hand:  It appears my little experiment of four consecutive, daily updates went awry after update #3.  I've been tired, sick, blah blah blah.  Anyway, I should have the most recent update posted today.  Tomorrow at the latest.

The Brotherhood of Olgotha fast approaches a "major event".  I made the mistake of mining my players' memories to help me write the next couple updates - I had forgotten quite a bit.  A lot of stuff is about to happen, and I wanted to get it factually correct.  Or, at least, as close as possible.

D


----------



## Greybar

> On a somewhat related note - do new readers come along when story hours are this far advanced?




Absolutely.  I recommend friends to story hours such as this, Sep's, and PC's all the time.  I know that at least one friend of mine jumped in on this one a few weeks ago.

john


----------



## Lela

Destan said:
			
		

> Certainly, there's the professional SH readers - Lela, Darklone, Broccli_Head, Horatio -



Okay, so who's going to start paying me?

C'mon Old One, Doc. Midknight, Destan, Sep, Arwink, Cap, Wicht, Jester, JollyDoc, gfunk, Genshou, Wulf,  etc. Cough up the green.


----------



## Capellan

Lela said:
			
		

> C'mon Old One, Doc. Midknight, Destan, Sep, Arwink, Cap, Wicht, Jester, etc. Cough up the green.




Don't fret: every cent we make from our SHs, we pass on to you


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## Lela

Capellan said:
			
		

> Don't fret: every cent we make from our SHs, we pass on to you



Yeah, yeah. You say that now.

But when you guys are finally discovered and the plethora of crappy writers who smash up a good settings die off all I'll get is endless happiness from reading your books. And a lot of debt pilled up from buying them all (cause there's no way I'm not owning them) and a bookshelf to put them on.

And you guys will be raking in the cash that brilliant writers deserve.  And after the movie rights come through. . .


----------



## Cheiromancer

I know that when I am up to date with my favorite story-hours, I start to look around for others.  But I don't want to get into a story that is going to fold after three installments.  Stories that get updated and seem to have a regular fan-base will attract me months after they have started.


----------



## Destan

*Death at the Dusk Ford*

In Axemarch, when the rücken had first broken through the Dunden Crust, Baden had said nothing during the subsequent Warmoot.  He listened, quietly, and the bitterness grew in his breast.

Afterward, none had asked him for his thoughts.

Then, months later, the Far Warrens had drummed with the bootheels of dwem raiders.  Rumli was killed in the first volley.  Larnido died more slowly – they found him bound and gagged days after the assault had been beaten back. Again, a Warmoot was held.  And, this time, Baden spoke.

Afterward, none had asked him for his reasons.

The _morhedrel_ had joined the fray shortly thereafter.  A small group of _astum eg’lor_, Ones Already Dead, entered Axemarch from above rather than below.  Volri, who had not died when Rumli fell, was slit from navel to neck and left hanging, his beard tied to a crossbeam.  A third Warmoot was held, yet Baden did not attend; he had already decided his home was no longer within those halls.

Afterward, none had followed to ask him why.

Baden Dost had his reasons why he left Axemarch.  He had his reasons why he rode a pony, alone, under the Foggun Maw, down the Steppingway, and onto the Cormick plains.  He had his reasons why he turned his back to the Balantir Cor, why he afterward ignored rumors of war as they drifted downward from the mountains to the lands of Men.  And he had his reasons why he vowed never to go back.

_Problem is,_ Baden now thought, _none o’ em are any good._

The Axemarch dwarf swung Borbidan’s waraxe – _his waraxe_ – through the autumn air.  The weight was good, the balance perfect.  A few more practice strokes and his shoulders were loose.  He dug his boots into the half-frozen ground, shook his heels back and forth to gain better footing.

_Forgefather,_ Baden prayed, _you know I have never broken faith.  Not with you.  I’m a little upset you decided to grant me wisdom _now._  I could’a used it back when I was opening my fool mouth at the Warmoot.  Could’a used it before I placed bit and bridle on ol’ Marmbly and rode her outta me homeland._

Baden decided he had swung the axe enough – any more, and he would only be tiring himself.  He sat the head upon the ground, crossed his arms over the haft, and waited.

In the corner of his mind, he heard the voice.  It had happened so many times, now, that it no longer troubled him.  What _did_ trouble him, however, was the fact the voice was whimpering.  

_Ilvar, what is it?

- D-demons, Baden.  They are near.

No, child – not demons.  They be dogs.  Or wolves.

- Hellbred hounds, Baden – that’s what they are.  I’m scared-

Don’t be, little one._ 

Baden lifted his axe as he saw the first of the wolven crest the ridge.  

_I mean to go home.  And no beast – demon or no – is gonna keep me from it._

***

John counted the shaggy heads as they appeared.  _One, two._  The Pellman pressed the butt of his crossbow against his shoulder and took aim at the lead animal.  _Two?  Only two?!  Bigby, you half-bearded ass, we could’a waylaid these pups hours ago and saved the soles of my boots!_

John pulled the four-fingered trigger and allowed himself time to smile.  The bolt buried itself, fletching-deep, in the first wolven’s hackles.  Both beasts’ heads swiveled downward to regard him, and his smiled faded.  He saw intelligence in their eyes – malicious and thinking.

More than that – he saw hatred, too.

One of the animal’s snouts had been recently – very recently – stained with blood.  _Aha!  Farewell, Mavis, you cold-hearted spinster._  John reached into his leg quiver, let his fingers dance across different bolts, then withdrew a particularly unwieldy quarrel.  The shaft, John knew, had a reservoir filled with alchemist’s fire.  _No sense in fighting fair._

The wolven charged downhill even as Vath charged uphill to meet them.

John swore as he took aim at the unwounded wolven; the injured one was now shielded behind the loping half-troll.

Aim – exhale – squeeze - _Thunk!_

Strands of fire showered outward upon the bolt’s impact, bathing the wolven’s hide in crackling flames.  The beast yelped – sounding more like a Cymerian lapdog than a demonic hound – and wildly circled about, snapping at the half-buried shaft in fear and desperation.  It took but a moment for Vath to strike outward with an open palm, breaking the distracted beast’s neck with an audible crack.

_When I record this battle,_ John mused as he reloaded his crossbow, careful to use only a normal quarrel, _I’ll need to add some spice to make it worthy of the telling.  Shall I make it us against four wolven, each larger than a destrier?  Or, hell, mayhaps six of the brutes would serve-_

As John took aim, the remaining wolf nimbly leapt around Vath and opened his mouth as if to roar.  Yet, instead of sound, a white mist exploded from the gaping maw.  Huarto died where he stood, his face frozen into a crystalline expression of surprise.

“Two,” John whispered.  He dropped the mundane bolt and withdrew his remaining shaft of alchemist’s fire.  “Two is spice a’plenty.”

***

“Highskull Krix, I am sorry.  It failed.”

“Wrong.”

“Your Grace?”

“_It_ did not fail.  _You_ failed.”

“Of course, Your Grace.  I shall cast the spell a second time-”

“Silence, fool!  Are you but an acolyte?!  The spell cannot be cast again for seven days, at least.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace.  I shall remain by the body, without food or drink, and upon the first hour of the seventh dusk I _will_ succeed.”

_Seven days.  They could be as far as Gordia - or beyond - in seven days’ time.  Yet…what to do?  Divination?  No, the Father of Lies would despise such paltry requests for assistance.  Ahh…yes, yes – expensive, but possible._

“Brother, tell me – you come from a noble family, yes?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

“Three sisters – all unmarried – yes?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

“Good.  Take the Spur Lord Garavon and his team.  Return forthwith to your family’s demesne.  Sell your sisters to the Genns; Garavon will know where a nearby slaver agent may be located.”

“As you will, Your Grace.”

“Deposit the coins with our agents in Pell.  The donation _must_ be five thousand crowns.  Or more.”

“As you will, Your Grace.”

_Good, good - that should cover the expense of the diamond dust.  Yet, will the man’s spirit agree to be _raised_?  He might; he just might.  Should the fool think his work here remains unfinished, he may hope to barter for his freedom upon his return-_

“Shall I depart, Your Grace?”

“One last thing - if the donation is less than that required, sell yourself to the Genns.  Have Garavon deposit the monies.”

“As you will, Your Grace.”

“Tell Brother Henratt I shall attempt the resurrection on the morrow.  His men must be ready to ride at first light.  Until such time, I shall be in prayer and left undisturbed.  Go, now - you sicken me.”


----------



## LostSoul

Destan said:
			
		

> On a somewhat related note - _do_ new readers come along when story hours are this far advanced?




I have.

It's great stuff.  I really enjoy it.  Although I would rather see some grittier stuff , like... other words for "freezing our manhood off", and the special lure the woman had towards the wolfen.  That's pretty cool, I must say.  

Anyways.

Great stuff.


----------



## Destan

LostSoul said:
			
		

> Although I would rather see some grittier stuff...




Piratecat once told me, "Only one thing's better than a new reader, and that's a new reader that posts a comment."  Actually, he didn't - but he might have.

Anyway, welcome.

The whole 'grittiness' aspect of the story hour has become a near-constant balancing act for me.  Some events and themes we played in the actual campaign seem over-the-top or even immature when I try to incorporate them onto the board.  So I drop 'em.  

Other events garner most of their significance from 'grittiness' - and I try to include them, though I can't always.  I get a bit of flack from my players when I tone things down, but - overall - I don't feel like I've compromised the tale as a whole.  Not yet, anyway. 


D

P.S.  LostSoul - liked the book, love the quote in your sig.


----------



## Hjorimir

As another new reader to your SH, I thought I'd chime in and tip my hat. A damn fine read, Destan. The character interaction is top notch.


----------



## Zad

Destan said:
			
		

> On a somewhat related note - _do_ new readers come along when story hours are this far advanced?



You bet your bippy they do. Word of mouth, frequency of updates, and hit count all conspire to bring in new readers. That day that someone is bored at work in the afternoon and is scanning the boards looking for a story to check out, these things all reel them in, and after reading one of your installments, they are no doubt hooked.

I'm always amazed and pleased when a new reader shows up reading my story hour. And yes, they'll go back through the entire multi-year, 500 page story and get caught up, if they like it.


----------



## wolff96

While it had yet to reach it's current length, your story hour was already well-established when I first started reading it.

More to the point of your question, I *did* take the plunge into Sepulchrave's Story Hour well after it had reached an enormously ridiculous length. All it took was enough people commenting on how incredible it was for me to finally go read the thing. And now I love it. So very, very much.  

As I do your story hour. That fight against the Wolven was incredibly cool.


----------



## Nasma

I don't have much to say, except this has got onto the second page again.
But not for long


----------



## Destan

_This update's for Nasma, whose "bump" was enough to get my procrastinating butt to sit down and pound the keys._


*The Pen and the Sword*

Krix accepted a towel from a nearby priest and pressed the wet cloth against his face.  He sighed with contentment before lowering his hands.  “You are still here?”  Krix feigned astonishment as he fixed an imperious stare toward three nearby priests.  “It is done.  I have what I require.  Leave us.”

“Your Grace,” one man stepped forward with a bow, “is that wise?”

_Wise?  Perhaps not._  “It is what I _will._  That is enough.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The three men bowed low before exiting the darkened chamber in a cacophony of clinking armor and shuffling feet.

Krix tossed the towel onto the stone floor and pulled a chair closer with one foot before collapsing onto it.  Complete silence reigned for long moments.  _Well, not quite complete._  Poridel Poriden wheezed like a drunkard, sucking in mouthfuls of air, body twisting as his soul finished the journey.

The sage turned his head to one side.  “I live?”

His voice was weak.  That was to be expected.  “You do.  For now.  You should thank Cyric.”

“Never.”

Krix shrugged, unperturbed.  “No matter.  Proselytizing is for the petty, yes?”  The high priest kicked both feet onto the table holding Poridel’s naked, supine form.  “I must admit, sage, I am quite surprised you allowed us to bring you back.”

Poridel rolled his head away from Krix to stare mutely at the darkness overhead.  After a moment, the sage licked his lips.  “Where are we?”

“Where, indeed.”  Krix withdrew a thin dagger and began to pick at his fingernails.  “I suppose we have some time for idle banter.  Not much, mind you, but some.”  The Cyric gestured around the blackness.  “We, friend, are in the bowels of a mausoleum.  Fitting, is it not?  Yes, yes – I think it is.”

Krix stood and began to pace even as he shaved his fingernails with the blade.  “I will allow you some time to…recover.  I have never died, but I have heard it can be somewhat of a trying experience.”

The priest sat upon the table and tenderly brushed Poridel’s hair away from the old man’s face.  “I have always liked cemeteries, sage.  Since I was but a child, to tell it true.  Others of my age would flock to the whorehouses and the taverns, the churches, the fairgrounds, even the forests and fields.  But…but there is nothing quite so calm, so relaxing, as a cemetery.  Yes, yes?”

Krix sheathed the blade.  “Why, one could walk into the largest towns of this land – Pell, Val Hor, even Apia.  You would be swarmed by the masses, covered with pushing and jostling people, pressed in by waves of frenzied flesh.  Yet, find you a cemetery, and walk amongst those cold, silent stones.  Yes, yes – an oasis of tranquility, a pocket of solitude, in every community.”

Color slowly began to return to the sage’s cheeks.  He coughed, turning his head to one side, and phlegm the color of blood dribbled from his lips onto his cheek.  Krix produced a small handkerchief and dabbed away the mucous, speaking as one would to a child.  “You are no fool, sage.  Yet you have agreed to let my god deliver you unto us a second time.  Is your thirst for life that strong?  I find that amazing, if you would know.  Truly.”

Poridel coughed once more.  The sage warily accepted the cloth and, this time, cleared his chin himself.  He rolled onto an elbow, wincing, and sat upward.  Krix eyed him for a moment before retaking his seat.  The high priest smiled.  “Are you ready, then, to answer my questions?”

Poridel raised a palsied hand.  “N-not…not just yet.”

Krix’s eyes went flat.  “I believe I did not hear you.”

“Not just yet, Your Grace.”

“Ah, that is better.  Men of station must cling to decorum.  Yes, yes – it is best.”  Krix drew in a deep breath before exhaling.  “I believe this will go easier if I inform you of some…things.  Things you doubtless wonder about this very moment.”

The high priest waved an arm about the room.  “You cannot see it, friend, but there is a distinctly emerald glimmer surrounding us in this darkness.  You cannot magically transport yourself away from here.  I would never be so foolish - yes, yes.”  The high priest measured the sage with a lengthy stare.  “I am uncertain as to what spells still pulsate within that prune-of-a-brain, but…’lest you wish to return whence you came, I would recommend against uttering any arcane phrases.”

“I understand.  Your Grace.”

“Of course you do, Poridel.  Of course you do.”  Krix’s teeth were yellow in the gloom.  “But I doubt I would be so quick as that Melter assassin.  Yes, yes – I think I would kill you more slowly, should you try to be an upstart.”

“Your Grace,” Poridel began weakly, “we have an understanding.  You, and I – we are in this thing.  We have chosen sides and we understand what such a choice means.  But…but those men who left…they do not know.”

Krix shrugged, the edge of annoyance in his tone.  “That does not concern me.  They are who they are.  They have done what…they have done.  It is all written, friend.  It all _has been_ written.”

“Spare them, Your Grace.”  Poridel, for the first time, could put feeling behind his words.  “I will give you what you want, tell you what you seek.  Only…I ask you to spare them.”

Krix studied the sage for a moment before standing and resuming his circular pacing.  “The world we live in, friend, is one of death.  Why, we stand now upon the body of a dead god.”  Krix toed the flagstones for effect.  “Outside the colors bleed away, warmth leaves, and the long night will soon fall.  Death is everywhere and anywhere.  It has always been, and always will be.

“You do understand,” Krix continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, “it is against the grain of my Church to bring someone back.  I have asked much of my God so that I might do this thing.”

Poridel nodded, dragged the cloth over his lips.  “And I thank you for it, Your Grace.”  The sage looked up.  “Yet will you spare them?”

Krix’s brows furrowed in anger.  Yet the evidenced rage passed just as quickly, a delighted smile firmly in its place.  “I nearly forgot.  Yes, yes – indeed I did.  How foolish of me.  This repartee has caused me to neglect my duties.  Shameful, really.”

Krix disappeared a short distance into the blackness before uttering a word.  _Light_ flared, causing Poridel to blink like an owl.  A massive bronze urn had been upended.  Upon it was a blanket.  Krix removed the sheet with a flourish, revealing…pain.

***

For a moment Poridel appeared as if he would break into tears.

But only for a moment.

“Such methods do not become you, Your Grace.”

Krix regarded the naked sage before looking downward at the various torture devices, a faint expression of distaste on his features.  “Yes, yes – you are correct, of course.  But I have taxed myself of late, have asked much of my god.”  He pursed his lips in thought.  “Sometimes, friend, the old ways are the best ways; the simple ways are most effective.”

“I have told you, Your Grace,” Poridel stated matter-of-factly, “I will tell you what you would know.”

“Save for what I _must_ know,” Krix rejoined.  “We both understand what it is I must do, and what information I must…_pull_…from you.”  As if to accentuate his words, Krix lifted an odd, metallic device.

The high priest walked, holding the item, to where Poridel hunched.  “In my youth, when I was newly smocked, I had the honor of partaking in a handful of disembowelments.  Messy things, really.  Not quite my, ah, style.  Yes, yes – not my normal recourse.”

Krix sat next to Poridel as if joining a friend upon a park bench.  “I am afraid I am not very good at it.  Not good at all.  Too clumsy by half.  My hands shake and my eyesight is not what it once was…”

Poridel was silent.

Krix stood and retrieved another device with his other hand.  “They say the leg bone of a cow works well.  Drain the marrow, hollow it out.”  The priest pantomimed thrusting the bone-colored tube upward in a violent manner.  “Just-so-wide-enough to allow the fork, the tines folded, to slide upward.  Then…”  The high priest depressed a button on the first device, and three barbed hooks sprung fully outward.  “Twist, pull.  Twist, pull.  You can imagine, I am certain.”

Krix threw back his head and laughed.  “But, friend Poridel, by all the gods – _do not stand too closely!_ – not when the subject’s entrails come spewing forth.  Tsk, tsk - what a mess.”  The high priest placed both utensils on the urn once more.  “As I said,” he continued, “horribly messy.  Truly, it is.”

“What is it you would know, Your Grace?”  Poridel’s voice was barely audible above Krix’ chortling.

Yet the high priest was not finished.  He pulled a thin rod from the urn, the length of his forearm, and rolled it between his fingers.  “The Patriarch of Genn, I am told, pierces the eyes of those who dare to look upon any of his harem.  Yet, amazingly, men still do.”

Krix glanced at Poridel.  “Have you ever?  Been to Genn, that is?”

“No, Your Grace.”

Krix sighed.  “Nor have I.  A pity.  Yet they seem like such religious zealots; I fear I would not like it overly much.”  The high priest replaced the rod and hefted a hammer.  “Crude, this one, but effective.  I had one of my men purchase it from a smith not far from here.  A couple knocks – placed just so – and men start singing.”

Poridel shifted but otherwise remained silent.  Krix stared at him and seemed to suddenly lose interest.  He replaced the hammer and covered the devices with the blanket once more.  “All of them…all of those little tools are horrible.  Yes, yes – simply horrible.”

Krix meandered toward the opposite end of the room.  There, upon the ground at the edge of the light, was a small coffer.  The high priest toed the lid open before regarding the sage once more.  “Horrible devices, those - but none so horrible as these.”  Krix lifted a vial, uncorked it, and sniffed the opening.

Then, without warning, the Cyric priest strode across the room and held the vial below Poridel’s nose.  “You are a sage, yes?  Tell me – what does the vial contain?”

Poridel could smell the sweet aroma, had smelled it many times.  “Healing potions, Your Grace.”

“You. Are. Correct.”

Krix clapped his hands mockingly.  “And therein, friend, is your undoing.  For no matter how badly I am at this whole game of torture, even were I as bumbling as the demon Ral…

“And no matter how brave and steadfast you are, no matter how long you can withstand the pain…

“Always, always, and always – there will be sweet relief for you.  You will be healed.  Time and again.”  Krix’ eyes narrowed like a viper’s and he leaned forward, his face inches from Poridel’s own.  “You will bleed and burn and break, you will snap and writhe and boil, but you _Will. Not. Die._”

Krix stood upright once more, corked the bottle, and crossed his arms.  “At least, not until I say you do.”  The priest’s face and mood were suddenly pleasant.  “And I will not do _that_, Tower Sage Poridel Poriden, until you tell me what I must know.”

***

_Midnight._

Poridel, for an eternity, was engulfed within a humus of pain.  He felt death come for him – beseeching, soothing, crying – yet always was it held at bay.  Always denied by the curative potions poured down his throat.

Poridel, in those few moments of lucidity between bouts of anguish, had learned to recoil at the cloying scent of healing, the once-fresh taste of the liquid.  He loathed himself for the fact that, even understanding his predicament, he still would cry out to be healed.  They did not need to force the liquid into him; he drank it, time and again, greedily.

After a few sessions, he felt his mind slipping.  It would be easy, he thought, to simply allow it to go.  To sink into the embrace of madness, to drown in the seas of incomprehension.  By the gods, such a destiny called for him.

_If I can only last until midnight._

Some of the sessions left marks even the potions, minor as they were, could not heal.  Certainly the stone table and the floor surrounding it were covered with blood and worse.  It must have appeared as if dozens had been violently murdered in the same spot, upon that table, in that black room.

Krix shared the duties.  He had a pig-faced man, some middling priest, to assist him.  Bending joints where they were not meant to bend was evidently difficult work.  Through a veil of pain, Poridel could see that both men were sweating profusely.

He wondered, not for the first time, why they simply did not attempt to _charm_ him.  Or use some other, more powerful dweomer.  They were priests, not back-alley thugs; other methods, not nearly so unpredictable in their success, were surely available.

Perhaps, Poridel mused, their god would not let them.

_I must last until midnight._

Poridel surfaced into cognitive thought once more.  Such moments were fleeting, and grew more infrequent with each passing hour.  In those small valleys of no-pain, the sage would retreat to where he always retreated when times were difficult.

He thought.  He pondered.  He wondered.

He recalled the tomes he had read, and those he had written.  He remembered pacing the stacks of books-upon-books-upon-books within the library of Demons.  He reminisced about the summer he had first learned to pen the incredibly difficult elvish script.

On the whole, he had not lived a bad life.  Boring, certainly.  But only to those who peered at him from the outside.  Poridel had never – and would never – hold his own child in his arms.  He had never slain a man, to tell it true; he was thankful for it.  He had never been to Genn, nor to the Aradeeti, nor to Gordia, nor to-

_I will last until midnight._

Again, he came out of the throes of agony.  Again, the taste was on his tongue.  Yet, this time, he nearly succumbed to madness.  He felt himself falling, dangling, twisting, dancing, tumbling…

It was a near thing.  Too near.

It was _time_ – or it had damned well better be.

“Your Grace.”  His voice was smooth, despite what had been done – and then undone – to his vocal chords.

Krix sprung upright from where he slouched against the far wall.  The priest shared a glance with his pig-faced assistant before eyeing Poridel warily.  “I am here, sage.  I am always here.  Let us end this.  Yes, yes – do let us end it.”

“Your Grace,” Poridel repeated, shoving the wave of insanity away – if only for a moment.  “I will tell you what you must know.”

“All glory unto Cyric!”  Krix slammed a hand onto the stone table.  “To where do those men of Olgotha now go?  And to what purpose?”

“I ask-”

“Damn you to the pits, sage!”  Krix stepped forward and back-handed Poridel.  The sage’s head snapped backward, bounced off the stone and the gore thereupon.  “I am finished – _FINISHED!_ – with these games.  I must know!”

Poridel spat away a tooth and continued, for all the world as if he had never been interrupted.  “I ask for one boon.  A simple one.  Your Grace.”

Krix ground his teeth.  Poridel could actually hear the sound.  “Ask it.”

“The time, Your Grace.”

“The time?”  Krix stepped into his view – still blurry from the earlier pummeling.  The priest’s tone was guarded.  “What trickery are you about?”

“The time, Your Grace,” Poridel repeated.  “I only wish to know…the time.”  _Let it be midnight.  Gods, please, letitbemidnight._  Madness threatened once more, roiling about him like impending nausea.

A silence in which a great many things hung in the balance then descended.  Finally, Krix laughed.  “Brother Deviom.  Go outside – find out what time it is.”

Poridel heard footfalls recede, heard them walk up a flight of stairs somewhere in the shadows.  The sage would have given anything to have followed that man, to leave this pit of hell and misery.  Anything, that is, except that which Krix wanted him to give.  

_You will call.  At midnight.  You must call.  Any later, and I am undone._

Poridel knew he had but a few moments left.  A few moments, regardless of the outcome.  And he decided, at that very instant, he would recall some thought, some pleasant memory, that would serve to hold – to hold the madness, the darkness, the world – to hold them all at bay for but a while longer.

His father had instilled within him a love to read.  A love to write.  A love to learn.  Other children, stronger and more fit than Poridel, yearned for other, much different, lives.  “Happy is the youth whose hand is filled with a sword.”  Isn’t that what the mercenaries of his childhood had said when they came through his town?

And did their claim not bear fruit?  Poridel, as a child, had seen how those youths who could swim the furthest, climb the highest, run the fastest – Poridel had seen how they grew happy and content.  They married.  They raised families.  They were strong in the field in times of peace, and strong within the militia during times of war.

Yet…was not Poridel’s father happy as well?  His mother?  Himself?  Indeed they were.  Above _their_ mantle was not a sword, nor an axe.  No.  They had what no other family within his hamlet possessed – books.  Three of them, to be exact.  His favorite had always been the one that told the tales of Mulidan the Mentor, and how he had brought learning unto the barbarians of Gordia.

Poridel smiled at that thought, even now, even in the hell he was now within.  His father had once said, “Happy is the youth whose hand is filled with a book – if he can read it!”

Poridel fell back onto the grime of the stone table.  Krix was talking to the priest – the man had returned.  The sage ignored them.  He swiveled his head to one side and smiled at his father.  

“I have missed you, son.  So much.”

_And I you, father.  How is mother?_

“She is well.  There is no pain.  Not here.”

_Say it for me, father.  One last time._

His father, shrouded in the darkness, smiled fondly.  “When one awakes, and rolls from his pallet, and strides across the cold rushes to put flame to lantern.  When the world is asleep around him.  When the whippoorwill sings and crickets speak.  When one is alone, in silence, with nothing but a book.  That, my son, is glory.  That is all the glory a man ever needs, and more besides.”

_Yes, father.  I know.  I have always known._

“I will tell you again, and soon, and often.  Be as strong as only one who can appreciate his place in the world may be.”

Krix stepped into view and his father faded.  “It is midnight, sage.  There.  The deed is done.”

“Indeed it is.”

For Poridel then felt the tickle of fingers upon his brain.  And, after a moment, heard the whispered _message._

He had come calling, as he had each day since Poridel had first left Val Hor.  It would soon be over.  All of this.  Over.

Poridel whispered his own _message_, smiling in spite of himself, even as Krix leaned forward with anticipation.  The sage did not care who heard him – not now - so long as his distant friend did.  “Hear me and know I speak the truth.  I swear it upon my soul, upon the souls of my father and mother and all those whom I love, and whom love this land for what it can be-”

“Enough,” Krix growled.  “Truly, you are insufferable.”

Poridel’s smile only widened.  “The men of Olgotha, whom you seek, they left Ciddry for the Duskingdell barrow.  I know not how long I have been dead, nor how long I have been here since you raised me.  Doubtless the men are there even now.”

Krix smiled thinly.  “Ah, I see.  So the prophecies did _not_ lie.  I admit – I was fearful of such, may Cyric forgive me.  Your friends will soon be dead, you know.”

“I know.  Some of them.  Yes.”  Poridel’s smile faded.  “But not all.”

Krix shrugged and looked away from Poridel.  “Deviom.  The horses are saddled, the men are ready?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

Krix eyed Poridel once more.  “I suppose you now expect your release.”

Poridel ignored him.  There were more important things than the priest, than his own life.  “You are Highskull Krix-”

“I know who I am, you fool.  Has the madness claimed you, then?”

“You and a hired Melter murdered me in Ciddry some time ago.  You seek the men of Olgotha.  You now will send your own men to find them in the Duskingdell.  They will need aid.”

Krix frowned, confusion flashing across his face.  “What is this?  You are mad, sage.  Yes, yes – you are certainly mad.”

Poridel sighed.  It was done.  He whispered, one last time, “They will need aid.  And soon.  They are the ones who hold the hope of this world.”

Krix stood, scowling.  “Bah!”  The priest walked from Poridel’s sight.  “He is insane, but Cyric has blessed us – for he spoke the truth prior to losing himself.  Take him with you, Brother Deviom.  See that he pays for his stubbornness, but when you near the Duskingdell – waste no more healing potions on him.  Ensure he dies.  The god has long been without his soul – too long.”

“As you will, Your Grace.”

“Yes, yes – as I will.”  Krix patted Poridel on the head like a man would a dog.  “Show those upstarts of Olgotha what happens to those who stand in our way.  Show them his body.  You come from a family of performers, yes?  Good.  Stage something.  Something dramatic.”

“As you will, Your Grace.”

Krix looked to Poridel one last time.  “Only a few more days of this, friend.  And then it will all be over.”  Krix grinned like a wolf.  “Until, of course, we come for your soul.  And then, friend, it will never end.  Never.”

Poridel’s face was a sublime mask as madness – finally and irrevocably – overtook him.

***

Destan the Grim*, Fifth Archmage of Val Hor, draped his _scrying_ mirror with cloth reserved for the purpose.  “Cleaver.”

A hulking brute in chain and plate stepped forward, wheezing as only half-trolls can do.  “Aye, Destan?”

“It has begun.  Earlier than I had thought.”  The Archmage shared a look that bespoke years of trust with the half-breed behemoth.  “Our friend Poridel, the sage, do you remember him?”

“I do.  I have his scent.”  Cleaver touched a finger to his misshapen nose.

“We speak, from time to time, at this hour.  Through my mirror.”

“I know, Destan.”  Cleaver’s eyes narrowed in concern.

“Now…now we will speak no more.”  The grief was bright in the Archmage’s eyes.  “Yet he left us with information; he did his part, we must do ours.”  The wizard gripped the half-troll’s elbow and led him to the door of the private sanctum.  “Find Archbishop Mariadon – I know the hour is late.  I have a task for Anar, but the paladin is on Church’s business now.  The Archbishop may grant his leave.”

“May?”  Cleaver growled low in his throat.  “Tell him what must be done.  That is enough.”

Destan flashed a weary smile.  “For you, perhaps.  But others are not so loyal.  Still, Mariadon is a good man.  A great man.  He will understand.”

“As you say, Destan,” Cleaver rumbled a grudging agreement.

“Go now, please.  We have no time.  None of us – ever again – will have time.”

The half-troll nodded, opened the door, and stomped down the hallway.

Destan closed the door, leaned against it for a moment, then walked purposefully across his chambers toward a shelf piled with books and sheafs of parchment.  There was much to do, many who must know, others who must now be…removed.  He would need to inform the Coven, certainly.  And the Church of Helm.  Lathander.  Tempus.  Gond?  No, perhaps not Gond.  Not yet – the pain was still fresh from the loss of Bishop Herryn.

The Archmage pulled a slender libram from his shelf and made toward his reading desk.  He stopped, before sitting, and ran fingers across the cover.  It was a small book, so much smaller than its fellows upon the shelf.  It told of some man who had ventured into the northlands, years ago, so that he might teach raiders’ children to read.

The wizard tenderly opened the cover, read the hastily-scrawled note, “To Destan – Knowledge is Light.  Between us, we shall bring both to this world.  – Yours, Poridel.”

The book fell to the floor, and Destan fell to his knees shortly thereafter.  The Archmage buried his face in his hands.  And wept.  “Pori…poor, poor Pori.  My friend.  My dear, dear friend…how I miss you already.  How we all…how this world will miss you.”

After a time, Destan heard footfalls in the outer passageway.  A guard announced the presence of a Lord of the Church.  So, Cleaver had returned with Mariadon.  Had he been on the floor so long?  

The Archmage used a cantrip to dry the tears from his face, to remove the redness from his eyes.  Would that he had a spell to heal his heart.  “Pori…you are safe, now.  It is better where you are.”

Destan’s face hardened, his tone grew to steel.  “For now, here, on this black world, it will be a time of wolves.  And revenge.”





* This is the point in the story hour wherein its author feels a bit like a horse’s ass.  I was inspired by reading other story hours on these boards for quite some time.  One day, I decided to act on that inspiration and write my own.  I floundered about for a name to use here on ENWorld for some time, then decided on stealing one from my campaign.  At that time, I never really imagined I’d eventually write enough to get to the point wherein that particular character is introduced into the tale.  So, readers and friends, I ask your forgiveness.  Hopefully you won’t roll your eyes too wildly when you see Destan’s name in print.  Unlike Destan the Grim, I'm a beleaguered dad and not an archmage.


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## dpdx

Oh, c'mon, of course not! If Clive Cussler can get away with it, so can you! Besides, you're a much better writer.


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## Cinerarium

Awesome post, buddy.  Really, truly, superb.

The torture scene, the characterization of Krix, Poridel's thoughts and memories -- and the use of the message!  Incredible!

I really like how evil your bad guys are, and how well-thought out the good guys are.  I've been thinking lots lately of how the various factions in my campaign would communicate and receive intel... you're providing great ideas!

Thanks,
Cin


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## Fimmtiu

Destan said:
			
		

> This is the point in the story hour wherein its author feels a bit like a horse’s ass...




Don't. It's a fine name. So long as you can keep cranking out posts full of beautiful drama like this, I don't care if you change your name to "Queen Elizabeth the Second's Withered Left Ovary". Keep up the great work!


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## Alejandro

That post was fantastic. Poor Pori -- he came back even though he knew who was calling him, all for the sake of delivering one message.

I feel like I'm reading about bothans being sacrificed for the sake of the rebellion, except that I love this SH and despise what SW has become!


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## grodog

Destan, it has been some time since I've last posted in your SH, but I have to say a hearty thank you to you and your players:  you and Sep are the only SHs that I read, and I've thoroughly enjoyed this one since my first read


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## rigur

Excellent!

Keep up the good work.


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## Celtavian

*re*

Destan,

You're using third person-limited viewpoint? I was wondering if this is your standard writing style or if you made a conscience choice for this particular story?

Nice, entertaining, well-paced story. I enjoy reading it purely for the style. You always manage to include a few words that cause me to make a trip to my favorite online dictionary.


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## frostrune

Fellow readers,

One of Destan's players here.  Thought I'd take a quick opportunity to extend our thanks for your kind words and encouragement to our fearless DM.  We enjoy seeing our story in print as much as you all but it would never get done if we were the only ones hounding him.  Keep up the good work!

We are quickly approaching the point in the story hour where our records improve dramatically.  Now that Borbidon's Plate and Axe have been introduced, thought that you might like my humble interpretation.

Thanks Again,

Frostrune, a.k.a. Baden Dost


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## frostrune

Oops forgot the attachement.

Frostrune


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## gloomymarshes

Wow. A goth dwarf. j/k  Nice picture, wish I could draw like that.


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## wolff96

Damn, that was an incredible update, Destan. Rock.


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## Lela

There's a feeling I only get when I've read/watched an amazing story (or part thereof).  Something like peace mixed with thought.  I find myself calm and relaxed.  It takes a moment for the world to come back into focus around me--the tunnel vision having been overwelming.  Even the pain from my badly sprained wrist returns less intense (at least for a while).  Everything's a little brighter and all those stupid people are a little less annoying.

Destan, your writing is one of the few times I get to feel this.  It's likely the reason I spend so much time in the Story Hour forum.  Just that little bit of awe and wonder after such an amazing read is worth it every time.  Other authors have it from time to time but there are some, like you, who inspire it with nearly every update.

It's a drug.  One I'm proud to be addicted too.  Thank you.


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## Cinerarium

frostrune -- I had no idea you could draw!  Keep it up -- any of Amelyssan or Kellus?


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## Nasma

My first impression of Pori was that of the standard campaign plot hook provider, but he's turned out to be almost as interesting as the PCs themselves.

Amazing update Destan, can't think of much else to say.


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## Destan

Celtavian said:
			
		

> You're using third person-limited viewpoint? I was wondering if this is your standard writing style or if you made a conscience choice for this particular story?




To be honest, I was quite taken with George R.R. Martin's shifting point-of-view within his _A Song of Ice and Fire_ series.  That was the first series, that I can recall, wherein the POV changed from chapter to chapter.  I thought it was just a brilliant idea, and couldn't understand why I hadn't seen more of it - especially in stories with a large number of characters.

At any rate, this tale has at least six main protagonists (6 PC's) and I wanted to attempt to give each his due.  The best method, I thought, would be to switch the viewpoint with each update.  I've fallen away from that a bit of late - mainly as we expand outside the group's sphere to see NPC's and the world as a whole - but I think it's still the best method for a story such as this.



> Nice, entertaining, well-paced story. I enjoy reading it purely for the style. You always manage to include a few words that cause me to make a trip to my favorite online dictionary.




Sep's causes me to do the same.  As weird as it sounds, I love having to head to the dictionary to learn a new word.  Feels like someone handed me a cookie or something.  

Grodog - I'll try to update the Rogues Gallery in the near future per your request.  Maybe I'll throw Baphtemet's stats on there.  If there's something else you (or anyone else) would like to see, let me know.

Thanks to you - and all of you - for reading and commenting.

Cheers,
D


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## Celtavian

*re*



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> To be honest, I was quite taken with George R.R. Martin's shifting point-of-view within his _A Song of Ice and Fire_ series.  That was the first series, that I can recall, wherein the POV changed from chapter to chapter.  I thought it was just a brilliant idea, and couldn't understand why I hadn't seen more of it - especially in stories with a large number of characters.




It's funny that you mention _A Song of Ice and Fire_. I just started reading it and your story's shifting point of view does remind me of it. 



> At any rate, this tale has at least six main protagonists (6 PC's) and I wanted to attempt to give each his due.  The best method, I thought, would be to switch the viewpoint with each update.  I've fallen away from that a bit of late - mainly as we expand outside the group's sphere to see NPC's and the world as a whole - but I think it's still the best method for a story such as this.




I like that it allows a more in depth characterization. I would imagine it requires alot of writing on your part to shift viewpoints for six characters. It seems to work well for you.

I am currently running eight PC's. I shied away from using shifting points of view due to the sheer number of characters present at any one time. 



> Sep's causes me to do the same.  As weird as it sounds, I love having to head to the dictionary to learn a new word.  Feels like someone handed me a cookie or something.




I like Sep's. He sends me to the dictionary as well. After reading his story and about the influences behind his cosmology, I have added _The Divine Comedy_ and _Paradise Lost_ to my "must read" list.

Anyhow, great story. Thanks for responding.

Have a good one.


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## grodog

Destan said:
			
		

> Grodog - I'll try to update the Rogues Gallery in the near future per your request.  Maybe I'll throw Baphtemet's stats on there.  If there's something else you (or anyone else) would like to see, let me know.




Thanks Destan!  

I'm always interested in the strange stuff:  how about some info about the Ippy's child soul treasures, or the facedancer-like assassin, or samples from the prophecies themselves (like demons, I like prophecies a lot!).


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## Nasma

Destan, correct me if i'm wrong, but I seem to remember you mentioning another party that was doing some of the quests that your group didn't.  Have they appeared yet and I've just missed them, or are they still to come? 

Thanks in advance.

[edit: typo]


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## Destan

Nasma said:
			
		

> Destan, correct me if i'm wrong, but I seem to remember you mentioning another party that was doing some of the quests that your group didn't.  Have they appeared yet and I've just missed them, or are they still to come?




If I mentioned that there was another party, I can't remember the context or to what I was referring.  There _are_ other groups of both "good guys" and "bad guys" criss-crossing Ostia Prim.  They haven't yet shown up, but become more prominent as the campaign progresses.

Destan mentions the "Coven" when he's thinking of who to notify regarding Poridel's death and the party's perdicament.  We have one, custom prestige class in the campaign - Covenguard.  In brief, Covenguards are warrior-priests who excel against combating outsiders (e.g. demons and devils).  One of the PC's eventually takes a couple levels in Covenguard and we'll begin to see more of what that organization is made of as the story progresses.  These so-called Covenguards might have been the "other" groups that I alluded to earlier, Nasma - I'm just not sure.

I'll add the Covenguard details to the Rogues Gallery thread when the PrC becomes evident in the story hour.

Thanks for the question!

D


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## Destan

*Approaching Destiny*

John of Pell was not a man who forgot things.  Such a trait could be deadly for one who lived, gloriously and unashamedly, within a world of his own – sometimes less than honest - making.  Still, much had happened, and it had happened with frightening rapidity.  _What had it been - one day?  Two at the most?_  Time had a way of losing its meaning when one was burrowed beneath the earth.

And because John did _not_ want to forget, he decided to undertake an activity he considered wholly banal: note-taking.  One of his first mentors, the now-dead harpist Rhynfrydios d’Margive, had once said, “Notes are for scholars, not singers; they are the bane of inspiration.  He who would record, rather than create, is no better than a beetle.” 

_Ah, old Rhynfrydios,_ John remembered, chuckling.  _You were always such a condescending ass._

John helped himself to a quill and inkbottle from Kellus’ belongings and tore a few blank pages from the back of Amelyssan’s spellbook.  The Pellman was not one who generally enjoyed fiddling with wizards and their spellbooks, but…he needed paper.  He had committed worse crimes for less compelling reasons.

So it was that John, in spite of Rhynfrydios’ sentiments, began to record what had transpired since the party had first reached the Duskingdell.  Now, after all, was the perfect opportunity; John shared the watch with Vath.  What the half-troll lacked in the art of conversation he made up for in vigilance.  _Let him worry if we are to be attacked this night,_ John mused, _I have work to do._

The battle with the wolven had gone well - the party had triumphed relatively unscathed, John’s capable display as a crossbowman seemed to garner even more respect from Bigby, and both Huarto and Mavis would no longer emit plaintive whines to sour his mood.

The battle with the wolven had ended, however, even better – when John had disappeared over the ridge to find Mavis’ mauled body, he had also found a purse nearly as plump as she had been.  And since he had been alone during his reconnaissance…well, _her_ coins were now _his_ coins.  All of them.  

After the combat, the party had made good time along the Duskingway, their journey no longer harried by constant, infernal howling.  Bigby, with little fanfare, departed northward after showing the party the barrows but a few miles from the trail itself.  “I canna tell if you be a good man, John of Pell,” Bigby had said as part of his farewell, “but ye are a good singer.  There be little of the former in this world, and e’en less o’ the latter.  When next we meet, you can sing a song about me.”

_Tell you what, Bigby – you learn to grow a proper beard, and I’ll give you a proper song._

John tapped the feathered quill against his chin.  So, now, how should he describe the barrows?  To John they looked much like half-buried eggs; were the land not so featureless and relatively flat around them, doubtless travelers would not have even remarked their existence.

There were six of the overgrown burial mounds.  _Or was it seven?  Does it matter?_  Each, supposedly, held the interred remains of long-dead Elfkings.  John made a mental note to – one day – return to the Duskingdell.  The party had located treasure within the one barrow they had explored; doubtless the others held something of value as well.

_Bah, I get ahead of myself._  John scrawled a few notes, drew a rough approximation of the barrow lay-out, and then once more subsided into reflection.

Vath had nearly died – and that before they had even opened the burial mound.  The scrap of paper Poridel had given them – the account of some long-dead gnome’s wayward travails – helped the party locate the particular barrow.  It was festooned with thick brambles and an age’s worth of thorns – all of which needed to be cleared.  Since none of the party seemed inclined to use their weapons for such a menial task, Vath used his talons.  The half-troll threw fistfuls of dirt and loam behind him like any groundhog.

Yet, just as the monk was about to pull open a stone door eerily similar to that which had sealed Borbidan’s tomb, Amelyssan had run forward as if his hair were on fire, screaming for Vath to stop.

John leaned back and smiled at the memory.  Rarely had he seen the elf so animated.  Amelyssan brandished Poridel’s parchment in his shaking hand.  “A false entrance,” the wizard had wheezed.  “Boddynock’s journal states the entrance – the _real_ entrance – was uncovered only after hours of clearing the _top_ of the barrow.  You now dig upon the side of the edifice, Brother Vath; let us survey its dome.”

John had then scurried into the culvert the troll had cleared and ran his fingers along the exposed stone.  The elf had the right of it.  John suspected the stone, once removed, would cause the small entry tunnel to collapse – burying any would-be grave robbers.

Baden had not wanted to dig through dirt with Borbidan’s axe, but the dwarf had no such compunctions about slicing through briars.  After more hours than John cared to remember, in which Raylin and Baden took turns clearing the thick vegetation, they had located a second entrance  - the real entrance - near the mound’s apex.  Just as Boddynock the gnome had written.

On his sketch, John indicated only the location of the false door and made no mention of its inherent danger.  _Should I die,_ John thought with grim satisfaction, _any bastard who might use my map for a bit o’ treasure-hunting will be in for a rough start._

Without further ado, Vath ripped the stone plug out of the earth and the party lowered themselves via rope into a hollow chamber below.  A stereotypical burial chamber greeted them; it was filled with skeletons, rusted weapons, even an open stone sarcophagus.  Baden indicated some grooves in the stone floor, and Vath and Raylin bent their backs to sliding the sarcophagus forward.  A small hole was revealed which led to yet another, lower chamber – this one slightly smaller than the entry room.

John liked riddles – so long as he could solve them.  Riddles made for good stories, and were an easy enough literary device to demonstrate one’s own intellectual capabilities.  On the whole, the riddle which then confronted them was not that difficult to solve - not when one read Boddynock’s journal carefully.  Still, John was confidant he could make himself appear a giant amongst scholars when he later penned the song itself.  _No one needs to know of poor ol’ Boddynock and his book, or the help it gave us._

The second room had a stone – _What should I call it?  A dish?  A platform?_ – in the center of its oblong floor.  Four sigils had been carved upon its face – a tower, a tree, a mountain, and some collection of dots and curvy lines John had thought resembled…_noodles?  Strings?_

Using Boddynock’s journal as a guide, the party had surmised they needed to touch the signs in a certain order.  They proceeded to do so, and the dish slid open – _magically?_ – to reveal yet another drop-hole.

John copied the sigils onto his parchment from memory before resting his head on his elbow.  _This entire Duskingdell tale was, until now, so incredibly…_

***

_…boring._

John set down the quill and rubbed his temples.

As much as the bard disliked the notion, he realized he would need to include some of the barrow’s history.  That was a whole other song in itself, and – most importantly – it was not _his_ song.  If his listeners were concentrating on the damned Sorrow Elves, they may be disinclined to fully remark his own valor.

_The Sorrow Elves._  John frowned.  _Now _there’s_ a sad story.  If I wanted to deal with tragedy, I’d have been an actor.  Still…_  The bard pursed his lips with sudden inspiration.  _A touch of solemnity might serve to better highlight the ending, hmm?_

John picked up his quill and began to jot down words and names – Belaraphon, Age of Heroes, Sin War, Loroth, Ral, Baphtemet, Elfqueen.

It was a messy history, really.  If Kellus and Amelyssan were to be believed – something John had learned could be safely done – the barrow was the resting place of Belaraphon, the Sorrow Elf, last Elfking of his particular, now-extinct strain of pointers.

John was a bard.  He knew a little about everything, or at least knew enough to capably portray that he knew more.  Hence the Sorrow Elves’ history was not wholly unfamiliar to him.

Belaraphon was a Hero, one of those near-divine immortals who had fought during the aptly-named Age of Heroes when Ostia Prim was little more than the fallen corpse of the Dead Child-God Genn.  It seems ol’ Belaraphon had thought himself above the petty wars of Men.  When Loroth – _that damned name keeps recurring with a bit too much frequency_ – had raised his standards to lead the Rorn against the then-Empire of Basilica, some Men had appealed to Belaraphon and his Sorrow Elves for assistance.

The Elfking had, by all accounts, ignored their pleas.  He was a Hero - one of the last if not _the_ last - and he would _not_ spend his twilight killing bugs.  Yet Loroth was more than the Sorrow King had bargained for – more than Ostia Prim had bargained for.  The Witchking of the Rorn earned victory after victory upon the mainland, and the land suffered under his brutal yoke.

_So then what happened?_  John squeezed shut his eyes and tried to recall the old yarn.  Belaraphon’s daughter – _no, his wife_ – had interceded, finally, on behalf of Basilica’s emissaries.  She had pleaded with her husband to send his elves to war.  She had begged him to aid Men, ‘lest the entire land be bled under Loroth’s nightmarish rule.

_And Belaraphon, the old fool, made the mistake of husbands everywhere – he failed to listen to his wife._  The Sorrow Elf had ignored her urgings, had told the emissaries of Men to leave his lands forthwith, had settled once more into divinely-inspired hedonism.  The grapes were fat on the vine.  The Cormick plains – at that time – were forests filled with game and, most like, willful and willing fey.  The Hero Belaraphon had it good, of that there was no doubt.

_But you forgot something, didn’t you, ol’ boy?_  John smiled knowingly.  _A woman’s will may be denied, but never may it be ignored._  So the Elfqueen…_What _was_ her name?  She’s the true hero of this regrettable story.  Erendra?  Elendra?  Dammit!_  The Elf Queen Elendra – _that name’s more pleasing to the ear_ – secretly gathered her maidens unto her and journeyed to the mainland to aid the Basilicans in their struggle against the Rorn hordes.

John whistled low in spite of himself.  _Bravely done, Elendra.  Bravely done, indeed._

***

“Why do you whistle?”

John returned Vath’s pointed look.  “Why are you not outside?  On watch?”  John arched a brow.  “For all we know, thirty wolven await our ascent.”

The half-troll stood from where he squatted beneath roof’s exit-hole.  “You are a poor guard, Pellman.  You should stop writing-”

“-and you should stop stinking.”  John rolled up the tattered pages and shoved them into his belt pouch.  “Ral is dead.  As is Baphtemet and Ippizicus before him.  We have nothing to fear.”

Vath bristled.  “In my monastery, those who neglect their watch are cast from the ramparts onto the stones below.”

“How cheerful.”

The bard stood, stretched, and retrieved his crossbow from atop a pile of his belongings.  He looked up to see the half-troll’s angry grimace.  Suddenly, John’s confident air evaporated.  “Easy, Vath, easy.  Let us both climb the rope and survey the plains.  I am done writing for the nonce, regardless.” 

***

Half-troll and Pellman sat, quietly, near the entry hole atop the barrow.  The land was dark and still around them.  Theirs was the second watch, and the moon had just begun to rise.  It was cold – bitterly so - and John suddenly wished he had not agreed to climb the rope with Vath to watch the plains.  He had angered the half-troll and, unlike his other companions, John was not yet certain how far he could push Vath before the humanoid would snap.  John glanced at his companion’s talons and swallowed heavily.  _I’d rather not find out._

“You did well against Ral, Brother Vath.”  John flashed his warmest smile.  “Were it not for you, one of us might e’en now be laying dead far below.”

Vath was quiet.  The half-troll’s shaggy head swiveled from one direction to another, his incessant moaning accentuated by an occasional sniff of the wind.

“Brother Vath, are you familiar with the story of the demon Ral?”

Silence.

“Would you like to hear it?”

Silence.

_Good enough for me._  Without further ado, John launched into his tale.  “Ral was one of Loroth’s demons.  Ral the Torturer, he was called, and that was what he did.  During the Sin War, as Loroth tore down the cities of Basilica and drove their peoples away in chains, he would send those persons of importance back to his fortress…what was it called?”

“The Dezimond.”

“Aha!” John grinned.  “So you _do_ know a bit of history.  And here I thought you only knew how to snap necks and stab folks with those claws of yours.”

Vath favored the bard with a dark look before, once more, scanning the horizon.

John sighed and pulled his cloak about him.  He felt like a roach on a drumhead here upon the Cormick plains.  He felt…vulnerable.  _Yes, that was it._  Talking always seemed to allay his uneasiness, so talking is what he did.  “Yes, his fortress in the Rorn - the Dezimond.  It is said the Dezimond’s dungeons were a world unto themselves – deeper and larger than all the tunnels beneath the Balantir Cor.

“And in those forgotten hallways there were hundreds – nay, thousands – of cells.  Each more miserable and more hidden than the last.  Loroth, it was said, enslaved many of those who opposed him.  Men, demons, devils – all were captured, and locked away, and forgotten.  At least until the Witchking achieved his victory, at which time doubtless he would return to gain his pleasure upon those poor souls within the bowels of his fortress.”

John pulled a stem from the ground and placed it between his teeth, clearly in his element as story-teller.  “There were many who fought against the Witchking.  Most died for it.  But there was one, an Archbishop of Deneir, who caused Loroth no end of headaches.  This priest, it is said, _banished_ entire legions of the Witchking’s infernal troops.  Had not the Devil Prince Asmodean thrown in his lot with Loroth, the War may have ended then and there.  Countless lives would have been spared.”

John glanced askance at Vath.  “Are you listening?”

“Aye.”

“Glad to hear it.”  John hid a knowing smile as he pulled his hood over his head against the wind.  “Alas, the Archbishop was – finally – captured.  Loroth sent him, under heavy guard, to the Dezimond.  The demon Ral was ordered to torture the Deneirite, to glean information only the Archbishop might know.  But our blue-skinned demon erred; he killed the Archbishop, on accident, and that worthy priest refused all attempts at resurrection.”

“Tell me about _her_.” Vath interruption nearly caused John to faint from astonishment.  There was an emotion evident in the half-troll’s voice John had never heard.  Sadness?  Compassion?

“Um…her?”

“The Elfqueen.”

John frowned.  “Belaraphon’s wife?”

At Vath’s nod, John wrinkled his brow with thought.  “Elendra and her war maidens fought for many years, on the mainland, and they slew Loroth’s minions by the hundredfold.  Always did she send requests for aid to her husband, the Sorrow King, but never did he answer.  He felt betrayed at her leaving, it is said.  Once – and only once - he sent a missive demanding she return, but…she would not.”

“She _could_ not.”  Vath’s voice was almost tender.

John shrugged, a bit confused at his companion’s mood.  _Certainly there are better stories of the Sin War than this?_  “Aye, she _could_ not,” John repeated.  “Not after she was captured, at any rate.”

The two sat in silence for some time as the moon rose above them.  The land turned from black to gray, and the winds lessened – if only slightly.  John produced a wineskin, took a pull, and corked it.  “She was captured after the last of her maidens had died defending her.  She was transported to the Dezimond and delivered unto Ral and his instruments.”

“She died there.”  Vath scratched at his eye with a talon.

“She did,” John agreed, still perplexed.  “Ral was, ah, overly enthusiastic with his methods.  It is said that our old friend Baphtemet huddled over Ral’s shoulder, urging him to deliver ever more pain and agony to the elf maiden.  Whenever the blue-skinned demon sought to lessen his administrations, Baphtemet would prod him with insults, forcing him to continue.”

John shrugged.  “Eventually, torture became execution.  And when the Elfqueen died upon the stone table, Baphtemet wasted no time in speeding to Loroth’s side so that he might inform the Witchking of Ral’s blunder.”  John smirked.  “Imagine Loroth’s rage – it must have been unspeakable.  The Witchking, it is said, left the front at once.  He would personally deliver eternal pain unto his demonic captain Ral.”

“He never found him.”  Vath looked to John.  “The Witchking never located Ral.”

John shook his head slowly.  “No.  No, he did not.  For it was then, and only then, that Belaraphon entered the fray.  As we know, the Sorrow King was a Hero, perhaps the last still upon Ostia Prim.  Even Loroth must have trembled to hear the Elfking had thrown aside his drinking and his dryads to cross the Conomora.”

John waited for Vath to comment before continuing.  “Basilica and her allies rejoiced.  ‘Belaraphon comes!’ they cried with singular ardor.  ‘Belaraphon comes!’”

The Pellman removed the stem from his teeth and tossed it within the briars at his feet.  “The Elfking had learned of his wife’s death the same time he had learned of her capture.  From that day forward he was known as the Sorrow King, the Sorrow Elf, and his people faded away under his neglect.  His elves, said to be the fairest of that fair folk, are gone from these lands.  Never to return.”

John sighed as he gazed upon the Cormick plains.  The night, which had felt somewhat pleasant as he spoke his tale, now seemed oppressive.

“Friends!”  Raylin’s voice issued from the barrow’s interior, causing the bard to jump.  “John?  Vath?  Come down – your shift is done.”

John stood and brushed thorns from his breeches.  He held out a hand to Vath who, surprisingly, accepted the aid.  The Pellman’s mood had turned melancholy.  “At any rate, we know the rest of the tale.  We, ourselves, saw how it ended.”

“Finish it, John.”  The half-troll’s eyes were dark with solemnity.

John did not hesitate.  “Belaraphon, even then, did not enter the War.  Such was ever beneath him.  Basilica wept.  The Elfking only sought revenge for his wife’s death.  He cared not for the struggles of Men or of Loroth’s ambition.  Belaraphon sped through the firmament, a veritable comet, and found Ral as the demon fled from Loroth’s rage.”

John glanced through the barrow hole, waved to Raylin, and then looked once more to Vath.  “Belaraphon imprisoned Ral within a jeweled box, we now know.  The same box Amelyssan now has in his pack.”

Vath nodded slowly.  “And the elf freed Ral, each day, for these past one thousand years and more, to wreak his vengeance upon the demon anew.”

“If what the Sorrow Elf told us is to be believed,” John answered, “that is indeed what he did.”

“I believe him.”

“As do I, Vath.  As do I.”  John bent, grabbed the rope, and gestured toward the hole leading into the barrow.  “After you, friend.”

The half-troll gripped John’s shoulder.  “Wait.  Your story is wrong.”

John sought, and failed, to keep disdain from his tone.  “What do you mean?”

“Belaraphon is not known as the Sorrow Elf because his wife was killed.”

“Oh, really?”  John smiled with condescension.  “Then, pray tell, why is he known by that monicker?”

“Belaraphon wanted to bring _her_ back.  From the dead.  He offered his Elfqueen her life once again.”  Vath released his hold.  “And she refused.”

“She refused?” John whispered.  Then, still softly, “Yes…she refused.”

The bard shook his head as if waking from a dream.  He fixed a gimlet eye upon Vath.  “How do you know so much of the Elfking Belaraphon?”

“My god, Ilmater, is one of suffering,” Vath answered quietly.  The half-troll lowered himself through the opening, pausing only for a moment.  “In all the histories, of all the Ages, none have suffered more than him.”

***

Brother Henratt, favored of Krix and Cyric, sat easily upon his horse and studied the northern horizon as the land turned pink around him.

He was tired, certainly, but he was also filled with exhilaration.  The Highskull had given him – _him!_ – the task of dealing with the men of Olgotha.  Henratt’s status was solidified within the Order – and such an improved station would mean more money, more power, more slaves - more _everything._

The Cyric priest looked behind him and felt his chest expand with pride.  Ten crossbowmen, paid well for both their skill and their discretion.  Four novice priests.  A handful of swordsmen – lay brothers, all.  There were a strong force, a capable force.  Probably too powerful for the task at hand – but Henratt had not advanced through the ranks by questioning the orders of his superiors.

His face soured as he looked down upon the final member of his entourage.  The sage was pathetic; he looked a complete fool, both hands bound to cord that stretched and looped around Henratt’s saddle pommel.  The old man’s robes were stained from own excrement, his beard a mass of knots, his skin covered with welts and bruises.  Henratt had ordered his priests to stop giving the man healing potions only hours ago and – _already!_ – the fool appeared as if he might expire.  _How incredibly weak._

Still…the sage need not live any longer.  They were close.  Very close, if Henratt judged their position correctly.  The priest raised a fist and one of his acolytes hurried forward.  “We dismount here.”  It would be easier to approach the barrows unseen.  “Tell Klovan and Emmor to carry the stake between them.  Have Junol and Crayn see to the sage.”

“As you will, Brother.”

Henratt allowed himself a moment to smile, to savor the anticipation of his impending victory and all that it would entail.  The priest was that rarity within his order – a follower of Cyric who enjoyed reading scripture.  Once, long ago, he had managed to read a few passages of a copy of that all-important and all-too-rare tome.

He knew, with certainty, that those who had triumphed at Olgotha would die this very month.  It was _written._  He just hadn’t known that he, Henratt of Harren, would be the one to bring the prophecy to fruition.

The mist would be thick upon the plains this morning – already he could see the milky wraiths forming amongst the weeds.  With any luck, his men would be able to close within a hundred paces or less of the barrow – depending on how well the Olgotha fools stood watch.

“Stage something.  Something dramatic.”  _Isn’t that what Highskull Krix had ordered him to do?_ 

Henratt threw one leg over his horse and slid from the mare’s back.  The priest drew his knife and cut the cord near his saddle pommel.  He wrapped the rope around his hand and, without further delay, set off, pulling Poridel Poriden behind him like a hound on a leash.

His men crowded around him – quiet, deadly, capable – and the group glided northward toward the northern horizon, toward the barrows, toward destiny.

“As you will, Your Grace,” Henratt mouthed into the wind.  “As you will.”


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## Lela

Wow.


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## rigur

You are very good at this storytelling thing. This story alone is easily worth a few bucks a year to give you the opportunity write this tale for us.

Keep it coming, we want more.


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## wolff96

What I want to know is exactly how many ranks in Profession: Storytelling *you* have. Not John, you.

That was an incredibly cool way to lay out a lot of information in a very short time. 

I've said it before, I'll probably say it again: your characterizations rock. The priest comes across perfectly as vicious and evil. John is well captured by the way he tells his tale. But Vath, with only a couple of responses, comes across as being incredibly cool. Best of all, he doesn't seem HUMAN. He is really believable as being a half-troll.

Keep up the great work, Destan. Scrub off a few game-related bits and this would be a best-selling novel.


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## Destan

Allow me to step on the soapbox and say a couple things, please.

First, I would like to send out an abject request for folks to post their thoughts regarding this tale.  I have one regret concerning this whole story hour thing, and that is this: By far, the largest flurry of readers' comments stemmed from an unfortunate incident wherein we discussed just how "mature" a story should be within this medium.  It's not that the ensuing discussion was not a good one - it was - but it was fomented by an issue I'd rather have avoided.

I _think_ there's a decent corps of readers out there.  I want to hear from you.  I'm humbly asking you to shake the lurkers' dust from your shoulders and pound the keys.  

A while back I received some criticism about my writing - one reader suggested, rightly so, that I used too many similes.  I responded then, and I'll repeat now, it's just that sort of thing that I really, really would like to hear.  As far as I can recall, that's the only tip I've yet received.  I'd like to hear others.

I'm a writer folks - or at least I'm trying to be one.  This is a wonderful format, here on these boards, to engage in my passion whilst not being in a vaccuum.  If you like Sins, please let me know _what_ you like - is it a certain character, is it a certain style, was it a certain scene, etc.

Equally important, if you _don't_ like Sins, then let me know - why?  Please.  Where did I screw up?  What do I do that you don't like?  Am I overly melodramatic?  Do I still use too many similes?  Am I too verbose, too terse?  Does the story not flow well?  Do you find yourself confused on the transitions?  If you like the way something's done in another story hour, please point me in its direction.  I don't read too many of them - I wish I had more time - but perhaps I should, yes?

I understand that some of you may not like to post negative feedback on the boards for all to see.  I respect that.  If that's the case, please shoot me an email.  I will say, however, that I think many of you readers are also writers, so advice/criticism you offer me may benefit others as well.  Don't worry about hurting my feelings - I've managed to grow some thick skin from excessive beer-drinking.

Second, thank you.  Thank you for reading, thank you for posting, thank you for making me realize there's so many other folks hopelessly addicted to this too-fun hobby.  I'll show my gratitude in the only way I know how, other than expressing it herein; I'll throw up another update that I originally was gonna hold onto for a while.

D


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## Destan

*Breakfast Interrupted*

Amelyssan was tired.  _No – exhausted._  The wizard had spent the entire night, less a few hours wherein he meditated in a _horadrel_ trance, studying the items they had taken from the Sorrow Elf’s chamber.  And, finally, after hours of arcane murmuring and deep reflection, he believed he understood the power of the pair of rings.

The elf looked up as John and Vath shimmied down the rope into the barrow’s entry chamber.  He nodded at John’s unasked question.  “I have our answer.”

The Pellman brightened.  “Do tell.”

Amelyssan waited for the party to crowd around then pointed to the jewelry.  “They are a twin set – easy enough to see, for they are identical in every aspect of their fashion.”  The elf grabbed one ring and held it closer to the light of the small campfire.  “Alone, without its mate, the rings are worthless.  But – when each is within proximity of the other – their magic may be utilized.”

“What magic?”

“Healing magic,” Amelyssan answered.  “They are…”  The elf searched for the proper, non-Draconic words.  “…_rings of life transference_*.  If one were to place both upon his fingers, he would certainly die.”

John paled.  Evidently the bard had considered doing just that.

“But,” Amelyssan quickly continued, “if each is worn by a different person, then those two may share – no, _exchange_ – their own life force with one another.”

Baden held out his palm and accepted one of the rings.  The dwarf studied it carefully.  “How is it done?”

Amelyssan shrugged his slight shoulders.  “Easily.  There are no command words.  One must simply will a portion of their life to pass to his fellow ring-bearer.  Of course, one must be careful he does not transfer _too much_ of his own essence.”

Raylin toed the embers of the dying campfire.  “Worthy magic, indeed.  Who should wear them?”

“Amelyssan, for one.”  Kellus busied himself donning his armor.  “Perhaps John could wear the other.”

The Pellman smiled and reached for one of the rings.  “Gladly.”

“Hold one,” Baden muttered.  “The bard has remained on the outskirts of combat.  This is no mark on his courage, but rather a testament to his skill with the crossbow.  I agree the wizard would benefit from this magic, but I believe another should wear the twin ring.”

John frowned.  “You?”

“No,” Baden answered.  “Vath.  He seems to enjoy charging away from our ranks into combat.  It might save his life, one day.”

Kellus nodded sagely.  “Good, then.  Let Vath and Amelyssan wear the rings.  May Helm grant their use never be required.”

“Not bloody likely,” John murmured, but none listened.  Kellus and Raylin were on watch, and the two already began to climb the rope toward the barrow’s exterior.

***

Henratt, for the fifth time in as many minutes, thanked Cyric for the fog.

The world seemed to end but twenty feet from him – blanketed in a wall of nearly-immobile and nearly-opaque mist.  The shroud would not last much longer, Henratt knew; once the sun fully appeared over the Balantir peaks, the fog would be burned clear from the Cormick plains.

They must act quickly.

“Kloven,” he hissed to the man beside him.  “Do you see that hillock – there?  Good.  Take Emmor and see that you put the stake there.  Be silent about your business.  Go.”

His men were on their bellies around him, pressed to the wet grasses of the Weedsea like serpents.  Henratt watched as the two novice priests lifted the thick, wooden stake and moved forward, hunched low.  They had cut the limb from an oak south of the Dusk Ford, for there were no suitable trees on these featureless plains.  

Burdensome, certainly, but well worth it.

Henratt had pulled the tongue from Poridel’s mouth when the sage refused to be silent.  The insufferable old fool continually moaned and muttered nonsense in languages Henratt did not understand.  When _that_ had not been enough to silent the man, Henratt ordered a burlap sack stuffed into the sage’s mouth.

The problem with the second tactic was that, were Henratt not especially careful, the old man would suffocate.  Annoying, just annoying.  The Cyric rolled onto his side, grabbed Poridel by his beard, and pulled the rag from his mouth.  He watched quietly as the old man gasped for air, dried blood caked about his lips.

“Good, good,” Henratt whispered. “That’s it, old one - breathe.  Regain your strength.”

When Kloven and Emmor returned, the sun had already begun to filter through the higher layers of fog.  Forty feet.  That was how far he could see now, roughly.  Dammit, he had best hurry.

“Crayn,” Henratt called.  “Give me your pack.”

Henratt rummaged within the satchel and pulled forth the hollow bone tube and the metallic, spring-held fork.  He climbed to his knees, holding both instruments, and watched the wheezing sage for a few more moments.

He replaced the gag, and began to work.

***

Raylin dropped to the floor of the barrow chamber shortly after Kellus finished descending the rope.  Both men walked about and toed their companions awake.  “The fog is thick outside – no sense in departing until the sun burns some of it away.”

Kellus sat his helm upright on the ground and sat heavily upon it.  “We need to discuss our next move.”

John rubbed sleep from his eyes.  “Next move?  I think we’ve run out of demons to kill.  Unless we head to the Abyss, that is.”  John sat upright.  “Any takers?”

Raylin grinned as he unbuckled his sword belt and leaned the weapons against the nearby sarcophagus.  “Hunting demons is good fun,” the clansman agreed, “but I am of a mind to hunt elk - they are in the rut now, or shortly will be.”

“The rut?”  John wrinkled his nose.

“Aye,” Raylin nodded.  The ranger pulled his pack closer, undid the leather strings, and began to toss _dreltack_ to the group.  “’Tis the time when they seek to mate.  They move about more, and are near-mad from their yearning to breed.”

“Ah,” John replied.  “I am always ‘in the rut’, then.”

“Please - not while I’m eating.” Baden shook with laughter, crumbs spewing from his mouth to lodge in his beard.

Vath, for his own part, removed a haunch of salted beef and began to noisily eat.  He looked up, slaver upon his chin.  “We must tell Poridel it is finished.”

Kellus agreed.  “Right.  Then, after Ciddry, we might go our separate ways.”  The priest looked around the chamber as an awkward silence descended.  “Or not.”

John dragged a hand across his mouth.  “You know, friends, we make a good group.  There is no shortage of work for such as us.  Mayhaps we should head south – ‘tis not nearly so cold down there.  Hire on with Harabald Harren and his boys, or even Duke d’Lor.  Those two are always fighting one another, always seeking more men.”

“Not me,” Baden stated, his voice at once firm and kind.  “I mean to head home.  From the top of this barrow, when the fog burns off, one can see the peaks of Axemarch.”

Kellus’ voice was guarded.  “Then you will not accompany us on our return to Ciddry?”

Baden swallowed the last of his _dreltack._  “I will.  _Then_ I shall turn my face to home.”

Kellus emptied water from a skin onto his hands and splashed the cool liquid onto his face.  He sighed.  “I suppose we all could use a bit of homecoming.  I must return to my Church, make atonement-”

“Bah!” John scowled.  “I am happy you have found your god once again – truly, I am – but I thought Helmites were above penance and atonement and all that nonsense.”  The bard jerked a thumb toward Vath.  “Let those odd folks of Ilmater do that; just tell your bosses that you’re sorry.”

Kellus stood, wiped his face, and shrugged.  “I will do that, and more, John.”  The priest and bard, who had not always seen eye-to-eye, shared a look.  “What will _you_ do, John?”

The Pellman stood.  “Friends, I will do what I have been meaning to do since I first woke this morning.”

Baden did not look up from where he ate.  “Please, John – no songs.  Not this early.”

“A man should greet each morning with a song, dwarf!”  John laughed.  “Well, maybe not.  If he was lucky enough to share his bed, then the morning may be used…”  John’s voice trailed off as he walked to the rope, grabbed it, and began to climb.  “By Umberlee, I need to piss.  Stay away from the hole, friends, for I mean to start a flood.”

Kellus watched John disappear out the opening in the barrow’s domed ceiling.  He looked around the smoldering fire at the faces of his friends.  “The mood is light, and that is good – we have earned some respite.  But do not forget, my brothers, what we have accomplished in so short a time.  Three abominations no longer stain this earth – Ippizicus, Baphtemet, Ral.**  Each of them - gone.  If we do nothing else the rest of our lives, however long or short are our days, we may count ourselves good men.”

“Aye,” Raylin answered, face etched with thought.  “Who would have thought our boots would tread these paths?  I had sought only some coins from the Rornman Aramin, a quick job to be had while returning to the Larrenlands from my trip to Ciddry.  The spirits of my fathers are proud of what we have done.”

Vath suddenly leapt to his feet, the meat falling from his fingers.

Raylin had his sword belt in hand nearly before Vath’s beef hit the ground.  “What is it?”  Around him, the rest of the party hurriedly stood.

“John.” Vath moved quickly toward the rope, face uplifted toward the opening.  “I heard him cry out.”

Before any could inquire further, John re-entered the chamber in grand fashion.  The Pellman dropped through the hole, ignoring the assistance of the rope.  He landed lightly on his feet, rapier in hand.  His face was composed, but sweat had already sprung on his forehead.  “Cyrics.  Outside.”

“_Cyrics?_”  Kellus did not allow himself the time to be confused.  “How many?”

John measured them all with a stare that spoke volumes.  “Too many.”








* I’ve always enjoyed creating custom magical items for the campaign that necessitate teamwork.  I also like items that allow the user a bit of variety on how to employ them.  These two rings are rather simple in their description, as Amelyssan learned through his _Identify_ spell:  the wearer may, once per day as a standard action, transfer up to 10 hp to his fellow ring-bearer, so long as both rings are within 100’ of each other.

** I added an update to the *Sins of Our Fathers Rogues Galley* thread that gives a very brief recounting of the party’s adventure beneath the barrow mound, their meeting with Belaraphon, and the battle with Ral.  It's not in ‘story hour’ format; rather it's a synopsis and includes some behind-the-DM-screen thoughts in order to give anyone interested an idea of what transpired.


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## pogre

I guess I'll de-lurk for a moment to share some criticisms -

1st - You need pictures. Everything is better with lots of pictures. Which leads me to my second point

2nd - You need lots of great miniatures and terrain

3rd - Spend lots of time painting and modelling

 If you did all that, maybe your writing would suffer and only be twice as good as mine  

Far be it from me to criticize one whose skill so far surpass my own, but here goes: I would not mind reading about the party kicking some rear end in an easy fight. Not all combats have to be desperate affairs or near things. Naturally, if writing those kind of descriptions bore you - ignore my advice. However, if the PCs have developed a standard operating procedure for combat I would not mind reading about it. I know that is a content criticism and not a style critique, but I really enjoy your style and have nothing constructive to offer there.

I guess I'll go back to lurking   on the finest story hour on these boards.


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## Seule

I have to stretch for suggestions, but here goes:

I'd like to hear about battles firsthand rather than having the story told. The first time was cool, but it's happened a couple of times. It's hard to keep up the suspense of a battle, when you already know nothing bad happened.
Basically, having John tell the story after the fact should be the exception rather than the rule, and highlighting exactly how far from the truth he is made that one time (Izzy?) a lot better.
That's it. I've run out of suggestions. It's all great.

--Seule


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## Seravin

Per your request, I'll delurk at least long enough to say that I enjoy your writing.  
Sadly (for me) you're a much better writer than I am and as such I don't have much to critique.

I _can _ tell you that I like the pacing of your writing and I find your descriptions to be excellent.  

I like what you're doing with your story and I haven't found anything that really puts me off.  Is it dark?  Yes, but so what?  That's the background and the story.  It's not chtuluesque and I at least have the sense that the characters are making a difference - one little step at a time.

Please, keep up the good work.


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## darkdancer

Destan said:
			
		

> If you like Sins, please let me know _what_ you like - is it a certain character, is it a certain style, was it a certain scene, etc.




quickly before I read your latest update:  Destan, part of what I enjoy about your writing (there are so many things) is your ability to create the mood of each character so completely.  John is distinctly John.  Vath is distinctly Vath.  The evil characters are not simple, not two dimensional bad-guys, but complicated people each with their own flavor.  Granted each PC is played by a separate player, but in your writing you convey that individuality so well, that even if you don't mention whose point of view a particular segment is viewed from, if we've been paying attention well enough, we will recognize the "voice" of their thoughts and viewpoint.

Also, by having the point of view move around, we get a better and more rounded idea of who everyone is, since no one is only the product of their own or someone else's opinions.  This at times is very funny and others very revealing.

Finally, my husband or I usually read the latest segment aloud to each other (otherwise we'd be fighting for control of the computer at each update), and your love of language makes it a joy to read this way, either by being the reader or the listener.  

So, I guess what I have to say is take the time you need for each update, don't scrimp on your words, and continue to follow your instincts.  When I read the earlier complaints and/or comments about the "adult" nature of your story hour, I just thought about how refreshing it is when fantasy fiction does not have to be "escapist" fiction but simply a way to explore new and interesting ideas outside (and within) the framework of our common and uncommon myths.

Thanks!


----------



## Tellerve

I was under the impression I had stated my admiration for your writing already, but a bit more never hurt anyone.  So, let me just say I really enjoy reading your story hour.

As for critiques, well I am not sure there is much I could really say...at least not off the top of my head.  Maybe if I went back and really concentrated I could find something.  But I find your writing very powerful in terms of imagery and pacing.  The times you have battles are great and full of suspence.  Apart from the one time that most everyone got a bit confused with the storyline with Poridel I have very much enjoyed you switching around to the different characters.  It has been stated by others that your characterizations are awesome.  I also feel that your story shows off a very vibrant world.  It helps that my friend, Cinerarium, has gushed about your dm'ing skills.  And after reading more of your world through his story hour about the game you dm for them well, it just is great.

In terms of Sep's, well the reason I love sep's is of course he is a fantastic writer.  He, like you, is able to paint very vivid pictures while maintaining a good pace in the writing.  I also am just blown away by Sep's cosmology and the amount of work done for it.  His names also are just utterly astounding to me.  Both of you have as I've said very vivid and suspensful battle write ups.  Obviously their characters do a bit more as they are 15-18 levels higher.  But even so I thought your characters were higher than when I saw them in the rogue's gallery.  Which in my mind proves that your able to portray the combat well and not as low level combat in dnd typically is...at least for me.

And finally I'd say that the reason I like your's and Sep's so much is I would LOVE to play in them.  I crave a dm that has that much unique world built and interaction with everything.  Perhaps it doesn't in reality play out at a table nearly as well, but I don't know that.  And so I continue to dream that it does and that it would be great to be at the table with Eadric, Mostin, or Vath and John of Pell.

Good players playing good characters enveloped in a great world run by an ingenious DM means fun 

Thanks and keep writin' Destan,

Tellerve


----------



## gloomymarshes

Hi, yet another of your avid readers delurks 

I'm not much of a writer myself, I only write term papers and essays, and the occasional character background. So take my criticism for what it's worth.

First, the only thing about your story hour that kind of irks me is that you kind of 'skip' parts of story, like in between updates or major battles. I believe it's called 'in medias res' writing or some such, can't remember. This is a minor point though.

Secondly, I love your story hour! Your writing skills are very good, you portray everything with great skill. Scenes I particularly liked were the battle with the wyvern, and the episodes in which poridel was captured/tortured. 

Hope this helps,

Bas.


----------



## Celtavian

*re*

I like your writing style, pure and simple. The story flows well from one sentence to the next. You craft words together in an interesting and entertaining manner that sounds like music to my mind's ear. 

If you don't mind a comparison with Sep's story let me just say that I read your story hour purely for the writing whereas I read Sep's story hour because of the orignal cosmology and high-level situations. You are a real wordsmith. Even your request for criticism was well-crafted and entertaining to read. 

My only complaint is that you're campaign power level is too low. I find low level D&D characters and the situations they find themselves in boring. I would much rather read about high level characters engaged in high level adventuring. My complaint has more do with personal taste than either your writing or creativity. Your writing is that good that I feel compelled to drop by even though I don't enjoy the activities of low level characters. 

I certainly wish you luck as a writer. You have some skill with words. Do you subscribe to any of the writer's periodicals such as _Writer's Digest_ or _Writer's_? Very helpful magazines if you ever decide to pursue publication.


----------



## Mahtave

Yet another delurker...

Destan,  this story hour is by far the one I most look forward to when I am luking about.  It is the first SH I check everytime I am on and will continue to be (in my opinion) the best one on the boards.  

The one thing that I like about your SH is the amount of time and detail you put into the NPC and what is happening "behind the scenes".  This whole upcoming encouter in the barrows would not have been near as exciting if we were not clued in to the fact that they are there ready to attack the would-be heroes.  I am curious to see what happens, but more importantly, what happens "behind the scenes" to the "bad guys" if they should fail.

By far, that is the most impressive thing to me, the ability to see what is motivating the "evil" element to even confront the heroes.  Brilliant!

That being said, please do not change your style.  You are giving the reader an excellent look into each player, what they are thinking, etc.  

I look forward to seeing more posts to this beautifully written story.


----------



## Mahtave

Yet another delurker...

Destan,  this story hour is by far the one I most look forward to when I am luking about.  It is the first SH I check everytime I am on and will continue to be (in my opinion) the best one on the boards.  

The one thing that I like about your SH is the amount of time and detail you put into the NPC and what is happening "behind the scenes".  This whole upcoming encounter in the barrows would not have been near as exciting if we were not clued in to the fact that the "bad guys" were there ready to attack the would-be heroes.  I am curious to see what happens, but more importantly, what happens "behind the scenes" to the "bad guys" if they should fail.

By far, that is the most impressive thing to me, the ability to see what is motivating the "evil" element to even confront the heroes.  Brilliant!

That being said, please do not change your style.  You are giving the reader an excellent look into each player, what they are thinking, etc.  

I look forward to seeing more posts to this beautifully written story.


----------



## Zad

I'm not sure what to say. Your story is fantastic, amazing, disturing (in a good way) and generally wonderful. You so far eclipse my skills as a writer that I could not possibly offer substantive commentary and would indeed beg you for your critique of my own writing. You wanted to hear, so I'm saying something, but unfortunately I'm afraid it amounts to nothing. I can't think of a thing I could offer as a suggestion. Well done sir.

I should also add I find it fascinating how you are able to tell a great story as much by what you do _not_ include as by what you do. You just discarded a major battle because it didn't tell a good story and the story was great for it. It's something I will have to try more of.


----------



## Alejandro

I, too, would love to read about a combat as it occurs rather than after the fact, but I understand that these events happened oh-so-many months ago.

My only complaint is the use of FR gods in an otherwise exciting homebrew setting. I love Sep's story because it features an atypical, interactive cosmology. Having dragged myself through the divine meddling that is the Time of Troubles, the concept of gods who do not interfere in the affairs of mortals despite dire prophesies is marvelously refreshing until I run smack dab into these darn FR *names*!


----------



## Joshua Randall

_[Destan asked me to post this here - it's edited from its original form.]_

I enjoy reading this story. The plot is compelling - I want to know what happens next - and the writing is solid. Perhaps a bit flowery, but that is apparently a deliberate stylistic choice, and I like flowery prose in moderation (Jack Vance and Stephen Brust are a bit much for me, though). 

However, I find the characterization to be the weakest part of the story. Some characters are well defined, but others remain a blur in my mind. For example, I can hardly tell Raylin's and Kellus's  personalities apart. (If I didn't know their different D&D classes it would be even worse.) Amelyssan fades into the background a lot, with the "mysterious mage" bit being overdone.

I believe the problem (and I have this myself) is that *your* personality stays the same, regardless of who you're writing about. And this is a very difficult problem to overcome unless you have multiple personality disorder. Perhaps you can try varying your writing style when writing from different characters' points of view; e.g., long flowing dramatic sentences for John, or bitter cynical comments interspersed in the story for Kellus.

One exercise that I found helpful in a class back in high school (and yes, that was a long time ago, you young whipper-snappers) was deliberately to mimic a certain author's style, choosing a particular character and writing about something that happened "off stage". In my high school class I mimicked the destinctive style of Alan Paton (_Too Late the Phalarope_, _Cry the Beloved Country_), and it gave me a taste of what it's like to mold one's writing style to a story and a character. Perhaps that would be a useful exercise for others as well?


----------



## Destan

pogre said:
			
		

> 1st - You need pictures. Everything is better with lots of pictures. Which leads me to my second point
> 
> 2nd - You need lots of great miniatures and terrain
> 
> 3rd - Spend lots of time painting and modelling




First, I think pogre lives on EN World.  This fact is all the most astonishing because I know he's a teacher, coach, and father of three.  Second, pogre, don't think I haven't entertained the thought of throwing my players in a van, driving to Illinois, and kidnapping you and all your wonderful models and figures.

Hmm...maybe over the holidays would be a good time - when you least expect it.



> I would not mind reading about the party kicking some rear end in an easy fight. Not all combats have to be desperate affairs or near things.




Did one of my players pay you to post that?  I heard that from them time and again, especially during the early parts of this campaign (the portions recorded here in this story hour thus far).  

It's a valid critique.  In novels, often, the heroes have a handful of major battles.  Books don't - usually - address wandering encounters, combats that have no real bearing on the main theme, minor skirmishes, etc.  After a few months I realized that I was not DMing a book; I was DMing a D&D campaign.  Sounds simple, but it was a huge shift in my outlook.  I started throwing more non-deadly encounters in the PC's direction, and let them flex some muscle they had earned through advancement.  Unfortunately, those changes won't really become apparent until the story hour progresses a bit further.



			
				Seule said:
			
		

> I'd like to hear about battles firsthand rather than having the story told. The first time was cool, but it's happened a couple of times. It's hard to keep up the suspense of a battle, when you already know nothing bad happened.  Basically, having John tell the story after the fact should be the exception rather than the rule, and highlighting exactly how far from the truth he is made that one time (Izzy?) a lot better.




Hmm…again, I think my players may be involved in a conspiracy here.  Seule, I think you were the one that offered the good advice to post a disclaimer at the beginning of this thread.  And your advice here, also, is excellent.  I think – no, I hope – that the ‘after the fact’ tales are finished, now.  From here on out I’ll endeavor to write about them ‘real time.’

Let me give you my weak excuse as to why I employed that style with the Ippi and Ral fights.  First and foremost, I didn’t feel like writing about those combats.  When I sat down to record an update, I’d find myself surfing the net, thumbing through books, or – generally – doing anything to delay having to tell a tale of an incident I was not interested in.  I could ‘see’  John telling the story to Laughing Luke much better than I could ‘see’ the party actually fighting Ippi.  So, eventually, my laziness won.  I skipped the battle, wrote what I felt like writing, and moved on.  I figured if I didn’t like writing a certain update, chances were high you folks wouldn’t like reading it, either.  The good news is that the upcoming combats _do_ interest me, and I _do_ want to write about them in detail.  So look for more of that in the future.



			
				Seravin said:
			
		

> Is [your story] dark? Yes, but so what? That's the background and the story. It's not chtuluesque and I at least have the sense that the characters are making a difference - one little step at a time.




I had to chuckle when I read that last sentence, Seravin.  My players – until very recently – bemoaned the fact that ‘no one was on their side’ and that the entire world was against them.  It’s not true, mind you, but I did realize that was the picture I was painting.  As the party advances in level – and, again, we’re not there yet in the story hour – they begin to learn they _do_ have allies, and some of them powerful ones at that.  Even so, the group is now of fairly high level (not Mostin-Eadric levels, but nearing those two worthies) and still, I think, my players feel they have not yet been granted the ‘proper respect’ by the citizens of Ostia Prim.  I sorta like it that way.



			
				darkdancer said:
			
		

> The evil characters are not simple, not two dimensional bad-guys, but complicated people each with their own flavor.




You hit on something I really enjoy – giving ‘reasonable’ motives to the bad guys.  My players have commented that they have learned more in this SH than they had known, as characters, during the campaign.  I love the ability to pull the curtains aside and show the bad guys, away from the PC’s; it’s something I couldn’t do when we were actually playing these sessions.  An evil character with logical, if flawed, aims is much more satisfying – in my opinion.

Also, along these lines, one of my players last night told me he now likes Poridel.  This particular player didn’t like him as much during the actual gaming.  An interesting by-product of writing on these boards, and one that I enjoy.



> Finally, my husband or I usually read the latest segment aloud to each other (otherwise we'd be fighting for control of the computer at each update), and your love of language makes it a joy to read this way, either by being the reader or the listener.




To think that I can sit in my dark little den in Maryland, USA, and produce something that you and your husband enjoy out there in Japan is, well, so incredibly cool.  It’ll probably stick in my mind all this weekend.  I’ll be walking my kids around Trick-or-Treatin’ and be thinking, “Hey, I wonder if darkdancer has read the latest update aloud yet…”  Then I’ll feel good inside, steal my kids’ candy, and feel even better.



> I just thought about how refreshing it is when fantasy fiction does not have to be "escapist" fiction but simply a way to explore new and interesting ideas outside (and within) the framework of our common and uncommon myths.




Amen.  I must confess – I don’t enjoy reading fantasy that much.  Most of it, in my limited experience, is written on an adolescent level.  Probably one of the driving reasons why I enjoy Martin’s work so much.



			
				Tellerve said:
			
		

> …apart from the one time that most everyone got a bit confused with the storyline with Poridel…




Still regret that one.  I think I lost a lot of folks from me trying to be too clever for my own good.  Lesson learned.



> And finally I'd say that the reason I like your's and Sep's so much is I would LOVE to play in them. I crave a dm that has that much unique world built and interaction with everything. Perhaps it doesn't in reality play out at a table nearly as well, but I don't know that.




You know, it _doesn’t_ always ‘play’ as well as it comes out in the story hour, in my opinion.  We, like other gaming groups, have to take breaks every once in a while to look up a rule, a spell description, etc.  Debates about rulings and what not do spring up, unfortunately.  I have some very smart players, who are very knowledgeable about the rules, and that can cause headaches at times.  I wouldn’t have it any other way – I _want_ to play the game correctly – but the story hour doesn’t show a 15 minute pause while we try to figure out if someone’s Reflex save is affected by them being magically _held._  On the other hand, there’s some instances where the story hour fails to capture the fun we had with a certain encounter or NPC.  That’s just a reflection of me as a writer – hopefully these situations will happen less and less often as we progress.

Incidentally, I’d love to play in Sep’s campaign, too. 



			
				gloomymarshes said:
			
		

> First, the only thing about your story hour that kind of irks me is that you kind of 'skip' parts of story, like in between updates or major battles.




My players constantly remind me that I’m not writing a book, per se, but that I’m recording what happened.  This is their story as much as it is mine – if not more.  Some of them take a dim view to me unduly modifying their characters’ personalities or what they might have said – it’s a constant balancing act between writing a good story and remaining true to the campaign.  Really – for me, it’s probably the most difficult aspect of telling this tale.

As I mentioned above, I have skipped some details that I didn’t particularly want to write about.  I think that’ll happen less now that we’ve reached a certain point in the campaign’s progression.



			
				Celtavian said:
			
		

> My only complaint is that you're campaign power level is too low. I find low level D&D characters and the situations they find themselves in boring.




I must admit I’m of an opposite mindset.  I _love_ low-level D&D with the always-present threat of death.  My characters now _teleport_ about the world willy-nilly, they _commune_ to find the answers to certain hard questions, they _banish_ omnipotent outsiders in the blink of an eye.  I miss the old days of making them buy horses and rations, wondering whether they can safely make a journey from A to B within three tendays’ time, and generally being one-step-from-fleeing during any encounter.

Until I read Sep’s, Dru’s and Piratecat’s own story hours, I had a fear of high-level play bordering on the irrational.  I just wasn’t convinced it could be as fun, or as balanced.  Now, thankfully, I know I’m wrong.  And I have those three writers – and others on these boards – to thank for that.

Celt, stick with us if you can.  These little Olgotha cats will get high enough in level soon enough.  And you’ll be wondering where their childhood went.  Or maybe not. 



			
				Mahtave said:
			
		

> This whole upcoming encounter in the barrows would not have been near as exciting if we were not clued in to the fact that [the Cyrics] are there ready to attack the would-be heroes.




I agree.  This is the first time many of my players have been privy to the behind-the-scenes stuff.  Until we hit upon this whole story hour thing, I figured they would either never learn, or I’d just tell them after the campaign finished – at which time, they probably wouldn’t remember/care anyway.



			
				Zad said:
			
		

> I should also add I find it fascinating how you are able to tell a great story as much by what you do _not_ include as by what you do. You just discarded a major battle because it didn't tell a good story and the story was great for it. It's something I will have to try more of.




Ack!  Be careful, Senor Zad, as it appears my ‘skips’ don’t sit well with many folks.  Further, the _Savage Sword of Meepo_ needs no adjustments whatsoever.  That’s a great yarn, as evidenced by your loyal following – of which I’m proud to be a member.



			
				Alejandro said:
			
		

> My only complaint is the use of FR gods in an otherwise exciting homebrew setting.




If I could go back and change some things, that would be near the top of the list.  The first session we had was a reunion more than a start of any far-reaching campaign.  We hadn’t played together in years, we had all gone our different ways in terms of geographic location and jobs and whatnot.  I just wanted to have an evening of gaming nostalgia.  Since I only had so much time to prepare, I took the easy road and grabbed the FR pantheon and made it my own.



			
				John’s PC said:
			
		

> The story hour started out with viewpoints bouncing around (from character to character) - a very good thing. It is now the "John of Pell Show"- not so good…we've hardly heard anything from Amelyssan’s point of view. Same for Vath. We have five other well-developed characters who need some 'stage time'.




This was a critique offered by John’s player, Matt, on our campaign boards.  I think it worthy enough to repeat here.  John has been one the most common POV’s I use for a number of reasons – 1) he’s easy, 2) he’s a bard, and 3) I’m very comfortable with him.  

Matt’s comment goes hand-in-hand with Joshua’s above post.  I had asked Josh to post his input here because it may help others who are writing.  Suffice to say, I intend to branch out a bit more with the characters I use, and I’m gonna make a concerted effort to vary the author’s voice throughout.  This is a tall order, though, so I wouldn’t expect it to happen overnight.

Great input, folks!  Each and every post has been helpful.  Please, keep it coming if you have something to say.  

Thanks!
D


----------



## Zad

> My players constantly remind me that I’m not writing a book, per se, but that I’m recording what happened. This is their story as much as it is mine – if not more. Some of them take a dim view to me unduly modifying their characters’ personalities or what they might have said – it’s a constant balancing act between writing a good story and remaining true to the campaign.



A very interesting thing you've brought up here. Originally my story was just that - a record of what happened for our benefit. Over time it's evolved to be more of a story, but there are times these priorities conflict. There are times that the character-author does not know things that need to be recorded. Sometimes I contrive my way around them or assume a certain level of discussion in the group, and others I just neglect, but it is a pickle as I try to make a better tale, it is by some necessity a lesser record.

As for the notion of skipping fights, I think it's a question of moderation. Skipping a major fight, even if it was easy, is usually not something I've done. But there are times when a simple encounter could be glossed over with little mention. It would for me be the exception rather than the rule to avoid droning on about slapping orcs senseless, and that's what I meant by "using it more often". As for how much, I think that's a matter of the author's style.


----------



## Pillars of Hercules

*Wow*

Destan, this is great stuff.  Truly well-written material, and I agree with prior posters about two things:  1) the different points of view, both good and evil, are outstanding and add depth; 2) the evil characters and other NPCs are thoroughly fleshed out - no cardboard NPCs here.


----------



## Lela

I've been thinking on it and, if I had to say something I didn't like, I'd have to go with one of two things.

You don't update daily.
Try not to do after the fact stuff too much.  Remember that the party's preperation is another sign of their skill.  Should that preperation pay off it's a good thing and it can add to the story.  I also was a lot confused by the whole story telling thing this time.  Though, too be fair, I should mention that I became so enthralled in the story that I quickly lost track of what I didn't know.


----------



## pogre

Destan said:
			
		

> First, I think pogre lives on EN World. This fact is all the most astonishing because I know he's a teacher, coach, and father of three. Second, pogre, don't think I haven't entertained the thought of throwing my players in a van, driving to Illinois, and kidnapping you and all your wonderful models and figures.
> 
> Hmm...maybe over the holidays would be a good time - when you least expect it.




Ho, the holidays would be a good time, because then you could come play in HaggettConV

Hey, don't forget in my collection of hats that I'm working on my Phd. and help out with boys over at BadAxe Games. So, I don't spend ALL of my time here - just long enough to bump the finest story hour back to the front page!


----------



## Nasma

Nothing constructive, just a bump.


----------



## Destan

*But the Songs Say They Do*

Vath was the first to exit the barrow.  The half-troll lifted his bulbous nose and loudly sniffed the air, the mucous within his nasal passages bubbling like porridge.  Only then did Vath squat and stretch one lesion-covered arm into the barrow’s darkness.  One by one the half-troll plucked his companions from the hole, appearing very much like a Castamere crabman extracting the night’s catch.  

Baden was the last – the dwarf’s ascent was made awkward from the bundle of armor clutched tightly to his chest.  Most nights Baden slept fully armored – Borbidan’s regalia was nearly a second skin for the Axemarch warrior.  But he had removed his plate the previous evening to work upon the dents Ral’s spiked chain had left as a parting memory.

None of them had expected trouble.  Certainly, they had not expected Cyrics.

Vath reached out, grabbed Baden by the back of his gambeson, and pulled him upward.  He set the dwarf on his feet as a man might a child.  Around them, the party filtered through the thorny corridor away from the ceiling hole.

Baden took but a moment to survey the scene before dropping his armor before him.  “Do I have time?”

Vath nodded.  “They are upwind.  They have not moved closer.”

Baden sat on the wet grass, placed a coif over his head, then pulled his beard out from beneath the mail.  As he buckled his greaves, the dwarf favored Vath with a curious look.  “You do not wear your wrist-cords, friend.  I thought they were a mark of your faith.”

“I wear them still.”  Vath held out his hands.  Where once there had been tightly-wound twine, there was now a thin, alternating series of cuts and burns.  The self-inflicted wounds encircled both of Vath’s wrists.  “There has been much suffering.  Should I prove worthy in Ilmater’s eyes, one day I might cut them to the bone.”

Whatever emotion Vath’s words might have evinced in Baden was hidden beneath the dwarf’s beard.

Vath turned from Baden and tasted the air once more as his companions spread outward along the barrow’s dome.  He tapped his nose.  “Blood.”

Baden donned his hauberk and stood.  “The Cyrics?”

Vath nodded.  “Fresh.  I believe one of them is wounded – badly.”

“One of them, eh?” Baden grunted.  “That’s a start.”

***

Half-troll and dwarf walked through the opening in the thorns to stand near their companions who had already gathered near the barrow’s lip.  Raylin was on the left flank, Kellus on the right.  John stood near Amelyssan, his crossbow in hand.  The mist was still thick but lessened with each passing moment.  Overhead, far to the east, the sun was a nebulous circle of filmy whiteness.

Twenty paces distant from the edge of the barrow stood a line of crossbowmen.  Vath saw six of them, sniffed the air, and knew there to be more still hidden in the milky shroud.  All wore chain mail, their tabards soiled but each displaying a jawless, purple skull.

“Easy, friends,” John breathed.  “They make no move; let us wait for the sun to do its work upon this fog.”

Time passed.  Vath could hear men moving about in the concealment – the sounds muffled.  Suddenly the wind increased, blowing toward the party, rippling the fog.  The stench of blood was heavy in the air.  The half-troll peered into the gloom, attempting to locate its origin.

“By Moridin’s beard,” Baden whispered, “is that-”

“-a giant?” Raylin finished.

At the rear of the assembled Cyrics was an enormously tall figure.  Ten feet, perhaps.  Odd in shape.  It was not moving.

“It bleeds.”

Raylin askance at Vath.  “What _is_ it?”

The half-troll shrugged.  The scent of blood was coming directly from the large shape in the rear of the Cyrcis, brought forward by the breeze.

Amelyssan squinted, his elven eyes piercing the mists better than those of his companions.  “No – not a giant.  A stake.  A body is on it.”  The elf exhaled softly, face etched with bewilderment.  “Upside down.”

Without further hesitation, Amelyssan murmured softly and a translucent armor of green-blue surrounded his figure.

“Do that again, elf,” a voice called from the mists, “and you shall die where you stand.”

“Not what I would consider a friendly morning greeting,” John remarked dryly.  “I had hoped these louts only wanted directions to the nearest town.”

A man pushed through the line of crossbowmen.  The sun had now burned away enough of the fog to reveal the entirety of those assembled at the base of the barrow.  Ten crossbowmen.  Seven others – some wielding sickles, a few with maces, more with swords.  Their speaker continued, “No more spells, elf.”

John stepped forward.  “What business do you have here?”

“Here?”  The man, armored in plate and wearing Cyric’s insignia, waved a spiked mace.  “Our business is with you, not this place.”

“I have many enemies,” John allowed in an affable tone, “but I did not think I counted the priests of Cyric among them. To what do I owe this bit of good fortune?”

The man stopped his advance.  His face was hidden within his helm, but his enmity was nearly palpable. “You must be the southlander minstrel.”

John’s grin stretched from ear to ear.  “You have heard of me.”

“You slew Ippizcius.”  There was no emotion in the tone.

“To tell it true, I did have some assistance.”  The bard raised his crossbow and aimed at the man’s chest.  “Not much, mind you – but some.”

The man removed his helm and cradled it under one arm, oblivious to any threat posed by John’s crossbow.  “We watched you relieve yourself; I find it passing strange you did not need to squat.”

John laughed.  The bard removed one hand from his crossbow to feign wiping away a tear.  “By the gods, you are a funny one.”  He took aim once more, this time for the Cyric’s unprotected face.  “You know a bit about me, friend.  We know nothing of you – save your brilliant wit, of course.”

Raylin gestured with one blade.  “I suggest you start talking.”

“In time.”  The priest glanced skyward.  “Soon, all will be made clear.  When the fog further lifts.”

Baden moved to Raylin’s side.  The dwarf spoke quietly, without removing his gaze from the Cyrics.  “Too many crossbows, clansman.  If it happens here, it will go badly for us.”

“Retreat to the barrow?”  Raylin, also, did not look away from the men arrayed below.

“I am thinking that would be best.”  The dwarf hefted his axe.  “The mists will aid our retreat, but not for much longer.”

The Cyric seemed to understand their intent even if he could not hear their words.  “Should one of you – any of you – seek to return to your little hole, I will order my men to shoot.”

An awkward impasse fell upon the plains.  Slowly, inexorably, the fog continued to dissipate.  John, ever the enemy of silence, squinted along the length of his crossbow and spoke.  “For a singer, I am a passably good shot.”

The Cyric shrugged.  “Good enough to kill all of us?”

“No,” John allowed, “just you.”

The man snorted.  “I am Brother Henratt, favored of my god.  I do not fear you, singer.”  The last word was filled with contempt.

“You should,” John answered.  “I can find the eye of a rabbit at fifty paces.”

“I am no rabbit, southlander.”

“No.  You are much larger.”

Amelyssan suddenly gasped.  His eyes narrowed even as his face paled.  “The body…the body on the stake…”

Baden had not heard the elf use such a tone.  “Speak, Amelyssan!”  His words sounded harsher in his ears than he had intended.  Below them, Henratt donned his helm.

“The man on the stake.  We…we know him.”  Amelyssan’s voice was soft, but yet held a hard edge.  “It is Poridel.”

***

The color drained from Baden’s face.  The dwarf willed his vision to pierce the mists that yet remained.  _Poridel?  Moridin, please…let it not be so._

The laughter, when it issued from Henratt’s helm, dripped with mockery.  “Now you _see_, my little band of Olgotha fools.  Our business with you is in earnest.”

The priest gestured casually and his crossbowmen lowered their weapons.  “Now, thank Cyric, we may proceed.  There is much to discuss.”

For Baden, however, words were suddenly meaningless.  The dwarf lifted his axe and picked his way forward through the thorns despite the hissed warnings of his companions.  He did not charge, did not cry out, nor did he hurry his pace.  Step by step, pace by pace, the Axemarch dwarf made his way down the gentle slope.

“Halt, dwarf.”  Henratt’s voice was calm, brimming with malice.  “We made an example of the sage.  If needed, we will do the same with you.”

Baden continued his march without comment.  Ten paces, nine paces, eight paces…

“Another step, stump, and you die.”  At Henratt’s gesture, the crossbowmen raised their weapons.

Baden heard John call to him, but paid the bard no heed.  Seven paces, six paces…

Henratt sighed.  “Shoot him.”

Ten crossbows twanged in unison.  Ten bolts sped toward the dwarf.

Not one found its mark.

Only then did Baden charge.

***

Raylin was dimly aware of Vath running past him, past even the now-sprinting Baden.  But his awareness was muted, as if he were underwater and watching events unfold upon a riverbank.

A sound grew in his head, rushing about, swirling.  He heard voices – distant yet near, quiet yet terrible.  

Power coursed through his body – the power of his ancestors and the spirits of his clanlands.  His fingers and toes tingled, his joints and sinews thrummed.  “These men,” the ranger intoned in a voice not wholly his own, “are a stain upon the land.”

The fog disappeared.  The sun was blinding.  Raylin mac Larren spread both arms, his swords slivers of reflected sunlight.  “My fathers!  Hear me!  I say – _Let the land answer!_  Let the land show its wrath!”

And the land _did_ answer; the land _did_ show its wrath.

The brambles and thickets of the Weedsea, the heather and grasses of the Cormick plains, the briars and tendrils of Valusia – these were the instruments of the land’s anger.  And, now, they _lived._

Ropes of green and yellow sprung from the earth to wrap about Henratt and his men.  Strands of grass became clutching weeds, and half-buried roots broke forth from the dirt to twist around boots and knees.  A circle of roiling green, as turbulent and deadly as any ocean, spread outward to cover the entirety of the Cyric’s position.

***

Baden, through immeasurable will, halted his charge but a few feet from the churning undergrowth.  A crossbowman was in front of him, the man’s eyes wide with fear as a leafy tendril snaked about his waist.  Baden ended his fear with a single, vicious cut.  The man’s body remained upright, nearly cloven, held by the grasping hands of the land itself.

From his position, just outside the arc of waving greenery, Baden could safely reach another Cyric.  He proceeded to do so – cutting the man’s hand off at the wrist as the crossbowman sought to load his weapon.  A second cut, and the man’s stomach was opened.  He would be a long time dying.

Though, in Baden’s mind, it would never be long enough.

***

Vath loped along the ring of weeds like a hound on the edge of fire.  He paused only in those places where Cyrics were within reach, leaving broken death in his wake.  The half-troll’s body was a spinning, tumbling torch of rage personified.  Yet Vath’s inner soul was calm, his thoughts detached, his aim pure and perfect.  He did Ilmater’s work, and he did it well.

Motes of golden dust filtered through the air in front of him.  The half-troll recognized Amelyssan’s work, and he used it to his advantage.

To Vath, there was no honor in battle.  Only suffering.  If the men he slew could not see, if they were entangled and whimpering in fear, so be it.  His hands and feet were the weapons of his god, his knees and elbows the god’s tools.

In short order the half-troll had nearly made an entire circuit around the perimeter of the grasping weeds.  The Cyrics who had been trapped near the edge were dead, now – little more than gruesome scarecrows still squeezed by the land’s anger.  Their bodies glistened with wounds - broken and bitten by Vath, carved by Baden’s whirling axe, or sliced cleanly by Raylin’s swords.

A handful of Cyrics, an island of composure amidst a sea of verdant madness, stood well within the circle of dancing vines.  Two had John’s mark upon them – bolts stuck at odd angles from hip and leg.  Two more were blind, their countenances covered by Amelyssan’s golden film of dust.

Yet not all were incapacitated or wounded.  Henratt and some of his mace-wielding followers seemed to have maintained their senses despite the turmoil around them.

Vath eyed the shivering thorns at his feet for but a moment before plunging into the maelstrom.  He beat aside briars and kicked away vines, making a line toward Henratt and his remaining followers.

One of the men turned toward him, eyes widening at the half-troll’s approach.  The Cyric grabbed a holy symbol from about his neck and pointed at Vath.

And the power of the man’s fell god did what the creepers and vines could not – they _held_ the half-troll.

Vath raged, his sinews cording with the effort, but he could not break free.  There was nothing to break free _from_ – an invisible, intangible force held him as tightly as if he were encased in iron.  The half-troll rolled his eyes, a maddened stallion, and helplessly watched two Cyric swordsmen close his position.

The pair of warriors seemed to ignore most of the clutching weeds.  They made slow but steady progress toward the half-troll, death both in their eyes and held in their hands.

From Vath’s other side, opposite the approaching swordsmen, came Baden.  The dwarf furiously pumped his knees, kicking at the tendrils slowing his movement.  “Vath,” Baden called, his voice thick, “I am coming!”

The Cyric bladesmen would reach him first, Vath knew; they seemed to have less trouble with the entangling weeds than did Baden.  Yet Vath was calm.  Years and years ago his god has spoken to him.  Once.

He would not die here.

***

A sword slid through Vath’s ribs, blade flat to the ground.  A second thrust entered his collar, spilling his green blood onto his monk’s tunic.  Still, he was _held._

“Vath!”  Baden’s tone was choked with fear and fury.  “No!”

A bolt went screaming past Vath’s head, barely missing one of his attackers.

A second missile – this one a shard of arcane energy – impacted soundlessly upon the chest of one of the swordsmen.  The man hardly flinched.

Both Cyrics sliced at Vath like men attempting to fell a tree.  Cut, thrust, slash.  The half-troll began to regain feeling.  The pain was incredible, the pain was beautiful.  His tunic, his legs, his taloned feet – all were drenched from his own blood.

He saw doubt register on the Cyrics’ faces, now.  They had struck him no less than five times, mayhaps more, yet still he stood.

Baden arrived the moment Vath felt the enchantment’s iron grip release its hold.  The half-troll sunk to both knees, slowly, then toppled forward onto his face.  In the mud and blood, face buried in the writhing ground, Vath smiled.

Then there was only darkness.

***

The dwarf fought in the style of his own people.  For hundreds of years – nay, thousands – the bearded folk had been forced to defend hearth and home from Deepearth raiders.  Battles in the corridors of the Balantir Cor were not pretty.  The walls were tight, the ceilings low, all spaces confined and narrow.  One did not try to kill his enemies – not until _after_ the battle.  One merely did what he could to slow the onslaught, to buy time.

Baden did not swing for heart or throat, eyes or chest.  No – rather he aimed for knees, ankles, groins.  The axe of Borbidan was alive in his hands.  The pitted but sharp blade tore through the Cyrics’ mail effortlessly.

As Vath fell Baden’s rage flared with newfound brilliance.  He missed with an overhand chop, but quickly brought the axe upward to bite deeply into the man’s crotch.  Blood, urine, and other fluids fountained downward from the wound, a multi-colored waterfall.

Baden moved to the next attacker before the first had time to fall.

The second swordsman was experienced.  Somewhere, deep within Baden’s mind wherein a kernel of reason still remained, the dwarf realized he might be overmatched.  The Cyric’s blade darted outward, skittering across Baden’s black breastplate.  The dwarf shifted his grip to one hand, punched with the other, then made an off-balanced swing at the Cyric’s hip.

The sword came at him again.  Baden dodged to one side, but not quickly enough.  An attack that surely would have killed him instead pierced his armpit where there was no mail.  The dwarf felt the left side of his body go numb.

Behind him he heard Amelyssan’s odd, arcane chanting.

Suddenly his attacker went white with fear.  His jaw opened, his eyes went wide.  The swordsman turned to run.

Baden hamstrung the man before he fled even a single pace.

Around him, the weeds fell once more to the earth.  Inert, lifeless, normal.

Baden rammed the head of his axe against the nape of his fallen enemy’s neck.  He then strode the two paces to the first man, who still rolled about on the ground clutching at his groin.

Another swing, and silence fell.

***

Baden dragged a shaking hand across his mouth.  He surveyed the destruction.  The Cyrics were no more.  Where once seventeen living, breathing men had stood, there was now only bodies, tossed haphazardly about like a child-god’s dolls.  Somewhere in the crimson mess was Henratt.  _Good._

Baden tossed his axe to the ground and knelt near Vath.  He had problems focusing on the half-troll’s wounds; his vision was blurry.

-_ You weep for your friend, Baden.

I weep for us all._

Baden cradled Vath’s head in his lap.  He pushed aside the half-troll’s lank hair, ran blunt fingers tenderly along the monk’s blistery skin.

Kellus dropped to Baden’s side.  The priest, without delay, reached forward and murmured a prayer.  Instantly, Vath’s skin turned from gray to green.  The half-troll opened his eyes.  He had never stopped smiling.

“Vath,” Baden sputtered, “you live.  You live.”

“Wondrous…” Vath swiveled his head to one side.  “Gods, but that was wondrous.”

***

“It was an ill deed, done by Men not worthy of the name.”

Raylin rested on one sword, the other forgotten somewhere in the morass of bodies behind him.  The ranger stared at the impaled body of Poridel.  The sage was a good five feet in the air, upside down, his robes hanging downward and covering his face.  He had been beaten – repeatedly – but the clansman saw no death wound.

Kellus murmured a prayer before lapsing into a reverent silence.  The party, save for Baden, gathered around the two men.  The sun brought no warmth to the Cormick plains.  

Raylin spoke to none of them and all of them.  “The Church of Cyric – _the entire thrice-damned church_ - will answer for this.  By my fathers, they will answer.”

John swallowed.  His hands were chaffed and cold from firing bolt after bolt during the melee.  For once, the bard appeared speechless.  “There are no words…no words…”

“You had damned well better find some.”  Baden pushed through the line of his companions and walked to the stake.  The dwarf’s rage had returned, his chest heaved with each breath.

Baden reached upward with a gentleness that seemed in stark contrast to his mood.  He pulled the stake toward him, grunting with the effort, then hugged Poridel around his hips.  The dwarf bent at the knees and pulled.  The body – slowly – slid up the pole, leaving a shining trail on the wood in its wake.

Baden stepped back and turned the body upright.  A shower of entrails cascaded downward from Poridel’s groin, further staining his robes and the ground.  Baden slipped on the blood, fell, and the body of the sage landed heavily in the turf beside him.

Baden angrily shoved away Raylin’s assistance.  He stood and dragged the body further from the now-leaning stake, slipping and falling once more.  

His companions watched silently.

Baden tenderly laid Poridel on his back, folding the old man’s hands over his chest.  Only then did he look up.  The pain in his face was raw.  “Give me a bolt.”

John licked his lips.  “Baden-”

“A bolt, damn you!”  The dwarf’s voice split the air.

John nodded quietly, reached into his leg quiver, and handed one of his last quarrels to his companion.

Baden dropped to his knees, took a single breath, and plunged the shaft into Poridel’s chest.  The silence was stunning around him.

Finally, after a long, long moment, Baden stood.  He stared hard at his companions.  “Not all dwarves die in battle, but the songs say they do.”

Baden strode away from the dead sage, but paused next to John.  “Poridel was killed in battle.  Do you hear me?”

“I hear-”

Baden reached out and gripped a fold of John’s cloak in a gnarled hand.  “If you write anything else – anything other than that – I will kill you.”

Only then did the dwarf release his hold, push through his companions, and go to share his grief with none but himself and his god.


----------



## Destan

A note, gentle readers:  We've now reached the part in the campaign wherein I can peruse old in-character posts that my players made on our campaign's web site.  What does this mean?  It means I can know, with certainty, what was said and what was not.  

A couple more updates and we'll reach another point that I've been yearning for - one of my players begins to keep a (very detailed) campaign journal.  You must remember, we still weren't sure if this was but a weekend or two of nostalgic gaming or if it was the start of a campaign.  By this point, we began to realize it was the latter.

Hence, no more writing from memory alone!  The events recounted above happened nearly two years' ago.  We have a lot of ground to cover, friends.  A lot.

This most recent post may push the envelope of good taste, or bad taste, a little bit.  I'm very, very hesitant to do so.  I can't help but feel I lost folks when I ventured a little too far in the blackness of Ostia Prim in those early updates.  Still, this was a crucial event in terms of the characters' personalities and their reactions to one another.  I felt I shouldn't pull _too many_ punches (though I did pull some).

Now...this is a community, dammit.  If you're reading this, this is _your_ story as much as it is mine, as much as it is my players'.  I figure I owe it to you owe folks to write in a manner that's entertaining.  If it's too over-the-top, tell me to cool it a little bit.  If you prefer shorter updates, with more frequency, then drop a post or an email saying as much.  This recent update is a little longer than my normal fare.

Finally - don't leave me.  But, if you do, please let me know why.

I should be in bed.  Ugh.

G'night!

D


----------



## darkbard

first, thanks for another great update, destan.  now, please release the self-editing reigns.  sure, you may lose the occasional reader who finds your story and its telling too dark.  but there are far more of us who are enthralled with your grim vision.  would you prefer to be thought of as a writer who pulls back to gain in popularity or as an artist who pursues his vision with honesty and clarity?  i've always felt that the latter are by far the more successful.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Destan said:
			
		

> This most recent post may push the envelope of good taste, or bad taste, a little bit.  I'm very, very hesitant to do so.  I can't help but feel I lost folks when I ventured a little too far in the blackness of Ostia Prim in those early updates.




The gritty reality of your setting, Destan, is a refreshing antidote from the tone of most heroic fantasy. Don't ever lose it. I doubt I'm alone in wishing that you _please_ won't tone it down. It would be a tremendous disservice to you and your excellent players.


----------



## Despaxas

I really don't care about the darker side of this SH. This is what blew me away:



> The fog disappeared. The sun was blinding. Raylin mac Larren spread both arms, his swords slivers of reflected sunlight. “My fathers! Hear me! I say – Let the land answer! Let the land show its wrath!”
> 
> And the land did answer; the land did show its wrath.
> 
> The brambles and thickets of the Weedsea, the heather and grasses of the Cormick plains, the briars and tendrils of Valusia – these were the instruments of the land’s anger. And, now, they lived
> 
> all that for a simple entangle ... I weep at night in the hopes that I may find a group like yours.


----------



## Mahtave

Destan,

You would do yourself a disservice if you "toned" this story down. Please continue to write as you have been.  Any readers turned off by it should not be given the chance to enjoy this anyways.

This is the second time I have come out of "lurker mode" and both times is to give praise to this story hour.  Keep up the good work Destan!


----------



## frostrune

*But the Songs Say They Do (meta-game)*

First off - well done Destan!

This last battle was a pretty big one for the party.  I kind of saw it as the point where the party really started to come into their own and gel as a team.  It's difficult to write but everyone really contributed here.  And Raylin's entangle spell turned steep odds to our favor rather quickly.

As Destan hinted at, it also marks a significant point in the campaign where we started to do a lot of IC (in-character) posting between gaming sessions.  This should provide him with a wealth of information to draw from as we go forward.

The intent of this post was to hopefully clear up a couple things about Poridel and more importantly Baden's reaction to his wound.  Since we're talking grim here I'll spell it out.  Poridel was impaled through his anus and died a horrible and slow death.  When Raylin commented on not seeing the death wound, that is why.  A blood trail down the back of Poridel's robes and legs is what originally led Baden to the discovery.  Baden was horrified and enraged at what they had done to the old man.  The humiliation he must have felt.  No one should die that way.  Hence his comments to John.  And to his credit John picked up on it right away.  To steal a bit of Destan's poetic license, Baden originally stuck the crossbow quarrel in Poridel's back then cut his own palm smearing his blood from the crossbow wound to merge with the bloodtrail from his real wound.

Destan feels he needs to be a bit careful about how he writes things and who he might offend.  These are truly evil guys we are up against.  They don't pull any punches.  Hope I don't get Destan into trouble for this post.

Vaclava!

Baden Dost


----------



## Joshua Randall

A mighty battle, but what became of Henratt? A villain that sarcastic and eeeeevil deserves to have his messy death written about.


----------



## Destan

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> A mighty battle, but what became of Henratt? A villain that sarcastic and eeeeevil deserves to have his messy death written about.




I could only add this...



> The Cyrics were no more. Where once seventeen living, breathing men had stood, there was now only bodies, tossed haphazardly about like a child-god’s dolls. Somewhere in the crimson mess was Henratt.




...because I can't recall how Henratt died, or which PC or PC's did the deed.

I've also been told, via emails, to stop my abject whining about whether the story is too dark or not.  Ok, ok - I'm slow to take a hint, but I've got it now. 

D

Edit:  Come to think of it, I think Vath may have dropped poor Henratt very early in the combat, after charging across the plains.


----------



## Ruined

Okay, where's that pesky Subscribe button...?     =)


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## Greybar

Great job, Destan.  And a great line from Baden, frostrune!
I like the feel of this story: dark, gritty, whatever you care to call it.  The characters are certainly growing, with some more established than others.
Good stuff all 'round!
john


----------



## Cinerarium

Another incredible post Destan!  

My favorite part was definitely at the end, with Baden's reaction to Poridel's death.  But there were many excellent bits throughout.

And to echo another comment earlier, absolutely DO NOT hold back on your writing style.  I understand wanting to keep Eric's grandma happy with content, but never sacrifice your artistic integrity in the process.  The warning on content is more to keep trolls from posting junk than for hobbling your creativity.

That said, I'm not a big fan of urine-and-blood references (makes me wince) but it's the style of this story hour, and the story would suffer without it.

One thing I would like to see more of in terms of content, and that I think will come out more now that you've caught up to where your group's in-character posts begin, are the intra-character interactions.  We've had a few so far, and I definitely look forward to more.  For instance, I was surprised a bit that Baden reacted _so_ emotionally to Poridel's death.  I hadn't seen them build such a strong bond in the earlier story hour.

Again, thank you for an excellent story hour.  The writing continues to improve.  Maybe all of us devoted Destan fans should go pimp his story hours?

Cinerarium


----------



## Len

Destan said:
			
		

> I can't help but feel I lost folks when I ventured a little too far in the blackness of Ostia Prim in those early updates.




You _gained_ some folks there too.

I did notice the rather large amount of guts in this update, but that was related to Baden's character, rather than being gore for gore's sake. As long as you continue to write in the style that best illustrates the mood and characters of your campaign, we will enjoy reading it.


----------



## Darthor

I am filled with a great sadness. For today I have reached the end of this story hour. I began it at the beginning of last week on the advice of one of my role-playing buddies. He was right when he told me its one of the best, right up there with Sep's.

Thank you so much Destan for writing this and sharing your talents with us. I've received something wonderful and never paid a dime. I feel like I've stolen music from the internet.  

You've asked for criticism. I would echo what others have said. I like the first person accounts of battles and events to be high in frequency compared to the retellings after the fact. But I also like things to be switched up every so often.

I also would like a few entries from some of the other characters besides Vath or John (two of my favorites, but still, let's here more from the others).

The leader of the Cyrics going down in the last battle off-camera was a little disappointing. I wanted his demise to be up close and personal. Along with anybody else's who you have made me despise so much.

I'll end by restating that I'm incredibly impressed with your writing and have enjoyed it immensely. I DM and I write a little and I hope to grow up to be like you.

David


----------



## Wisdom Penalty

Cinerarium said:
			
		

> I was surprised a bit that Baden reacted _so_ emotionally to Poridel's death.  I hadn't seen them build such a strong bond in the earlier story hour.




i thought the same thing.  now im thinking the reason baden reacted that way was not because he had loved poridel, but because he had hated the way the old man had died.  

remember - baden was one of those who mistrusted pordiel the most - back when the group was heading to the sorrow elf's tomb.  maybe he felt a bit guilty when poridel died?

frostrune or detsan - maybe you could comment?  i may be out in left field.

grrrreat story

W.P.


----------



## grodog

Excellent update, Destan!  

I certainly don't think you need to tone down the tone/gritty elements---you're still quite a ways off from even beginning to raise an eyebrow much less offend me with your writing/style/descriptions/characterizations/etc.  (That's not to say that I don't enjoy the SH or that I'm not impressed by your work---I am).  

FWIW, when I have a little more free time, I'll give some more thought to criticisms of your writing, but no flaws or pet peeves have jumped out at me during my reading thus far, so I wouldn't expect much even after some reflection 

On a rules-related query, have you checked out Kenneth S. Hood's Grim-n-Gritty d20 rules (see http://www.darkshire.net/~jhkim/rpg/srd/sleepingimperium/downloads/GrimNGrittyHitPointRules.pdf)?  OP strikes me as a place where such rules might thrive, in comparison to more-standard D&D fare....


----------



## Pillars of Hercules

We used to always just say "wow" when one of Sep's posts blew us away.

This last post leaves me similarly speechless, but I feel a new epithet is in order for Destan's thread, so here goes:


Damn.


----------



## Lela

I've read a lot of Story Hour's (you once even termed me a professoinal SH reader) and, while thinking about your worries about dark posts, I've put something together.

 Several others have said that that's much of the reason they read your work.  In fact, that's exactly it.  People read your work partly because of the grittiness and, dare I say it, gore.  Others read P-Kitty partly because of the high level and mix of log/story style.  Old One for high level feeling at low levels, Sep for philisophical conflicts, or Wulf for hack'n slash action.  While there are billions of other reasons to read these Story Hours (I could write an essay on any of them and tons of others; I have in some cases), people show up for specific reasons.

 This means that they're showing up for your style (or some facit thereof) and others can have different areas.  Don't try to change your style to match someone elses or even avoid someone else's.  Take only the critisim  you feel works witth your stile to heart and ignore the rest.  If it's a deal breaker for them, so what?  They can find a niche they like somewhere else (I might have a recomendation or 4 for anyone interested).

 There's another side to this though.  If you don't feel comfortable talking about aspects you, personally, consider blood, urine, and anal spearing too much then don't write about it.  If a reader is really looking for that, someone else, somewhere, will have it.  All you need to do is write what you feel like writing.  It's up to the reader to decide if he likes it.  No one's forcing him to read it.

 Of course, since things are never simple, there's a thrid side to this.  If you want critisim (and it seems you do) then go ahead and ask for it.  Those posting know you don't have to take it to heart.  They're here already and trust you to do what's best for both the story itself and your desire as an artist.


 Ready for a small paradox?  By the logic of the post above, you don't have to take what I said to heart.  Of course, if you choose to completely reject it, you must take it to heart.  By taking it to heart you can choose to reject it. . .

 Remember that we're already here.  You don't have to win us over.


----------



## frostrune

*Poridel and Baden*



> i thought the same thing. now im thinking the reason baden reacted that way was not because he had loved poridel, but because he had hated the way the old man had died.
> 
> remember - baden was one of those who mistrusted pordiel the most - back when the group was heading to the sorrow elf's tomb. maybe he felt a bit guilty when poridel died?




Wisodom Penalty your insight is right on the money.  Baden was very reluctant to trust Poridel after the deception of Aramin.  He certainly didn't think the man was evil (how could killing demons be bad after all?), but he definitely thought the group was being manipulated.  He really didn't believe much in that 'prophecy' stuff.

Baden's reaction to Poridel's death stemmed from a lot of issues: it proved Poridel was their friend all along and he felt guilty about his judgements of the man, since he was their friend perhaps this prophecy stuff was real as well, and the heinous nature of his death deeply revolted Baden.  

Baden is stoic and solid as a rock, but when he feels emotion or confusion he doesn't know how to deal with them.  He generally lashes out and burries them in a wall of rage.

Baden's reaction to Poridel's death was a combination of his horror at the man's ill treatment and his way of apologizing for misjudging him.

Well done, WP.

Frostrune


----------



## Tumakhunter

I've been following your SH for some time, now, and I must say that I really love it.  I don't normally comment, not because I'm not enjoying the story, but merely because I don't have much to say.  I could throw in the occasional 'Wow,' or 'Damn,' but that doesn't seem suficient, and I rarely have time to compose something better.  But you asked for comments, so here goes.

Keep the tone.  Anyone who doesn't like the dark tone conveyed in your story has the right to not read it, and those who DO read it are obviously OK with it.

Bounce the POVs around a bit.  Hearing from more of the PCs perspectives is a good thing.  Hearing mostly from John's POV is not - at least, not since you had originally set things up by going from character to character.

And finally, STOP SKIPPING BITS!!  I want to know what happened with the meeting with the Sorrow Elf.  I want to know how the fight with the wolfen (?) went, and not just hear about it after.  A lot of things got referred to in that post, but it was done in an offhand "by the way, this happened, too" kind of way.  Wholly dissatisfying.

Your most recent post, the fight with the Cyrics was excellent.  I really loved the entangle spell, and Baden's reaction to Poridel's death was superb.  This is what I want to see (well, not necessarily the gore in _every_ update, but I think you get the idea).

Well done, and keep up the good work.


----------



## Destan

To review:

[1] I won't skip portions of the story.
[2] I will attempt to better share the POV amongst the party members.
[3] I won't change the writing style or the tone of the story hour.
[4] I'll stop being overly self-conscious regarding the mature theme.

We can move on from there - I don't think there was one person who said, "I _like_ how you skip portions!" or "I _only_ want to hear the story through John of Pell's mouth!".  Understood, point taken, got it.  

Also, might I add, the lot of you are entirely correct on all those issues.

Now, let me see...grodoggie - I have looked at the Grim n' Gritty stuff, and was mildly interested.  My players, however, get extremely antsy whenever I start to play around with house rules or systems they're unfamilair with. So I've pretty much decided to be conservative with respect to the material we use.  For now, anyway.  I'm getting more daring as I start to feel more comfortable with 3E. 

Darthor, Len - glad to have you with us!  

Wisdom Penalty - Very, very well done.  Always love to see readers who dig into the guts of the tale, so to speak. 

Enjoy your weekends, my little chupacabras!

D


----------



## Seule

Destan said:
			
		

> To review:
> 
> [1] I won't skip portions of the story.
> [2] I will attempt to better share the POV amongst the party members.



To be clear, I commented on [1], and this applies to [2] as well: Don't stop doing these things, just make sure not to overdo them.  Or in the case of [2], the reverse.
The first time you skipped something and covered it after the fact it was cool.  Just don't do it too much, and we'll all be happy.
Okay, we're all happy anyway.  We'll be even happier.  Whee!

  --Seule


----------



## Destan

If you're here, it means you're reading about a group of PC's who are adventuring around Ostia Prim.  

Would you like to be one?

I'm conducting a little experiement and will be running a Play-by-Post game here on ENWorld.  I'm looking for players.  The info may be found here:


The Sins of Our Fathers PbP Game

Any questions or comments should be addressed to me via email or on that thread; let's not clutter this one with PbP stuff.

Enjoy the last of your weekend!
D


----------



## neg

*Feedback*

First off Destan, new readers do come to your story hour.  I found your post in the “Pimp your SH” thread on the General Discussion board.  I just finished all of the posts and was dismayed to learn that I caught up so quickly to your current postings.  I was intrigued by the feedback you listed especially PC’s comments that you can write.

You can, and very well at that.

You also have a good group of players it would seem to me.  Most of their characters are drawn deeply and boldly.  I think Vath is a wonderful creation and his worship of Illmater makes him utterly unique in his love to both give and receive misery.  John of Pell is a particular favorite of mine, and I think yours as he often leads us through the story.  Kellus intrigues me greatly with his off/on faith and stark view of what life has to offer us all.  Baden catches my attention with his deliberate range of emotions.  His anger I can feel from your writing.  His confusion and rage is evident.  Raylin is a more calm and collected individual, a loner type, and less rounded in description than the others.  Ameylssan is the least fleshed out character in my opinion.  I would especially like to hear more from Raylin and Amelyssan in future posts, I think most of us would.  I would like to read what they think about each other and the situation they find themselves in.

All in all, your characters/players allow for a nice beginning to your stories.  They are varied and seem to have similar and differing motivations that allow your creativity to flourish.

As a writer you talent is obvious to us all.  You pace well.  You can dramatize a situation without going over the top, or making it campy.  You draw the personality of the characters and of your world in descriptive, image evoking phrases that leave lasting impressions on your readers minds and hearts.  You make us care, and pull forth emotions for the good AND the bad guys.  Your world is gritty and appeals to those that like that material.

Too gritty?  Hardly…If someone thinks it is, they need to go back and read the Iliad.  There is a book that is moist with all the fluids that surface in a battle.  You need not fear you are pushing the envelope.  I argue that you are not pushing it far enough….

Why?

You are a natural storyteller.  There are many writers out there, but very few solid storytellers.  

I work for a large New York publisher that has an imprint that publishes large amounts of Science Fiction/Fantasy.  It is Tor books and we publish Robert Jordan.  I want to make it clear that I don’t work in New York, I am not a writer, I am not an editor, I am not a publisher, and I am not in marketing.  I am a book sales representative for my territory in Minnesota.  I call on bookstores in my area and pitch them the latest and greatest books each season.  As such I read A LOT of material in order to be prepared to speak intelligently on the material I am selling.  I have read countless poor writers, and but a handful of actual storytellers.  I am in the midst of preparing for my next season, and I am reading reams of material to prepare.  But I had to finish your SH, it kept calling me back, it was that good.

My only critique is the SH is episodic.  We need time to see you stretch the story over several installments to see how you can carry the plot, and keep us coming back for more.  This leads me to my next inquiry.

As I read your story hour, you mentioned early on that you had been working on a novel or had completed one.  If that is the case, I would be curious to know your plans for it.  Is it a stand alone, or part of a longer series?  Is it based on your RPG?  Is it even fantasy?  I would be interested in knowing.  I would also encourage you, if you are truly serious, to get an agent, and get your book submitted for publication to a large fantasy house (if it is fantasy).  You do have what it takes to carry a novel.  You could use guidance and a good editor, but your starting point is so far beyond many of the published authors that I read now that I think you would receive serious consideration.  You would also not have to be hamstrung by the concern that your audience would be offended by your writing.  A novel would allow you the creative freedom that I see you craving in you non-SH posts.

This is an honest opinion of someone who has been in bookselling/publishing for eleven years now.  But I am still a small cog in the larger machine that is publishing.  If you are serious, I can offer some guidance and point you in a few directions.  I wouldn’t have an agent in mind, but I can point you to publishers who would best be able to publish and more importantly market your work.  

If you want to talk about this by email, feel free to drop me a note, otherwise you can post here.  I will be back.  Sorry for the long post.

Take or leave this as you see fit.  I am a lurker who finds little time to read, and less to post.  I just felt compelled to write you something as a form of encouragement and thanks.  Continue to push yourself, keep growing, keep thinking and turning over idea, but mainly just keep writing.

Best-

Neg 

John Edwards       

P.S. On your recommendation, Seph’s story hour is next.


----------



## Destan

neg said:
			
		

> If you want to talk about this by email, feel free to drop me a note, otherwise you can post here.  I will be back.




John - 

Thanks for the post, the comments, and the advice.  It's all appreciated.  I'll be sending you an email shortly, but thought I might post portions of information that may be applicable to other writers who happen upon this thread.

About eight years ago I finished my first novel.  I sent out a number of form letters to various, reputable literary agencies.  An agent contacted me within a week, I signed a two-book contract, and we (read: they) began to market my work.  How easy it was!  I thought - 'Why the hell didn't I do this earlier?'  Soon, I thought, I would be rubbing elbows with Stephen King and giving Dutch-rubs to John Grisham.  

At my agent's recommendation, I immediately began to write the sequel.

Newsflash:  Don't write a sequel to an unpublished book - not unless _you_ are ready to do so.

My little story, though it starts with such promise, ends on a different note.  My agent could not find a willing publisher.  Oh, a few companies liked the book, but they said it'd never sell.  One publishing house said they would take a 'very serious second look' at my novel if - and only if - I would rewrite the story and add a significant female heroine.  It's a testament to my lack of artistic dignity that I made the attempt.  I failed.  I found that I just couldn't write something that I didn't, well, enjoy writing.  

Alas, by that time, my real life work (military pilot) heated up and I put aside my keyboard for other issues.  

Eventually my agent conceded defeat.  The sequel was about 70% finished at that time.  It remains 70% finished now, eight or more years later.  The contract has ended.

And, you know what?  Those books didn't deserve to be published.  They weren't that well written.  I'm not being modest; I'm being honest.  Ask a couple of my friends and players - they've read those books, or portions thereof.  

A couple lessons learned from this whole experience that may be applicable to other writers:

1) Finding an agent is infinitely easier than finding a publisher.

2) Your story may be _publishable_ but not _marketable_, and hence will never see the light of a book store.  You may have written the Best Book of Collected Rodent Recipes, but if there's no customer base for that sort of thing, you're outta luck.

3) If you think you've written a good story, set it aside and come back to it months down the road.  _Then_ read it.  And be honest.  I've found this allows me to see _what I've written_ as opposed to _what I intended_.  It works the same way with earlier updates on this story hour.  When I wrote them, I liked them, yet - now - I see how I could have changed things to make them significantly better.  Writing is re-writing.

Ok, I'm leaping off my soapbox now.  Thanks for reading.

D


----------



## gerg_861

ACK!  Already current with this SH, and I only had to put off 2 days worth of homework to do it!  Really though, incredible writing.  I've quit reading the Forgotten Realms book that I was reading and began over the past 2 weeks only read SHs and yours is my favorite so far.  When I read something of the caliber that you have written I truly bemoan the hours that I spent reading about a certain absurd dark elf.  If you still want any criticism I can only say that I wish I had a better mental picture of some of the characters, for example I don't know off the top of my head more than the fact that Vath is in dire need of a dermatologist and that Jon needs some "Just for Men".  Thanks for all the time that you've put into this SH!


----------



## Piratecat

You do such a good job writing from memory,  I can't wait to see what happens when reality sneaks in. Go update!


----------



## Dakkareth

> On a somewhat related note - do new readers come along when story hours are this far advanced? I know, personally, it was somewhat intimidating to dive into story hours that include so many updates. Piratecat's excellent tale could (and should) encompass four to five novels!




Actually for me it's usually the opposite - if a story hour consists only of a few posts, there's no time to get to know the characters,  get a glimpse of a meaningful story and even, if it is outstanding, it's still too short and many SHs are discontinued after a short time. Yours is an obvious exception to this 'rule' of mine, but with the well-deserved praise being sung up and down the board even in the early stages I figured, I couldn't be wrong here - and I wasn't. 

That said I'll go back to reading up on the events of the last few weeks - being away from the SH forum for several weeks and then returning is like opening presents on Christmas - so many new updates 


Edit: 

This last part was outstanding. Not only do we get a look on some of the bad guys and on how bad exactly they are, we also get to see them cut down with contempt and drama. Finally a truly epic conclusion to the matter of Poridel's fate - or rather a resolution to 'make them pay'. The description Baden's anger was great as was the thought behind it - it felt as if I was there.

On the matter of mature themes I have to say, that I'm a big fan of Steven Erikson, of whose books your SH reminds me somewhat in its graphic description of both terrible violence and profoundly humane feelings. It is far from me to be appalled at the exploring of dark themes or gore as it is no goal in itself, but serves to show the whole picture of reality.



> [1] I won't skip portions of the story.
> [2] I will attempt to better share the POV amongst the party members.
> [3] I won't change the writing style or the tone of the story hour.
> [4] I'll stop being overly self-conscious regarding the mature theme.


----------



## Destan

gerg_861 said:
			
		

> Already current with this SH, and I only had to put off 2 days worth of homework to do it!




Nothing gives me more pleasure than knowing I'm causing students to falter in their studies.  Down with academia!  Muwahahha!



			
				PirateCat said:
			
		

> You do such a good job writing from memory, I can't wait to see what happens when reality sneaks in.




I think, when it's all said and done, I'll have liked doing it from my faltering memory as opposed to reality.  Much easier to mold the story that way.  Now I'll have to be..._honest._  Ugh.



			
				Dakkareth said:
			
		

> ...and many SHs are discontinued after a short time. Yours is an obvious exception...




I bet some folks were beginning to wonder if, indeed, this story hour had any life left.

Well, my loyal readers (because if you're here reading this after such a long hiatus, then I'll forevermore count you as 'loyal'), a lot has happened since we last saw Raylin throwing down his _Entangle_ spell.  Both in-game and out-of-game.

Let's start with the latter.  I had started a little play-by-post experiment.  It was, alas, short-lived.  This is because I recently received a contract offer to develop Ostia Prim into a d20 supplement.  My writing time, as it is, will now be largely devoted to that endeavor.

A couple things that might preempt any questions you might now have:

1) I'd rather not get into the details of the proposed contract.  I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do so, and nothing's been finalized as of this posting.

2) After some soul-searching, I've decided that I'd very much like to continue this story hour.  Updates may be infrequent (or they may not).  I'm just not sure how things will progress.

3) EN World has made this situation possible.  And EN World is _you._  I am not so blind as to not realize that fact.  I sincerely appreciate each and every one of you who have stumbled upon this thread and read it - either in one sitting or in several.  If I can utilize the immense creativity and talents of you cats in this contractual thing, I would love to do so.

Thanks for sticking with this thing.  I'll do my best to get a good, bloody story hour update on these boards within the next couple days.

D


----------



## Len

Congratulations, Destan! It's great to get a paying gig out of this, even if it means less Story Hour for us.


----------



## Avarice

Destan said:
			
		

> I think, when it's all said and done, I'll have liked doing it from my faltering memory as opposed to reality.  Much easier to mold the story that way.  Now I'll have to be..._honest._  Ugh.
> 
> D




Nonsense!  Lie to us as much as you like, so long as you continue to do it _well._  



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> I bet some folks were beginning to wonder if, indeed, this story hour had any life left.
> 
> Well, my loyal readers (because if you're here reading this after such a long hiatus, then I'll forevermore count you as 'loyal'), a lot has happened since we last saw Raylin throwing down his Entangle spell. Both in-game and out-of-game.
> 
> Let's start with the latter. I had started a little play-by-post experiment. It was, alas, short-lived. This is because I recently received a contract offer to develop Ostia Prim into a d20 supplement. My writing time, as it is, will now be largely devoted to that endeavor.
> 
> A couple things that might preempt any questions you might now have:
> 
> 1) I'd rather not get into the details of the proposed contract. I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do so, and nothing's been finalized as of this posting.
> 
> 2) After some soul-searching, I've decided that I'd very much like to continue this story hour. Updates may be infrequent (or they may not). I'm just not sure how things will progress.
> 
> 3) EN World has made this situation possible. And EN World is you. I am not so blind as to not realize that fact. I sincerely appreciate each and every one of you who have stumbled upon this thread and read it - either in one sitting or in several. If I can utilize the immense creativity and talents of you cats in this contractual thing, I would love to do so.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this thing. I'll do my best to get a good, bloody story hour update on these boards within the next couple days.
> 
> D




Wow, congratulations Destan.  Guess I'll be adding one more product to my 'must buy' list!


----------



## Mahtave

Destan - a contract for a D20 supplement, that's great!  I am curious to know how it came about, did "they" read your SH and go from there or had you sent some things out and "they" contacted you from that?

Just curious, obviously you probably can't divulge too much info....


----------



## Joshua Randall

"Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little." - Gore Vidal



Seriously, way to go, Destan! My sarcasm notwithstanding, this is great news.


----------



## Lela

Well, when it's published, please post it in your SH.  Even if (Ao forbid) it's not active.  I probably won't see it if it's in another thread or notice it if it's on the front page.

And I want to turn it into gifts (Christmas, birthday, etc) for all of my friends.


----------



## Tumakhunter

I am so gonna want this supplement!

Let us know what you can, when you can, D!


----------



## Pyske

Destan said:
			
		

> Nothing gives me more pleasure than knowing I'm causing students to falter in their studies.  Down with academia!  Muwahahha!
> [...]
> I think, when it's all said and done, I'll have liked doing it from my faltering memory as opposed to reality.  Much easier to mold the story that way.  Now I'll have to be..._honest._  Ugh.




You don't exactly have a saludatory effect on productive work, either.  So now you have two reasons to cackle. 

I do hope you'll avoid being overly honest.  Sure, notes are great to help you remember what happened.  But they make lousy editors.   Please consider this another vote to not feel to constrained by the unvarnished truth.

I'd give you more feedback, but I don't have much to add that hasn't already been covered, so I'll just say that I enjoyed the story hour, and I'm looking forward to whatever comes next.

 . . . . . . . -- Eric


----------



## Ghostknight

*Great story!*

Lets recap -

Joined En world two days ago.
Discovered this story thread yesterday.
Finished reading it today.

Great story thread, and in reading through comments, well I agree with people stating not to change your style or tone.  Compared to some of the descriptions and happenings in games I have run, this is definitely not way over the top.  Guess its just the nature of the beast when a bunch of thirty-somethings play and realism gets invoked.  

Though I must admit some of the magical tortures dreamed up by my players, in the name of justice, make me look at them with undue suspicion! For those of you unfamiliar with old style Roman-Dutch law, it used to be deemed acceptable to torture suspects, if they did not confess they were innocent.  I have a lawyer in the campaign playing a paladin, and I made the mistake of letting him define the religions law code.  Which he did, based on medieval Roman Dutch law!  And the requirement of no permanent harm is so easy to circumvent with magical healing around!

Cheers
Marc


----------



## Lela

Welcom to the boards Ghostknight!

 Oh, I understand those kinds of DM problems.  I recall having a Drow Warmage sneak a kobald bard (fellow party member) into a city.  He shrunk him down and put him in the bag of holding.  The problem arose when he took him out and tied the tiny little thing to a  table.

 The player still claims that he didn't do anything but Bill the Kobald remembers differently!


----------



## Dakkareth

While I of course am selfish enough to curse the loss of updates, I'm happy for you to have such an opportunity.


----------



## Destan

*A Sundered Brotherhood*

The handle of their cooking pot had broken when Baden had fallen onto his pack, so Amelyssan utilized two iron pitons and a small length of wire – a makeshift device of which the elf was rather proud – to retrieve the pot from the embers.  Inside, the water was near to boiling.  He stood – slowly – and turned – again, slowly – to walk away from the campfire toward the…the body of their friend.

Amelyssan bent, sat the pot on the ground, and watched momentarily to see if the heat was enough to cause the weeds to catch fire.  It wasn’t.  He collapsed, crossing his legs, and produced a cake of hard soap from his pack.  Behind him, he heard his companions speaking quietly.

Since they had defeated the Cyrics and found Poridel impaled upon the stake, _everything_ the group did seemed hushed, muted, devoid of emotion.  Normally, these traits would appeal to Amelyssan – the _horadrel_ had always thought the world too loud – but now…now he realized, with no small amount of surprise, that he actually _missed_ John’s incessant banter.

He looked away from the campfire, allowed his golden eyes to penetrate the darkness, and studied the profile of the bard.  John sat upon the top of the barrow mound, crossbow in his lap, just as he had sat for the past four hours.  He appeared calm, composed, silent.  But Amelyssan knew better.  The southlander wrestled with demons – those fiends known as Regret and Grief.

Such emotions were foreign to the elf and those of his ilk.  Life was too long to allow past worries to stain the present.  Upon the Gruns, one did what one thought was best.  Lessons could be learned from past mistakes, certainly, but _emotion_ had nothing to do with it.

_Then why,_ Amelyssan wondered, _do I feel such sorrow?_

Perhaps it was because Amelyssan, of all the party members, should have recognized Poridel’s goodness.  The sage had done an amazing thing – Poridel had known how important the destruction of Margate’s Staff was to the world, and he had allowed Amelyssan and his companions to bear that burden.  One who did not understand the deeper essences of trust and confidence might have labeled Poridel’s inaction as cowardice; Amelyssan knew better.

“He will be mourned.  Throughout this Age, and the next.”

Amelyssan blinked, surprised that he had spoken aloud.  Such habits could prove troublesome – if not deadly – for a wizard.  Or…did someone _else_ speak?  But who?  Were those words his own?

The _horadrel_ stood and made his way toward the barrow.  He paused, hands clasped within his robes, and fixed amber irises upon the bard.  “John.”

“What is it?”

“The soap is ready, the water warm.  We must wash the blood from Master Poriden.”

John squinted in the darkness.  “We?”

“Yes.”  Amelyssan reached out a hand.  “Come.  As we cleanse him, so shall we be cleansed.”

“You sound like Kellus.”

“Thank you.”

John reached out, clasped the elf’s hand, and stood.  “I suppose it’s time for someone else to stand watch, anyway.”

“It is.  Raylin has not been able to sleep.  He will take the-”

“No,” John shook his head as they walked toward Poridel’s blanket-covered corpse.  “The night is dark.  Let the dwarf stand watch.”

Amelyssan was silent for a moment, then nodded.  “Of course, John.”

***

Amelyssan watched impassively as the party gathered around the body.  They had bound Poridel within a thick blanket – most of the bloodstains were lost in the dark colors of the wool.  Ropes and twine had been wrapped about the corpse, tightly, sealing in the burgeoning stench.

The party stood within the barrow’s interior.  At first, John had not wanted to condemn the sage to the grave of another.  Raylin had argued, convincingly, that to do otherwise would invite scavenging animals.  They had not the time to dig a proper grave in the frosty Cormick plains.

And so it was that the Brothers of Olgotha stood, quietly, heads bowed, in the dimness of that tomb that had first been fashioned from Sorrow Elves a thousand years and more ago.  Outside, the sky blushed with the coming dawn.

It had been a long, long night.

Amelyssan nodded encouragement at John.  The bard – for the first time in the elf’s memory – appeared nervous.

"I am John of Pell, a minstrel and storyteller.  I apprenticed to Rhynfrydios d’Margive, and later was journeyman with the Purple Troupe d’Lor.”  John cleared his throat, taking comfort from the customary, formal words.  “Come, friends, I ask of you - Will you hear me?"

“We will,” answered the party as one.

John licked his lips in quiet consideration.  If he was surprised at the party’s response, their apparent understanding of the peccadilloes of troubadours, he did not let it show.  With a final, lingering glance toward Amelyssan, he continued.

"Let us honor this man as our wise dwarf has suggested.”  John’s eyes remained fixed upon the sage’s swaddled body.  "Let us make a pact that we will not speak of the humiliation of his demise, but only of his bravery. For brave, indeed, he was.”

The minstrel looked up, then, eyes shining.  He waved an arm toward Raylin, Baden, and Vath.  "Poridel Poriden had not the strength of arms to defend himself."

John then gestured toward Amelyssan and Kellus.  "He sought not to smite his enemies with sorceries.”

"Nor did he have the stealth to evade his pursuers,” John shook his head, his mask of ritual composure showing seams of incomprehension and sadness.  “And yet – _still_ - he came.”

John’s voice went smooth.  “Poridel Poriden left the safety of his tower and traveled some four hundred miles to warn us of our peril, of the world's peril.  And let it be known that – here, before us – lies what was a good man, an honest man.”

John looked up, measuring his companions with a look that missed little and hid less.  “It is unfortunate that it took his death to prove that to us.”

“Friends,” John beseeched quickly, no longer speaking to the corpse but to his fellows, “we have trusted too readily those who would betray us, and been too slow to recognize one who is true. Let us take all he has told us as the truth, and consider his allies our allies."

Amelyssan watched quietly, hoping none would argue the bard’s declaration.  He need not have worried.  

After some time, John raised his fist to his chest.  When next he spoke, his voice was joined with those of his companions, and the Brothers of Olgotha spoke as one.  “Poridel Poriden, may avatars guide you to the abode of your gods, where ale and warmth await you…always and forever."

And, as Amelyssan knelt and kissed the covered head of the dead sage, his mind roiled with questions.  _Whither, now?  We are lost, with none to guide our course.  For if not Poridel, then who?_

The answer, as it were, arrived that very evening, on horseback. 

***

Raylin jogged toward them at an easy pace, a brace of Cormick ground squirrels tied to his belt.  Baden walked forward, grimacing.  “How in the name of the seven clans did you catch them buggers?  Ye didna e’en haf yer bow!”

Raylin’s eyes twinkled as he held a wooden whistle between thumb and forefinger.

Baden was incredulous.  “They come runnin’ when ye blow it?”

The tall clansman laughed, the sound wonderful.  “No, friend dwarf.”  Raylin unbuckled his belt, slipped the brace’s loop from around the leather, and tossed the animals to John.  He then looked back to Baden.  “The silver-tongued ferret hates high-pitched sounds; the call o’ this whistle is very high-pitched.”

Baden placed both hands on his hips.  “Raylin mac Larren, I be near as old as your father.  If ye be making sport of me, then-”

“I had the good fortune to snare a ferret earlier today – without killing her.  I made her my hunting partner.”  Raylin held up a hand to stop any further protest from Baden.  “I took her to the holes of the squirrels John now guts.  Once I dropped her within the den, I’d blow the whistle – from just outside the opening.  The ferret would damn near dig another tunnel just to get away from the sound.”

Raylin paused, lips pursed with thought.  “Even though we can barely hear it, I think the sound from that whistle hurts their ears.”

“I donna care if it hurts their furry balls – that tells me nothing of how you got them squirrels without a bow.”

Raylin smiled.  “Silver-tongued ferrets are terrified of whistles – this is known.  What is also known, of course, is that ground squirrels are terrified of silver-tongued ferrets.  So when my hunting partner would scramble away from my whistle-”

“-them squirrels would be scramblin’ away from her.”

“Correct.”  Raylin showed white teeth.  “Each den has two holes, for the most part.  I’d drop the ferret in one, and the squirrels would come out another.  After I had six o’ them, I let the ferret loose.  She served us well.”

“We have company, friends.”  Amelyssan called from atop the barrow, where he shielded his eyes with one hand from the dying sun.  “A single man.  On horseback.  Wearing golden armor.”

As the party scrambled for their weapons below him, Amelyssan involuntarily sighed.  “By the gods, how _brightly_ he does shine.  A beacon upon this dreary plain.”

Baden spat.  “A fool, more like.”

“Or a champion.”  John did not look up as he flicked a bolt into the groove of his crossbow.  “He does not fear being seen, alone, upon these plains.  So he is either very foolish, or very capable.  Let us hope it is the former.”

Kellus had been quiet with thought.  He now spoke.  “I am thinking he may wear the golden armor of Lathander.  If such is the case, then we may call him friend.”

“Bah!” Baden growled.  “Enough with damned priests, I say – whatever their gods.”

Raylin nodded noncommittally.  “Let us judge the man, not his armor.  Borbidan’s tomb houses several dead Cyrics we once thought Gondians.”  The Larrenmen squinted northward.  “Still…if he does not slow his pace as he nears, he will die on these plains.”

John brushed unruly hair from his eyes.  “How many horses does he lead, Amelyssan?”

“A half-dozen, perhaps.  Strung out behind him like a caravan train.”

“Does he quickly come?”

“At full gallop.”

Amelyssan climbed down from the barrow’s thorny crest.  “Sunset is nigh.  Let us mark this man as friend or foe before darkness.  I have no desire to place wolven on one side and a stranger on the other.”

Kellus looked to the south.  “They will come tonight; the wolven will be here before morning.”

The party had heard the now-familiar howling almost immediately after Poridel had been laid to rest.  The sounds were distant, still, and all came from the south.  But none of them held any illusions – they did not expect a peaceful evening.

Raylin drew his swords.  “He comes - and he does not slow.  Such will mark the end of his days.”

Baden, Raylin, and Vath formed a front rank, shoulder-to-shoulder, perhaps a gap of two paces’ between each of them.  Kellus was just behind, curative magic ready on his lips, mace ready in his hand.  John was still further behind, the dying sun to his back so that he might better aim his crossbow.  Amelyssan stood opposite John, also in the rear, pale features made bronze in the red sunlight.

And, thus, they waited.

***

The rider sunk momentarily beneath a subtle fold of the land.  When he reappeared, the sound of his hooves was remarkably louder.  He rode hard, and well, a rope wrapped about the high-back of his saddle and strung behind him to lead his train of horses.  Even as John placed the butt of his crossbow to his shoulder, the man pulled on his reins.  His horse – a massive Cormick war stallion – reared backward, cutting the air with sharpened hooves.

“Vaclava!”  The man shouted with laughter, calming his mount with a soft murmur.  He eyed the party.  “I am Anar von Girval, and I apologize for his melodrama; he was determined to give you a lasting first impression.”

John could not help himself.  “Of whom do you speak?”

“Oh,” Anar seemed surprised.  “Forgive me.  This is Cormalakos.”  The rider patted his horse on its flank.

A lengthy, odd silence descended.  John did not adjust his aim, nor did Vath cease the rhythmic clenching-and-unclenching of his clawed hands.  The rider’s smile never faded.  “I am son to Hrothgar.”

Still, the party did not move.  

The rider appeared Gordian, certainly.  He possessed the large build common to men from that northern mountain island.  His hair was the color of ripe apples, his beard similar in hue, both luxurious in their thickness and length.  A single braid, bound by gold filigree, extended from the nape Anar’s neck to dangle, finally, near his boots. 

Most amazing - his horse and the trailing horses were covered in mud, but not a speck of the stuff seemed to have landed upon the man’s own armor.  And what armor it was! Full plate mail, shining in its golden brilliance, unadorned and made more wondrous for its simplicity.  The sheen was bright even without much sunlight; doubtless it would be near blinding during a summer’s noon.  A thick red cloak, trimmed with fur, was draped across his shoulders, held by a single broach that glinted with diamonds.  At his hip, the jeweled pommel of a sword showed itself.

Anar continued to smile, face open and eyes inviting.  After a long moment, he twisted, retrieved an apple from one of his saddle bags, and raised the fruit in toast toward the party.  “We have not the time, gentlemen,” he announced, quite merrily, between bites, “for you to spend the evening staring at me.”

Anar fed the remainder of his apple to Cormalakos before addressing the party once more.  “By your leave, I would very much like to approach.”

Kellus slipped his mace into his belt.  “Come then, Priest of Lathander.  We offer no harm to those who do not seek it.”

Anar grinned.  “I am no priest – no more than you are, Kellus of Rhelm.”  Without further delay, the golden-armored knight kicked his heels and his horse bolted closer.  He pulled up a few paces from Vath, eyes sparkling with curiosity.  “The scars on your wrist, your gloomy tabard – these mark you as a follower of the Suffering God.”

Vath dug between his teeth with a well-bitten talon, eyeing Cormalakos with unabashed hunger.  A full eighteen hands at the shoulder, the beast returned the half-troll’s look as one man might to another.  

John stepped forward.  “A Cormick mount among destriers is a king among paupers, and yet your mount would appear even a king among the finest of Cormick stallions.”  The bard laid a hand on Vath’s shoulder.  “Still, I think my friend would like to eat him.”

Anar threw his head back and laughed, the sound reverberating around the gray twilight.  “I shall remember that, indeed I shall, when next Cormalakos relieves himself on the sacred mosaics of the Dawngod.  Do you hear me, you brute?”

Baden did not wait for the horse to answer – such an event may have sundered his grasp of the world.  “You’ve got a beard, northman, and a big one.  But, at the moment, that’s all I like about you.”  The dwarf stepped forward and fixed a bushy eye on Anar.  “You talk as if them horses you lead are for our rumps, and I like it none.”

Anar nods.  “I know you, Baden Dost of Clan Axemarch.  And I knew your chief Droggi Bogensson.”

“_Knew?_”  Baden’s eyes narrowed.  “I last saw Droggi during the Midsummer Festival, and he was healthy as a halfling.”

Anar’s face grew somber.  “Aye, and I’m certain at the Festival it was as you say.  But he is no more.  There are not many of Clan Axemarch left, friend dwarf.  Not many at all.”

_-I am sorry, Baden._

“There never were many of us.”

“No, but there are fewer now.  Blood has been spilled in the Balantir Cor – not all of it dwarven.  The ichor of morhedrel, dwem, elf-spiders – these fluids stain the halls of your fathers as well.  The dwarves sensed the growing evil before most of us surface-dwellers, and many battles have been fought and lost in the deep places of the earth that we have yet to hear of.”

After a look toward Baden, Amelyssan stepped forward.  “You bring dark words to us on a dark day, stranger.  I had not known the men of Gordia were so lacking in manners.”

“Then you do not know the men of Gordia.”  Anar’s smile was kind.  “Would that I had the time to be more courteous, sylvan elf.  I take no pleasure in spreading tales of woe.  But steel your heart if you believe that the worst of it.  For your own lands – the twin islands of Grun Min and Grun Prim – are little more than staging grounds for evils that will soon sweep across the land.”

John, finally, lowered his crossbow.  “Lord Anar, you have not drawn your blade and as such we deem you a friend - the times are sad when a lack of overt hostility is considered a friendly advance.”  The bard paused.  “Nonetheless, we have been from battle to travel, and back again, more times than I care to remember.  If you ride south, go with our blessing, but cease your dour predictions.  Now is not the time nor the place.”

Anar’s horse neighed softly and the golden warrior tilted his head, as if listening to the beast.  He regarded the southlander.  “You are correct, of course, Master John of Pell.  I speak to you as if you were children, and you certainly are not.  You have slain three great evils.  Indeed, you have allowed me to pursue other missions.”  Anar touched his forehead in apology.  “My father claims I talk like a Harren whore and make less sense; I beg your forgiveness.”

“You have it.”  Kellus bristled with impatience.  “Yet we have preparations to make, Son of Lathander.”

“Indeed you do!  We all do!”  Anar judged the time of day with a glance heavenward.  “I hear you have a problem - a wolf problem.”

Vath growled softly.  “How did you hear, yellow man?”

“A friend - Dog Bigby.”  Anar quickly continued by way of explanation.  “Some find him humorous, some find him annoying, but he is a good man.  And he is on our side in this.”

“Our side?”

“Our side.”  Anar is emphatic as he levels a stare at Baden.  “I have come because we are in this together.  Yet, there is one thing I must do before we ride.”

“We ride?”

“Soon enough, we shall.”  Anar grinned at Baden before allowing the humor to leave his face.  The Lathanderite slid from his  horse, throwing the reins over his saddle.  “Each heartbeat brings us closer to our deaths, should we tarry in this place.”

“Then why do you dismount?”

“Because I could not do otherwise and still call myself a good man.”  Anar’s bearded face grew serious.  He looked to Kellus.  “Take me, if you will be so kind, to the body of the Tower Sage Poridel Poriden.  The sun does not shine so brightly now that he has passed.”

Kellus escorted the Gordian through the thorns without preamble.  Both men dropped into the hole, disappearing into the barrow’s interior.  The rest of the party remained outside, sharing looks with Cormalakos.

***

After but a short while, the pair returned.  Anar waved an arm at the party.  “It is time we ride, and hard.  The wolven and dreth will be moving soon.”

“Dreth?”  

“Aye, my dwarven echo.  Dreth - the Horned Hunters - those foul beings that lead the wolven on the hunt.”

Raylin arched at brow toward Anar.  “And have you seen these Horned Hunters before, Gordian?”

“Seen them?  Aye.  I have sent a few back to the hells whence they came.  But it was no easy task, and one I would rather not do on an empty stomach.”  Anar hesitated before looking toward Kellus.  “Your father, good Helmite, would have been able to tell you much about the dreth.”

Kellus shifted uncomfortably.  “My father is dead.”

“I know, I know,” Anar murmured as he gripped his reins and climbed atop Cormalakos.  “And we miss him.  Gods, do we miss him.”

Vath nodded as if reaching the conclusion of an inner debate.  “Go, then.”  The half-troll stepped backward from the train of horses.  “Take my companions and leave quickly.  I will delay these Horned Hunters and the wolven as best I may.”

Anar’s eyes widened.  “You are large, Brother, and doubtless fierce in battle – but facing the dreth and the wolven alone would be the death of a man twice as big, and many times as powerful.”

“Your horses will not bear my scent, nor my touch.”  Vath spoke matter-of-factly.  “I could run with you, for a time, and for a speed.  But not always, and not as quickly as you will want.  So, I say, go.”

Raylin walked forward as he tied a leather bracer about his wrist.  “He will not stand against these Horned Hunters alone; I will remain with him.”  There was no bravado in the ranger’s voice, no emotion upon his face.

“And I.”  Amelyssan ran his hands along the length of his staff.

Anar shook his head, eyes troubled.  “You cannot do this thing.  I regret that Brother Vath cannot ride a horse, but the rest of us must be off.  Now.”  He shared a look with Vath.  “_Mor volora tu_, half-troll.  I honor your valor.”

John appeared pained.  “Lord Anar - lend your sword to our fight.  We have stood against the wolven before, we can do so again.”

“I have not made it a habit of running from battle, Pellman, but this I cannot do.  Your deaths would be a mighty victory for the Darkness, and it must _not_ be allowed to occur.  It is not written that you should die here on these plains.”  Something in Anar’s eyes hinted that his last statement was not delivered with the same conviction as his earlier claims.

“Perhaps it is not written, bearded man, because it shall not happen.”  Baden unstrapped his axe with a quick tug.  “I be ready to take a few heads off the shoulders of these Horned Hunters.  I grow weary of the incessant howling – makes it difficult to sleep, it does.”

Anar, suddenly anxious, looked toward Kellus.  “Sir, I knew your father.  He was a wise man. He did what must be done - even in the face of great odds, or though it went against his wishes.  I implore you to understand the gravity of the situation.  _We must ride!_”  Cormalakos pawed the muddy turf in exclamation.

Kellus frowned as night continued to steal westward across the plains.  “I will ride with you, Lord Anar.”  The priest turned to his companions and, especially, to Vath.  “Do not make a stand here, Brother.  You can run fast, if only for a while.  Leave this area, and perchance the wolven will follow us instead.”

Raylin shook his head.  “Kellus, the lands here will not be friendly to the half-troll, even if he escapes the wolven.  These are Cormick lands, and the Cormick riders hunt all trollfolk.  We cannot abandon him.”

Vath ran his tongue along the tips of his yellowed teeth.  He spoke to all of them and none of them.  “All of you.  Go, now.  Suffering comes, and I shall meet it.  Alone.”

“I am not leaving you.”  Amelyssan’s voice was even.

Vath regarded the elf flatly.  “I will kill any who tries to remain with me.”

Raylin seemed torn with indecision.  “If you will not allow us to come with you, friend Vath, then take my boots.   I will take a pair from a dead Cyric.”

The clansman sat down in the mud, swords forgotten on the ground beside him, and began to pull off his boots.  “They are enchanted, and leave not the slightest tracks.  Perhaps the wolven will not see your trail.”

Raylin did not add that the boots, however magical, did not mask one’s scent; that was understood by all.

John covered his crossbow with oilcloth.  “I will go with Vath.”  He eyed the half-troll with a shrug.  “Kill me if you will, Vath, but I am coming nonetheless.  What will you do if Cormicks find you?  If you reach a city?  Grunt at them?  Tell them ‘Suffering is blessed’?”  John barked with laughter.  “You need me, and so I shall come.”

A mournful howl wafted northward through the dusk.  Anar wheeled his horse.  “Now, friends, or it will mean all our deaths.  Let the Pellman and the half-troll remain, but we must go!”  With that, he began to untie the trailing rope from the train of horses.

Amelyssan walked closer to John, oblivious to the others.  “Let me remain, John.  I am light in weight.  Vath could carry me as another man might carry a sack of bread.  I will not slow him down.”

Vath grumbled, eyes dark and face unreadable.  When he looked up, there was an odd emotion in his eyes – one wholly unfamiliar to those bestial orbs.  “The elf is wise.  I will take him.”

John stepped forward.

“Until next, then.”  Pellman and half-troll clasped forearms.  John looked to say more, but could not.   The bard walked away, even as the howls once more pierced the night sky.

***

Baden clawed his way onto the back of one of Anar’s horses, swearing and sweating by the time he was finished.  Raylin held the reins to the dwarf, looking up at him from where the ranger stood.  “You made that look incredibly difficult.”

“It _was_ incredibly difficult.”  Baden white-knuckled the reins.  “The damned fancy, golden guy – he seems to know all about us.  Didna he know dwarves prefer ponies?”

Raylin smiled and looked over Baden’s mount toward Anar.  The Lathanderite was assisting John with his own bit and bridle.

Baden glanced westward, watched the speck that was Vath and Amelyssan move across the ground.  “Do you think they will survive, Raylin?”

“No.”

Baden nodded, his own thoughts confirmed.  He shared a look with Raylin.  “Do you think _we_ will survive?”

Raylin cocked his head.  “No.”

Baden watched the clansman walk away and – effortlessly – mount his own steed.  “If that be the case, have ye got any drink left on you?”

Raylin smiled.  “No.”

“Well, Larrenman,” Baden sighed, “that’s just a damned shame.”

And, with that, the party – what was left of the party – galloped northward.  Away from Poridel, away from the Sorrow Elf, away from the howling, and away from-

***

-the Dreth.

The Hunter raised a gloved hand, its eyes easily piercing the gloom.  The hunting grounds stretched before it, seemingly without end, rising and falling like the Red Silt-Seas of Carceri.  Its party stopped without a sound.  The wolven fell to their haunches, obedient and fearful, drool turning to ice and tinkling against the hardened ground.

The Hunter swiveled its gaze northwestward, away from the golden man that shone like a torch.  There – far, but not _too_ far – ran two of its quarry.  One carried the other.

It yearned for the Time that had been before, long and longer ago, when it could Hunt during the daylight hours.  Soon it would be thus, again.

But not yet.

The Hunter gestured casually toward the distant form, where it ran desperately westward, hunched under the weight of his carried companion.

The wolven threw back their shaggy heads and howled – the tone no longer one of seeking, but of triumph.

For the first time in a thousand seasons, the Hunter was pleased.  It looked to its fellow.  “Vi tum rey’us.”  _I go for that prey._  “Vu tuma o’rey’us.”  _You go for the other._

And so they did.  

Two bands of wolven, each relentlessly pushed by their dreth masters, shot forward through the night.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Oh, man. Never - *never* - split the party.

*shakes head sadly*


----------



## neg

Destan said:
			
		

> *A Sundered Brotherhood*
> 
> 
> John looked up, measuring his companions with a look that missed little and hid less.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> His hair was the color of ripe apples, his beard similar in hue...






Brilliantly descriptive...Bravo!

-neg


----------



## pogre

Excellent as always.

I am most pleased to hear of your impending publication. If you need any free legal advice - you know where to find me.


----------



## grodog

Destan said:
			
		

> Let's start with the latter.  I had started a little play-by-post experiment.  It was, alas, short-lived.  This is because I recently received a contract offer to develop Ostia Prim into a d20 supplement.  My writing time, as it is, will now be largely devoted to that endeavor.




Congrats Destan!  You definitely deserve this 



> 1) I'd rather not get into the details of the proposed contract.  I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do so, and nothing's been finalized as of this posting.




I'm sure there will be fanfare in some official press release or some sort once you're signed, sealed, and delivered   Don't forget to point us to the link once it's official.



> 2) After some soul-searching, I've decided that I'd very much like to continue this story hour.  Updates may be infrequent (or they may not).  I'm just not sure how things will progress.




That sounds great.  I know we've all enjoyed your work here.  I hope the writing and the d20 deal won't impact your home game, and that you'll still be able to keep things going in here too.  I'd hate for your d20 deal to mean that one of the two SHs I read went away 

Now, time to read the new update!


----------



## Lela

Trepidation, awe, and excitment.  Yep, I'm hooked.

 Not that that's new or anything. 

 I feel so much closer to Amelyssan now, it's amazing.  He's no longer party support and background elf.  Instead he comes forward with feelings and goals.  There's even a bit of cockyness about him.  Assuming he doesn't die, I think he could compete to be favorite character.  Now I just have to stop thinking of him as a she (that got stuck in my head for some reason, dangit).

 Congrats again!  I will certainly be waiting whenever you get a chance to update.  With baited breath, in fact.


----------



## Nifft

Yay! It's better than cartoons! It's Saturday Morning Sins!

Thanks, Destan, and congrats on the publishing deal.

 -- N


----------



## xenoflare

*(epithets of praise choked out by amazement)*

wow.

damn.

i'm getting multilingual with my praise now - i'm so impressed that i have to find other ways of conveying "wow" and "damn". Cerita jam anda bagus sekali! Ni de gu shi zhen bang!

i just discovered this story hour this morning, and i spent 2 hrs devouring it. chomp chomp. your story is most excellent - and there were some bits i was sniffling (ok, i'm just a big softie for heroics) - poor, poor Poridel. Brave, poignant Vath.

i came on after reading bout it in Sep's story hour, where somebody mentioned that when he wanted his head to hurt, he'll read Sep's, and if he wanted his heart to hurt, he'll read yours.

my heart's hurting now - for a -UPDATE!- keep up the good work! 

yours,
shao


----------



## Destan

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Oh, man. Never - *never* - split the party.




Prophetic words.  Tragedy looms.



			
				pogre said:
			
		

> I am most pleased to hear of your impending publication. If you need any free legal advice - you know where to find me.




I've always wanted an ogre that doubles as a lawyer.  If you can't win the case, eat the opposition.  Thanks, pogie.



			
				grodog said:
			
		

> I'd hate for your d20 deal to mean that one of the two SHs I read went away.




This SH won't go away - it's like a virus inside of me now.  That said, before the publication deal arrived I made a point to hop around on some less heralded story hours.  There's some very good stuff out there.  If you want additional reasons to hide from work, I could dole out some recommendations. 



			
				Lela said:
			
		

> I feel so much closer to Amelyssan now...




I could hug you, Lela.  Amel's player was starting to send me death threats.  Hopefully your change of heart is shared by others.  In the actual campaign, Amel was one of the most important and powerful characters.  The fact that he may not appear that way in this SH is totally my fault, no his player's.

In the campaign, for example, John was pretty much worthless. Kidding...just kidding.



			
				Nifft said:
			
		

> Yay! It's better than cartoons! It's Saturday Morning Sins!




Am I the only thirtysomething loser who wishes they'd re-air those old 80's Dungeons & Dragons cartoons?



			
				xenoflare said:
			
		

> Cerita jam anda bagus sekali! Ni de gu shi zhen bang!




Reminds me of a Far Side comic I loved.  If I recall it correctly, the picture shows the Lone Ranger bent over a book of Indian-to-English terms.  He's surprised when he finds out that 'Kemosabe' translates to 'Horses's Ass.'



> ...and i spent 2 hrs devouring [the story].




Gods and devils!  All of this work, all of these posts, all of this writing - and you chewed through it in _two hours_!  I was at least hoping new readers could take a couple days to plow through the stuff.  Either you're a fast reader, or I haven't written as much as I thought I had.  Bah!  In all seriousness, glad to have you on board.  Sep's is a loyal bunch, and I love to share his readers with him.

As always, folks, thanks for reading.

D


----------



## Lela

> Prophetic words.  Tragedy looms.



 AH!  You monkey head!  _You mean, mean, *meany*!_ _Grrrrrrrrr._


----------



## Seravin

Destan said:
			
		

> Prophetic words.  Tragedy looms.



Ditto Lela.  Meanie.  



> Am I the only thirtysomething loser who wishes they'd re-air those old 80's Dungeons & Dragons cartoons?



Nope.  But I wouldn't have said it first.    



> Gods and devils!  All of this work, all of these posts, all of this writing - and you chewed through it in _two hours_!  I was at least hoping new readers could take a couple days to plow through the stuff.  Either you're a fast reader, or I haven't written as much as I thought I had.  Bah!  In all seriousness, glad to have you on board.  Sep's is a loyal bunch, and I love to share his readers with him.



Creation is always harder than destruction - or at least de-construction.  
Besides if you add up all the time that all the people spend reading, then you'll quickly get your couple days back.



> As always, folks, thanks for reading.



Heck, thank You.  It's been a fun ride so far.


----------



## xenoflare

Destan said:
			
		

> Reminds me of a Far Side comic I loved.  If I recall it correctly, the picture shows the Lone Ranger bent over a book of Indian-to-English terms.  He's surprised when he finds out that 'Kemosabe' translates to 'Horses's Ass.'
> 
> 
> 
> Gods and devils!  All of this work, all of these posts, all of this writing - and you chewed through it in _two hours_!  I was at least hoping new readers could take a couple days to plow through the stuff.  Either you're a fast reader, or I haven't written as much as I thought I had.  Bah!  In all seriousness, glad to have you on board.  Sep's is a loyal bunch, and I love to share his readers with him.
> 
> As always, folks, thanks for reading.
> 
> D




  haha actually what i said pretty much amounts to the same thing in 2 different languages - "cerita jam anda" roughly translates to " your story hour" in Malay and Indonesian, and "bagus sekali" means "exceedingly excellent". the other line was Mandarin Chinese - i was saying that your story is really great haha... and i'm currently in exam-studying note-reading frenzy mode, so i plough through text really really quickly. it's not that i didn't take the time to properly digest what you've written - it's got more to do with the fact that your writing goes down very, very, easily, and leaves me clamouring for more. heck, i'm supposed to be studying for my philosophy paper tomorrow, and look at me now - clamouring for an UPDATE! 

yours, shao


----------



## Karrisbane

Destan said:
			
		

> In the actual campaign, Amel was one of the most important and powerful characters.




Nice slip-up, Ryan.  Poor choice of tense.    

Fitz
a.k.a. Amelyssan


----------



## Lela

Hay, Karris, I didn't realize it until you said it.  If you edit the post quickly there probably won't be a problem.


----------



## xenoflare

*erm*

-clears throat in attempt to be diplomatic and rolls his d20-

mayhap Destan was referring to our doughty and valiant elf friend Amelyssan's role  just then, in those moments of the past as written and recorded in the story thus far?

don't make this foreshadowing so ominous, oy!

yours,
shao


----------



## WizarDru

More simply astounding stuff, Destan.  I mean, really, what a great update.  Such wonderful presentations of things like an entangle spell, a ranger's use of the Wilderness Lore (now Survival) skill and a Paladin's mount are what truly make this a joy to read.

 I've said it before, and I'll say it again:  your writing is a constant reminder to me of everything that made me fall in love with D&D in the first place.

_Only criticism from this most recent entry:  _The -I'm Sorry, Baden. statement is difficult to decipher in context.  Is this meant to be the child in Baden's mind, speaking?  It's not clear, and potentially interupts the flow while the reader needs to decode it.  If it's someone else speaking, it needs to be called out...if it is the child-voice, it should be made more clear.  Perhaps a quick mental reply by Baden to make it clear?  If it is the girl, it should be more significant or not present, as it potentially brings the reader out of the situation...and if it is the girl, her noted silence elsewhere becomes a question, as well.  Just food for thought.

 As for the high-level stuff, I definitely feel your pain.  Like you, I didn't originally know if our game would go more than a few sessions.  We started with Sunless Citadel, since that seemed to be the place to start, having been away from D&D for so long (we skipped 2e).  I struggled long and hard with how to deal with the higher-levels, and the differing power-levels that it presents.  Piratecat certainly gave some guidance, there, as did the patience of my players.  11th level was a turning point, I think.  Now we're in the Epic levels, and the process has repeated.  It's hard to believe that that simple band who set out to retrieve a magical fruit from some goblins is the same group who is now trying to defeat the Githyanki queen in her own palace on the Astral.  I look forward to seeing how the Brothers of Olgotha develop, as well.

 As for your story concerns, I think you've gotten plenty of advice, and should stay the course.  Sometimes it's very difficult to emphasize all of the characters throughout a story hour, and you'll sometimes need to decide whether or not to emphasize one aspect (the story) over another (the record).  Zad struggles with this constantly, as even as big as our story hour is, there is still plenty of content that isn't captured there, such as anything to do with the mage guild, lucid dreaming or shadowdancers.

 And don't worry about the Story Hour having to take a back-seat to the supplement work: your readers will still be here.  Sep and PC's readers have gone months without updates, on occasion.  Your readers have just been spoiled, that's all.


----------



## JDragon

Well new reader here, just wanted to drop in say hi and throw in my 2 cents on a few of the old disscusions.

I have just chewed thru the entire thread over the last 3 days at work due to the slow down with the looming holiday.

First - I actually look for SH's that are beyond 4 or 5 pages.  To me this means its mor than just a passing fancy thats not going to make it past update 3. Plus it also means I'm going to have multiple sittings of reading before I'm caught up.

Second - Don't change how your righting for anyone but you. (end of story on that one)

Well, I'm going to subscribe now so I can continue to watch this develope and look forward to the next post, and the chance to check out your game world in print at some point.


----------



## grodog

> Only criticism from this most recent entry: The -I'm Sorry, Baden. statement is difficult to decipher in context. Is this meant to be the child in Baden's mind, speaking?




I definitely thought that this was the child speaking, FWIW, WizarDru.


----------



## Branok

Alas, I was due for a de-lurking right about now.

Following Pillars of Hercules's example I must say:
Damn. Wow. Caramba. Note that this last word will become the new trend for new updates, just wait and see, it's all part of a huge secret plot to control the congratulatory part of replies and Bumps. 

Dammit Destan, now I'm going to have hack D20's files to get the first hands-on of your supplement, or else I'll have to break into their vault to get it.  

Congratulations are in order, since it is well earned and fitting. I was wondering when those lazy bums would show their faces and start reading your SH to hire you, although at the same time I hate them for doing so. As Lela once said in an earlier post, I find myself facing a paradox of some sort.

I must say that, as one of your younger readers (so far as any have identified themselves), I sometimes find myself overwhelmed by the fact that most people here on EN World are in the mid-twenty to mid-thirty year-old range, but those times are rare and far between, and in the mean time, I like to ponder the moral dilemmas that PC's must face in your SH, because even if I'm younger, it doesn't mean that I can't understand what the Pc's are going through, like when they have to commit a lesser evil to defeat a greater evil,and be haunted by those actions afterwards,like what happened when the PC's had to kill the convicts to summon Ippizicus (is that spelled right?) and destroy him. I find it very refreshing indeed.

And now, as you all have probably figured out, underneath all this flowery praise lies a hardly disguised *BUMP!!!!*  .

Keep up the good work Destan.

Branok


P.S.: Another tidbit of proof of my age: I never even knew there were any D&D cartoons in the 80's.


----------



## Lela

> P.S.: Another tidbit of proof of my age: I never even knew there were any D&D cartoons in the 80's.



 Well, I'm not much older than you but I think they replayed them for few months. At least in Utah. They were fun. I especially liked the short Dungeon Master guy.

 Edit: It was a few year's ago.  Hmmm, maybe around when 3E game out.  Let me check with someone. . .Nope, she doesn't remember either.  Sorry.


----------



## Maladrac

Lela said:
			
		

> I especially liked the short Dungeon Master guy.





Oddly enough, he looks exactly like _my_ favorite Dungeon Master, Destan.

And just to let you all know; don't expect an update anytime soon.  Destan will be hunting for the next two weeks somewhere in the vast, uncharted wilderness of central Pennsylvania.  What can I say?  The guy just likes to kill things.  I guess that's why people become DMs in the first place, right?


John of Pell


----------



## grodog

Maladrac said:
			
		

> And just to let you all know; don't expect an update anytime soon.  Destan will be hunting for the next two weeks somewhere in the vast, uncharted wilderness of central Pennsylvania.  What can I say?  The guy just likes to kill things.  I guess that's why people become DMs in the first place, right?




Thanks for the update, Maladrac, I hadn't realized that Destan was going to be out-of-town for so long (alas, poor us  ).


----------



## Lela

> Oddly enough, he looks exactly like _my_ favorite Dungeon Master, Destan.



 Ouch, harsh. 







> And just to let you all know; don't expect an update anytime soon. Destan will be hunting for the next two weeks somewhere in the vast, uncharted wilderness of central Pennsylvania.



 Dangit!



> What can I say? The guy just likes to kill things. I guess that's why people become DMs in the first place, right?



 That's why I did!  Of course, the illegality of  killing the things I want dead is a deterent.  Luckily, I found D&D to help me out.


----------



## WizarDru

Maladrac said:
			
		

> Destan will be hunting for the next two weeks somewhere in the vast, uncharted wilderness of central Pennsylvania. What can I say? The guy just likes to kill things. I guess that's why people become DMs in the first place, right?



 Buck? Doe? Wild Turkey?  Rifle? Black-powder? Bow?

 Inquiring minds want to know.


----------



## Len

WizarDru said:
			
		

> Buck? Doe? Wild Turkey?



Orc?


----------



## Lela

I'm betting he's hunting Owl Bear's with _Flame Strike_. Sure, it's overkill. But when you really get down to it, hunting for pleasure isn't really meant to be too dangerious.

Unless you're hunting your players of course.

[Edit: Uh, make that PCs. Yeah, I meant hunting characters.]

Dangit, hope my players don't read this.  Can't have them too skittish.


----------



## Destan

WizarDru said:
			
		

> [Does he hunt] Buck? Doe? Wild Turkey?  Rifle? Black-powder? Bow?






			
				Len said:
			
		

> Orc?




Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. No. 

During the appropriate seasons, of course.  Archery and fly-fishing are my favorites. Let's just say it's a good thing that my family doesn't depend on my hunting or fishing skills to eat.

All that being said - I'm certain there's lots of folks who don't agree with the concept of attempting to kill Bambi, so it may be best (read: least controversial) if we move onto something else.

So...



			
				WizarDru said:
			
		

> The _-I'm Sorry, Baden._ statement is difficult to decipher in context.




Grodog's correct - it was Baden's 'inner child' Ilvar speaking.  I try to use that little hyphen to distinguish when it's his possessing spirt as opposed to his own mental voice.  I agree it's a bit confusing - I'll try additional methods to make it clear to the reader just who it is that's talking.



			
				Branok said:
			
		

> I sometimes find myself overwhelmed by the fact that most people here on EN World are in the mid-twenty to mid-thirty year-old range...




No reason, certainly, to be overwhelmed.  The first time I ever saw my name in print was from a letter I wrote to Dragon magazine inquiring about "age requirements" to attend GenCon (issue #100 I think, still remember the front cover, never did attract girlfriends like I had hoped it would).  Kim Mohan, the former editor, had a response that's as valid now as it was then:  Age has nothing to do with gaming.  Of course he said it better, but I think you get the picture.  

Plus, I bet most EN Worlders are even older than you think. 

Alrighty, then.  I'm off to remove my dentures and hit the sack.

Nite,
D


----------



## Seule

Now I have to go dig up issue 100 and see what was said.  Inquiring minds want to know.  
I think I have 2 copies of that one stashed away.

  --Seule


----------



## Lela

Seule said:
			
		

> Now I have to go dig up issue 100 and see what was said.  Inquiring minds want to know.
> I think I have 2 copies of that one stashed away.
> 
> --Seule



 Hay, if you can, please post what it says.  I'm interested.


----------



## Destan

Seule said:
			
		

> Now I have to go dig up issue 100 and see what was said.  Inquiring minds want to know.    I think I have 2 copies of that one stashed away.




Seule - The cover was a blue-black background with a dragon on the front breathing fire.  It was some sort of anniversary issue.  Starting to wonder whether the editor was Mohan or Moore at that time...hmmm...


----------



## Avarice

It's in issue 122, actually (man, I love having these things on CD).  At the risk of being shot for copyright infringment I'll go ahead and post it here; I'm sure the mods will let me know if this needs editing...   




> Dear Dragon:
> I would like to know more about game conventions.
> I am 13 years old and have been
> playing DUNGEONS & DRAGONS® games for
> the past three years. I am a Dungeon Master but
> would like to visit a convention as a player and
> participate.
> 
> I was wondering: What is the average age of a
> convention player, and what is the youngest
> player who would be allowed in? I have several
> friends who would also like to know. I have
> heard that some (all?) conventions have a minimum
> age for each player. Does this age differ if
> you wish to have your own scenario?




And the reply:



> Frankly, the GEN CON® Game Fair staff and I
> were surprised to her that any game convention
> would limit its participants by age. If you
> are concerned about this, call or write to the
> staff of the game convention that you and your
> friends wish to attend, and ask about age limits.
> I think that most conventions are pleased to
> have anyone of any age attend them. The gaming
> world would be a poorer place without a
> little something from everyone. We have no
> information on the average age of conventiongoers;
> the range is quite broad. — RM


----------



## Tellerve

Ooh, nice post Destan.  Great imagery, and restraint by their players not to smack the pompous golden boy.

Oh, and for what it is worth, I didn't have any problem with the ghost child speaking from Baden.  The hyphen you've been using was enough for me, although didn't you also make it italized or am I remembering incorrectly?

And finally, wow, Congrats on the d20 contract.  I know a certain current player/dm of yours that would love to have a similar thing happen to him.

Tellerve


----------



## Destan

*And Now the Splintering*

Baden never heard them call his name-

_-You heard.*_

-or perhaps he _did_ hear, but chose to ignore them.

The Axemarch dwarf stood for a long moment upon the bluff, heedless and alone.  The Weedsea’s winds pulled his beard into a snapping pennant, brown-black strands the only movement evidenced by the dwarf’s silhouette.  Baden stood as quietly and as still as the stone figures flanking the _Be’thunn Bruh_ in his homeland.

“Look at them statues, Baden son of Banidon.”  Baden remembered Bellows’ raspy voice, recalled how his father-father’s friend had waddled forward and rapped hairy knuckles upon the stony likeness of a long-dead king.

“There be two things to learn from ‘em, young Baden.”  Bellows had held up a bent finger, broken long ago betwixt hammer and anvil.  “First - a man’s work shows his mood.  Fine statues they are, but gloomy.  They show only our people’s sadness, not our strength.  See the grim lines in their face?  The creases in their brow?”

And years upon years ago, a near-beardless Baden had nodded.  The _Be’thunn Bruh_ was a magnificently wide corridor – it marched atop the Dunden Crust from the sweeping entry stairs to the massive silver and iron doors at the end.  To either side, every ten paces, rested a statue immortalizing a fallen dwarven hero.  In all, it took one nearly ten minutes to traverse its length.

Emissaries from other peoples were nearly always escorted down the memorial hallway.  In good dwarven fashion, the pace was slow and methodical.  ‘Twas better that way, the Axemarch dwarfkings had always said – better to allow Valudians and Rhelmsmen, Larrenmen and Cormicks, to see the power and grandeur of Axemarch.  Let the Men realize Axemarch had been strong when their peoples were yet goatherds, let the Men know Axemarch would still be strong when their white towers had crumbled to dust.

Baden, even as a dwarfchild, had thought the hallway proved but one thing: Dwarves die in battle – often and always.

While being escorted to the throne room, the emissaries’ faces would be soft with awe as they looked into the carved eyes and ran fingers upon the bronze plaques.  Many of the dwarven runes had long ago been erased by the hands of time.  Even the noblest of all ambassadors would pause at a few of the more noteworthy statues.  Some would dip their heads, others would lay some expensive trinket at their base, still more would step forward to quietly kneel.  It was all very moving, Baden recalled, and very fake.

For soon these representatives of the various Man-Kingdoms would gain an audience with the dwarfking, and shortly thereafter realize how far Axemarch had fallen, how few were her warriors.

Then, Baden remembered, their once-soft faces would grow hard, and previously courteous ambassadors would depart Axemarch by the same method with different manners.  Awe became derision, respect became disdain.

Oh, a few would smile at Baden as they passed under the unseeing eyes of the dead dwarven heroes, but even their faces showed only sadness and regret.  Baden had hated these men most of all; dwarves could take scorn, but never pity.

The other emissaries made no pretense to hide their condescension.  They would pull their robes about them and sniff as they strode down the _Be’thunn Bruh_, this time with nary a glance for the sculpted dwarven heroes to either side.  

_Hells,_ Baden swore, allowing the painful memories to subside.  He opened his eyes and the vision of the _Be’thunn Bruh_ changed to that of a wind-tossed Weedsea.  _Never was any emissaries them last few years, anyway._

“I said – there be _two_ things to learn from them statues.” Bellows’ voice came floating across the years, startling Baden as he walked downward from the bluff. “The first you know.  The second shows how we…”

***

Bellows’ voice faded away within Baden’s head.  Try as he might, the Axemarch dwarf could no longer fish the words from within his own pool of memories.  _Dammit – what did that old anvil-beater say?  I canna remember._

_-You remember._

Baden stopped suddenly at the base of the bluff.  Raylin advanced toward him from the campfire; Baden waved him away.  “Speak Ilvar, you pesky little ‘un.”  Baden knuckled his forehead in consternation.  “If you can see the answer in my raisin-brain, then tell it now.”

_-You remember, but you are not ready to recall._

“Oh,” Baden sighed before frowning.  “Ilvar, I feel a bit bad ol’ Ippi gobbled you up when he did – you in the prime of childhood and all that.  But,” Baden cracked his knuckles, “sometimes I think you warrant a good beating or two.”

_-I know._

Baden cocked his head to one side, exasperated.  “If you know so damned much about what I be thinking, then tell me what Bellows had said!”

A bowshot away, Raylin and Kellus looked away from Anar and stared at Baden, confusion and concern in their eyes.

_-I will not, Baden._

Baden’s eyebrows marched across his forehead to meet above his prominent nose, the countenance of a truly puzzled man.  _Why not, Ilvar?_

_-Because you saved my soul, because you are good and kind and gentle.  But, most of all, because you have suffered enough._

***

_The paladin does not fear them.  Is such courage born from faith or foolishness?_

Kellus wiped the spikes of his mace with an oilcloth.  “Sir Anar, the howling does not trouble you?”

Anar cocked his head as if he had not heard the howling – a ridiculous pose since the sounds tortured the night air.  “Of course not, Brother.”  Anar sucked juice from his fingers, smiling as always, and considered the half-eaten apple in his hand.

The man was _always_ eating apples, and always tossing the uneaten halves toward the hooves of Cormalakos.  Kellus was not one to prompt others, especially if he knew they awaited his prompting, but he made an exception.  This time.  “Why, then, are you not troubled?”

“Do you know your history, Brother?”

“I know the Catechism of Helm.  I know how the gods warred, and how the Drimm once walked the earth.  I know of suffering in the past ages, and of blackness in the Rorn.”  Kellus surprised himself at his own loquacity.  Yet he felt compelled to prove to Anar that Kellus Varn II was more than a novitiate who had lost his faith, more than an errant altar boy who quit believing when believing mattered most.  This desire, this need to display his inner mettle, was at once refreshing and shameful. He finished, “I know of the Ages from the Godswar until Demos fell under Apia’s bootheel, and I know how the Pantheon rippled during such times.  Even as it ripples now.”

Anar nodded, eyes light and friendly. The paladin studied Kellus for a moment which grew awkward from its length.  Finally, the red-bearded Gordian turned his beaming expression toward John.  “And what of you, Pellman?”

John looked up from tuning his lyre.  He shrugged.  “History?  I know most of the good stuff.”  The bard hefted his instrument, his own faint smile complementing Anar’s grin.  “Which is to say – ‘All of that which Kellus does not.’”

Anar laughed and Cormalakos stamped his hooves as if in mirthful agreement.  Kellus scowled.  “I asked you a question, Sir.”

Anar shot a glance toward his warhorse in feigned admonishment.  His laughter soon subsided.  “Ah, yes, so you did.  And I asked you a question in turn – a response that was neither courteous nor informative.”

Anar stood and paced about the campfire.  “These trees once sheltered the host of the Elfking Gryfane.  He was a distant ancestor, you might recall, of Belaraphon – the Sorrow Elf of whom you are all intimately familiar.”

“Ul’Daegol,” Baden murmured.

“Ah,” Anar nodded sagely, “I had forgotten.  But, yes, you are correct.”

Raylin stopped dry-shaving his cheeks for a moment, dagger held lightly in one hand.  “The dwarf is correct about what?”

“Gryfane’s soldiers slew the beast known to some as Ul’Daegol – the Doom Lizard.”

Baden squinted as the wind changed and pushed the fire’s smoke into his eyes.  “Aramin hosted us-”

“-within the beast’s ribs.  He had hides stretched from bone to bone.”  The bard shared a looked with Baden.  “Gods, that seems forever ago.”

Raylin expertly flicked his wrist and a final patch of coarse facial hair fell into his lap.  “Two moons, it was, since we saw the Witchpriest die on Olgotha Mound.”

“Two moons?”  John chewed his lip.  “That was during the second tenday of Eleint – what is tomorrow?”

“The last day of Marpenoth.”  Anar picked a crackling leaf from the ground and crumbled it between his fingers.  “Then winter comes in earnest.  ‘Twill be a long one, for certes.”

Kellus set aside his mace.  “Sir Anar, if you believe us safe-”

“By the Dawngod, forgive me!”  Anar pressed fingertip to thumb to make the symbol of Lathander’s sun.  “I rambled onward without answering.  Again.”

The paladin shared a guilty look with Cormalakos before continuing his pacing and his tale.  “Gryfane led his entire host here, amongst these few glades on the northern Weedsea, when they were being pursued by Gorgashal Talon-hand.  For two tendays his elves rested and regained their strength, though the Talon-hand's abominations sniffed and scoured the plains in all directions.  Those infernal beasts searched, night and day, seeking to find and slay Gryfance and his weakened followers.”

“But they never found them.”

“No,” Anar looked to John, nodding.  “They did not.  For some reason, Gryfane’s entire host remained undetected.  Many claim it was a miracle, for how else can it be explained?”

“How else indeed.”  Kellus’ voice was even.

Anar shrugged, looking once more to Kellus.  “Since that time and before such, no evil has set foot within these glades.  And Gorgashal was a sight meaner than these wolven, I believe.”

***

The night lengthened.

John watched with the eyes of an artist as the moon disappeared behind a mantle of gray clouds.  The illumination, what little there now was, came only from the embers of their fire.  The southlander looked about; the faces of his companions – once heavenly in the pale moonlight – now appeared demonic, their countenances stark in black and amber hues.

John shook his head – he was not willing to entertain such thoughts, not tonight.

None of his companions had been ready for sleep, and the past few hours had consisted mainly of silence.  _Good hours, and a good silence - the type of silence only good friends around a near-dead fire can share._  The bard crossed both arms behind his head, leaned back, and let his eyes follow the black boughs above.  This glade - whether or not Anar’s story was true – imparted a sense of peace.  

John began to hum.  Softly, at first.  It was an old performer’s trick – an easy way to make an audience cease their own discussions and edge forward to listen.  It was a good trick, yes, but not needed.  Not now.  John increased the volume, gradually, tender as a new father holding an infant dripping wetness and wonder from the miracle of birth.

_I could give them courage,_ John thought, once he knew he had them.  _I could regale them with tales of heroism, of valiant battles and worthy causes.  I could give them strength, and determination, and make them see what we do means much and more in this too-blighted land.  I could give them hope – a beacon, a torch, a blinding brand marking an as-yet-unseen goal._

John smiled in the near-darkness.  _I could give them that, and more.  But instead, this night, let me give them beauty._

The bard crafted a cathedral of song, the harmony his flying buttresses, the words his hallowed stones.  He sang of southern Valusia, of lands foreign to his companions, so close to his own heart.  He showed them the depth of their Isle, their home.  He sang of dawns spent sailing upon the Castamere Bay, he sang of sunsets enjoyed from the lofty parapets of Mon Mith.

He sang of a colorful procession featuring the singular beauty of the Luc Valusian Queen and her Reynholt Court, of a dappled meadow untouched by boot or sandal in the midst of the Vanarian Woods, of Cymerian privateers with their wide-brimmed hats and gravity-defying leaps amongst the rigging.

He sang of wayward days and summer evenings, of woodland strolls and banks of fireflies.

In short, he sang of everything, and he sang of nothing.  

And when he finished, he received a performer's greatest accolade - silence.

***

John set aside his lute, surprised - and yet not - he had not strummed a single chord.  He looked from his friends to Anar.  "Where do you take us?"

The paladin took a moment to gather himself.  He stood and walked to his warhorse, gently stroking the beast’s snout.  "To Lonely Hearth.  A small hamlet this side of the Thricebridge.  We will spend a night of warmth and safety, then push onward to Val Hor, the White City.  There is a man there, Destan the Grim, Fifth Archmage of Val Hor, who will know what to do with you."

Baden spat.  “I do not enjoy being a pawn."

John smiled inwardly – he recognized the dwarf’s curtness as the mark of a listener who’s unhappy a song had ended.

Anar smoothed his moustache with thumb and forefinger.  "I know, friend dwarf, I know.  But a man is forced to do what is right, whether he wish it or not.  Destan will tell us what is right."

"Nor do I enjoy having someone else tell me what is right.”

Anar’s characteristic grin was back.  "You do not enjoy much, do you, Baden Dost of Clan Axemarch?"

Baden sat up.  "I enjoy good mead and good companions and people that speak what they mean and mean what they speak."

“Well struck, son of Axemarch.”  Anar patted his horse and rejoined them once more.  “Let me, then, speak what I mean."

The paladin gathered a handful of sticks and threw them upon the fire.  All watched quietly as the sparks climbed to join the stars.  "I will not bore you with the details of the world, 'lest you ask for them.  I know we yearn for a sleep now made pleasant from John’s singing.”

Anar sighed wistfully.  “Nonetheless, sweeping tides of change flow across of Ostia Prim.  Not all of them good."

“I feel as if I have lived within a crypt or a barrow for the past four tendays."  John smiled softly.  “Speak of the outside world, we beg of you.”

"Very well,” Anar agreed, voice mater-of-fact.  “The Patriarch of Genn gathers a huge host of spellswords, slingers, and blood mages - for what purpose no one but the Patriarch seems to know.

“Apia has sent her legions forth in a massive armada to strike Mon Mith.  We believe the Imperials seek to reclaim that mighty castle.  Moreover, some say the siege is but the beginning of an invasion, a war designed to destroy the Luc Valusian Queen’s army and subjugate her kingdom.  Still others believe the Merchant-Prince of Pell, long fearful Luc Valu might soon annex that Free City, may ally with the Apian invaders-"

Kellus interrupted, eyes dark and incredulous, "Do you now claim the entire southlands of Valusia is on the brink of war?”

"More than just the southlands.”  Anar’s face was soft though his words were not.  “War beckons north of the Jaspar as well.  The Cormick clansmen have been meeting with emissaries of Val Hor; they speak of an alliance against the Kingdom of Rhelm.  And if the Cormick warriors wish to join Val Hor, then their rivals the Calahen clansmen will certainly join Rhelm.  Border skirmishes, uncommon in their savagery and frequency, have already occurred."

"And my clan?"  Raylin asked quietly.  “What of the Larren?”

"Your chief holds his counsel to himself, friend.  The Larrenmen have not entered the fray, nor have they chosen sides.  As you know, they nurse their bitterness at losing battles with King Aegor’s _hullendurven_ over certain mining rights.”  Anar stroked his beard and regarded Raylin frankly.  “Honestly, I do not think your chief has pulled his head from his ass long enough to see that the world is going to hell around him.  No disrespect intended."

Raylin shrugged.  "None taken.  We have always been hunters, not miners.  Molarr wishing it otherwise changes nothing."

Anar began to undo some of the braids in his hair.  "Ah, what else?  The Aradeeti nomads - fierce and independent warriors - flee from their deserts and speak of a return of the Raki horselords.  If you know your history,” Anar smiled at Kellus and John, “you'd know that the Raki once filled this very plain with their banners.  They nearly destroyed the then-proud Empire of Valudia.”

The paladin set gold hairbands on the ground beside him.  “And, as always, rumors persist that the Basilican States may rise in revolt to throw off the Imperial yoke.  They have always dreamed of being free from Apia."

Kellus toed a wayward stick back into the licking flames.  "And what of the Rorn?  What do you hear of the Rorn?"

"The Rorn stirs.  The Witchking has gathered his hordes, it is said, and may soon march under black banners not seen since the first Witchking made the land bleed."

"The Witchking?"  Baden frowned.  "Poridel spoke of the one called Loroth."

"Loroth?”  Anar smiled grimly.  “No, friend, not him.  Had he returned we would be slaves and the world dead.  Ever since Loroth was buried in the collapse of the Dezimond, various Rornmen claimed the title of Witchking; there are always a handful of such pretenders, mean-spirited tribesmen bent only on destruction and slaughter.  Yet now,” Anar continued, eyes thoughtful, “it appears one of them has managed to murder the competition.  It is this one who now claims to be the Witchking of all the Rorn." 

_I should never have stopped singing._  John rubbed his temple.  "Genn mobilizes an army, as does the Rorn.  Rhelm and Valudia may fight once more.  Pell, my city, may ally itself with the Imperial Apians.  The clans feud, Basilica threatens revolt.  Is anyone not at peace?"

Anar smiled.  "My homeland of Gordia remains silent, though not a day passes wherein one tribe does not kill members of another.  Such incessant raids and cattle-stealing expeditions might be likened to a Gordian peace."

Kellus leaned forward, grabbed his father’s breastplate, and began to wipe it down.  “That was a nice lesson in politics and the foolishness of men, but you say nothing of the Fiendwar.  Master Poriden spoke of it – he said such was the true danger."

"And he was correct, in that as in many things.  The Fiendwar.  It is written in the Twin Prophecies that when Ostia Prim shivers with the boots of armies, the true enemy will arrive in their wake.  We fear that as man would fight man, the demons of Loroth will return to take advantage of the splintered nations.”

Anar continued after a weighty pause.  “As Poridel might also have told you, Apia is the world's only hope of staving off the hordes of Rorn.  If she is engaged in a bloody war with Luc Valu, or if Basilica revolts, or if the Patriarch of Genn marches south - it will be a bad thing for all men regardless of their heritage."

Raylin sheathed his dagger, long forgotten on his lap.  "So defeating the demons Ippizicus, Ral, and Baphtemet...these acts did nothing for the cause of good?"

"Not so, friend!  They were valiant moves and highly regarded.  Perhaps you have delayed the forces of evil, who knows?  I have heard that Grun Min and Grun Prim, the twin islands off the coast of Luc Valu, are filled with beasts and demons waiting to launch themselves.  Mayhaps those hordes lack leadership thanks to your efforts."

"Mayhaps."  Kellus continued to work upon his breastplate, clearly unconvinced.  “You believe this Archmage in Val Hor - Destan the Grim - you believe he may have some answers for us?"

“Answers!”  Baden threw his hands in the air.  “More like he will but give us some other task.  Kill this, go here, fetch that."

"Each task, as you call them," Anar answered gently, "gives honor to your clan.  As I earlier said, there are not many of Axemarch who remain to do such a thing."

***

And then, suddenly, Baden remembered what Bellows had said was the second lesson to be learned beneath the cold stares of _Be’thunn Bruh’s_ slain heroes.  _The lesson is not that those dwarves died for Axemarch, but that they _lived_ for it.  Together, as a people, united as the Man-Kingdoms never could be._

Baden chewed upon his beard.  _I never should have left._

The dwarf eyed the Gordian as understanding dawned.  "Tell me of my clan, then.  All of it.  What has transpired in the Halls of Axemarch?”

"Death.  Blood."  Anar’s manner was both apologetic and blunt.  "Shortly after you left, I imagine, the Deepingdelve was filled with the howls of demons and their ilk.  The Halls echoed with the dying cries of dwarves.  Your people, as you know, lived alone under their mountain, and alone they suffer."

"How badly?”  More from habit than conscious thought, Baden wrapped strong fingers around the haft of his waraxe.  “How badly have they suffered?  Do not mince words."

Anar did not hesitate.  "For all I know, you may be the last of Clan Axemarch.  We have sent runners to all the dwarven clans; the axes and hammers of your people would be mighty weapons against the demons.  In the past Dwarfking Droggi was prompt, if not wholly agreeable, with his replies.  Yet, now, no embassy from Axemarch reaches us; our own messengers have not returned."

Baden stood.  "If they will not come to you, then I will go to them."  _I am not the last._

Anar shook his head.  "You cannot, Baden Dost.  Your companions need you.  Here, with them.”  Anar motioned for Baden to sit, face kind and eyes gentle.  “What could one dwarf accomplish?"

"More than what no dwarves could accomplish."  Baden was already armored, as always.  He bent to tighten the straps he had loosened for sleep.  "Lead my companions to Val Hor, as you said.  The mountains of Axemarch are not far from here.”

Baden looked to his companions, and his words were more for them than Anar.  “Once I am under the stone I can move more quickly - and quietly - alone.  I do not know how I will be received, and would not take any of you with me to such an uncertain fate.”  Baden looked once more to Anar.  “I will find the answer behind Axemarch's silence, and I shall meet you in the White City within a tenday.  You have my word on it."

Raylin stood, brushing burrs and dirt from his breeches.  "Do you need a guide, friend Baden?  At the very least, I could help you reach the mountains."

Baden jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the east.  "Even a dwarf on horseback canna help but see the spires of my homelands.  I have been watching them as we crossed the Cormick plains…”

Baden felt uncomfortable, unaccustomed to all eyes being upon him.  “In truth, friends, it will be good for me to return for a few days.  I miss hearing the stories of my people, drinking the mead brewed within my cavern.  Allow me to leave you but for a tenday, and I shall return, ready to face the Witchking himself with a smile splittin' me beard."

_I must do it now, before I lose the courage._

_-You will never lose your courage._

_I’m glad one of us thinks so._

Baden held out a palm toward Anar.  “No, no, and no.  You canna talk me out of this, Gordian, though your words might sound fine and reasonable.”

“I know.”  He stood and murmured softly to Cormalakos before turning to face Baden once more.  “Take the piebald mare – she is the least tired of the bunch.”

***

When they could no longer hear the hooves of Baden’s mount, dawn was not far off.  The howling had stopped, earlier, though none of them had marked it.  John sat in silence as his companions prepared for a fitful few hours of sleep.

He wanted to sing, but, for once, no tune came to him.  So he prayed.  _Gods, know this – if never again do I see Baden, or Amelyssan, or Vath, I still thank you for giving me the short time to learn of them.  I am a better man because of it._

And then John, too, rested his head upon his pack.  And slept.




*  Italicized words preceded by a simple dash “-” should be considered to have been spoken by a possessing spirit, thereby taking place entirely within the character’s head.  Thus far, only Baden’s spirit-child Ilvar has been introduced.


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## pogre

Brilliant post as always. Destan has all the answers in the campaign world too, eh?


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## WizarDru

Destan said:
			
		

> Baden, even as a dwarfchild, had thought the hallway proved but one thing: Dwarves die in battle – often and always.



Another great update, especially this line, which I just love.  It's so...so..._dwarvish_.  

This is a perfect example of an interesting update that features no battle and yet still has a conflict.  There are several things happening here: the party's suspicion of Anar, Baden's internal conflict (which has building for some time) and the introduction of the party's understanding of the greater dilemma throughout the world into the narrative.  All wrapped together nicely in a wonderful package.  Once more we get more wonderful interaction with Anar and his steed...I love how it's clear that he's a (for want of a better term) cinematic horse.  His behavior is both normal and abnormal, depending on the context, and it's clear that he and Anar share a secret and a bond.  The kind that's implied, for example, between horse and rider in a film like Hidalgo (unless I misread the trailers completely) or by Aragorn and Brego in the Two Towers.

The beauty of all the best story hours to me is that you know the characters, and understand their motivations or, failing that, their behaviors.  Baden, Vath, John and Amelyssan have a different feel when they control the narrative, and the best part is how each has a different perspective to offer.  Kellus is almost like a Greek Chorus, as opposed to John's elaborate (albeit well intentioned) professional lying.  Vath's perspective is so warped as to almost be alien at points, while Baden's is as earthy as they come.  Raylin is passion served cold, while our elven friend is logic served warm, if you take my metaphor. 

All of which is a long way to go to say that I truly enjoyed this update.  But there you are.


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## Talix

*Kudos*

Greetings!

I'm yet more proof that readers do join your story hour well after it has started.     Most of any or all criticism/compliments that I had in mind have already been mentioned, or I've forgotten it over the course of my 2-day reading during spare time at work.  

So I'll just settle for saying excellent story hour.  It's going near the top of my list of story hours to check when I get the chance - I'm just sorry to hear that now that I've caught up, updates will be slowing down (although I certainly enjoyed your last one!).

Anyway, very nicely written, and thank you for sharing it with all of us!


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## shilsen

Destan said:
			
		

> There is a man there, Destan the Grim, Fifth Archmage of Val Hor, who will know what to do with you."






Excellent, as usual! Add one more to your list of readers.


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## robberbaron

Just finished this from the start.

Epic stuff!

To add my voice to past debate, darkness in a game is a good thing. I think players need to be reminded that they are not just friends sitting round a table rolling dice, but part of an evolving narrative.

For all the nice NPCs with whom they have a jolly chat, there are many others who want to hurt and kill and spread suffering and it is the players' (I hesitate to use the word) duty to put as much into their characters as the GM does the world. This is, after all, Role Playing.

Sometimes, merely having a succession of "encounters" dulls their appreciation of the depth of the world with which they interact and it is stories like Destan's that serve to remind me just how deep a world can be.
I hope your players continue to appreciate your artistry as much as I do.

Ramble over. Keep up the good work.


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## pogre

Just making this easier for a friend to find. I recommended it to her and she could not find it. So here's a big fat BUMP for my favorite SH.


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## Lela

Deep.  Nicely done.

Baden has just blown me away.  This would, once again, be the point where I'd ordinarally decide reading another hour is worth the lack of sleep.  Dang it, Destan, you rock.


----------



## Destan

*Upon Divergent Paths*

On the eastern edge of the Eldritch Glades, still within the shadows cast by those slender and ancient boles, Baden waited.  Alone.

Or – not entirely alone.  “Ilvar, can you see?”

_- See, Baden?_

“Aye.  Can you see what I see?”

_-Ahh…no, friend.  There is only darkness here. I cannot see, but I can hear.  And I can feel._

Baden chewed on his whiskers.  He felt sorrow for his possessing spirit, felt grief for the elven child that had been eaten by Ippizicus years and years ago.  Ilvar would miss a glorious sight, as he doubtless had missed many worthy sights in a life made too short, too soon.

The Weedsea, blanketed in shadow, spread outward in all directions from the small stand of trees where he now stood.  Baden studied the peaks of the Balantir Cor, molten and red from the as-yet hidden dawn.  The world, asleep around him, seemed to draw in a breath in anticipatory silence and then…then the sun’s upper edge topped those rocky spires without warning.  A sliver of light, shining and bright, lanced downward, chased away the blackness in the blink of an eye, and gave color to the land once more.

“A glorious moment,” Baden echoed reverentially.

Time spent outside the warrens of Axemarch had proven to him there was beauty to be found on the surface world, beauty of an all-together different sort than that within his homeland.  But none the less because of it.

Morning had come into the world, again, and the dwarf yet lived.  _I thank you, Forgefather, for this and for so many things._

Baden patted his horse’s snout affectionately, surprised to find he actually liked the beast.  He had camped not far from this very spot when he had first departed Axemarch.  Baden had ridden a pony then, old Marmbly, and he had been fleeing memories that had since proved too persevering.  Running was no way to live, and such was not in Baden’s nature regardless.  It was time he faced his past, time he faced his people.

But the lone dwarf loitered for a time, allowed the light to creep across the land until it was warm on his cheeks.  He studied the fluid swaying of the grasses, watched a crimson cardinal leap from thicket to thicket.  He drank in all those things foreign to Axemarch – the birds, the winds, the smells - and scribed them onto his memory.  Baden knew that once he ducked beneath the Foggun Maw, he might never see such sights again.

Then, without further delay, he climbed atop his mount and rode eastward.

Toward home.

***

Vath stopped when the weeds at his feet turned silver from the coming dawn.  He set Amelyssan down beside him.  The half-troll rolled his shoulders, relishing in the soreness of his muscles, the pain in his back, the burning in his calves.

“A new day arrives,” the elf murmured, tone tinged with relief and incredulity.  Amelyssan studied the rising sun with eyes that mirrored the amber hues of morning.

Vath squatted in the weeds, his breathing labored.  “I have heard no howling for some time.  I believe the wolven split into two groups – one following us, and one following our companions.”

The elf scanned the undulating horizon of the Cormick horseplains.  “We may rest, here, for a time.”

“No.  The daylight must accompany our travel.”  Vath stood.  “Let us continue our push to the west.”

Amelyssan pulled a strip of dried beef from his pouch.  He handed it to his friend.  “It is the only meat I have.  I am sorry.”

Vath swallowed the food in a gulp.  “I will run down a hare, but not now.  When the sun is at its zenith, we may tarry for a time.”

“As you say,” Amelyssan agreed, eyes compassionate.

They had a long march ahead of them, a dangerous one.  The walled town of Corm was still days and days away, and between them and it stretched miles of open ground with little cover.  There would be many nights, many chances for the wolven to find them.  _But we have lived to see this dawn, when I thought never we would._

The pair of Olgotha Brothers picked their way along the grasses, keeping to the lower troughs of the veritable gray-yellow sea.  Most of the morning passed in silence before Amelyssan spoke once more.  “I have news, friend.”

Vath arched a blistered brow.

“I believe I have mastered a new power, an arcane power, for the secrets of fire are no longer hidden from me.  True fire, friend, and I can form it into spheres to cast against our enemies.”  Amelyssan had not expected to see trepidation in his companion’s eyes.  _Ah, yes, I had forgotten – half-troll’s fear fire.  His folk are especially susceptible to its ravages._  “Vath.  Friend, worry not - I am the master of the fire, not it of me.”

They two made toward a rise in the plains whereupon Vath climbed to the crest of a rare jumble of rocks.  From its top the half-troll surveyed the prairies to all sides of them, head swiveling in a circle, nose wheezing as he breathed in the scents of the land.

Suddenly, he grew still.  “Men.  I smell them.”

Amelyssan peered upward, hand falling to his spell component pouch.  “Where?”

“Here,” came an accented voice, seemingly issued from the land itself.

Elf and half-troll watched, wary and ready, as three men sprouted from the soil.  _How had we not seen them?_  They wore red cloaks, woolen caps, and carried bows as long as they were tall.  “Cormicks,” Amelyssan answered his own question.

“Indeed we are,” one of the bowmen replied, affably enough.  “More importantly - you are not.”

“No, we are not.  I am a _horadrel_ of the Gruns, and this is my companion, a monk of Ilmater from the Keshian monastery.”

“Your native islands are within a different ocean - this here is the Weedsea; and never have I heard of Kesh.”  The clansman lowered his nocked arrow, albeit only slightly.  All three red-garbed warriors measured Vath, eyes shadowed beneath their caps.  “You trespass.”

Amelyssan spread his hands, palms upward.  “We do not begrudge your people their clanlands.  We traveled the Duskingway, enroute to Lonely Heath, and mean no harm to you or yours.”

The rising sun made the Cormick’s smile easy to see.  “The Duskinway is a day’s hard journey east of here, friend.  I see no cobbled stones beneath your feet.”

Vath growled from atop the rocks, and Amelyssan stepped forward a pace – all his movements deliberate and open.  “We were forced off by beasts.”  A glimmer of recognition sparkled in the clansman’s eyes, and Amelyssan pressed his advantage.  “Wolf-like creatures that breathe winter from their maws.  You find us here, yes, but not by our choice.”

“These beasts are new to these lands, but we know of them.  As we know of all things upon the Weedsea.”  He paused before apparently reaching a decision.  “You are free to return to the Duskingway.  Turn your hairless cheeks to the rising sun, little elf, and go.”

“Our way is west.”  Vath clenched and unclenched his fists.  “To the west we will go.”

“To the west?  The west is not an option.”  The Cormick spokesman looked to Vath.  “The pointer has our leave to go, but you will not be accompanying him.  The Cormac pays for rûcken hides.  Unless I miss my guess, you are but a half-breed, and hence worth but half as much.  Still, your skin will soon be tacked to the palisades of Corm.”

“The half-troll is my friend, clansman.” Amelyssan answered before Vath could reply.  “Name your price, and we shall pay it.”

The man weighed Amelyssan’s purse with his gaze.  “Two hundred.  Crowns.  Valudian mint, if you please.”

Amelyssan had the jewelry he had taken from the Sorrow Elf’s tomb; doubtless it was worth ten times the exorbitant amount demanded.  But he did not have the coins, and knew Vath carried little in the way of personal wealth.  Regardless - “Your price is too high.”

The clansman shrugged.  “Then step away from the half-troll, boy-fey, ‘lest my aim be errant.”

Vath had, evidently, heard enough.  He sprung from the rock, landing on the bawls of his feet, and scrambled up the slope in a half-sprint and half-crawl.  His teeth were bared like a hound on the scent of blood.  The first arrow he batted away without thought, the second found its mark, as did the third – though neither wound so much as slowed his charge.

Amelyssan had wanted to glory in his newfound mastery of fire, but Vath was now too close to their enemies.  So instead the elf barked arcane words, his features twisting into a horrible visage, and one of the Cormicks dropped his bow and sprinted northward with nary a backward glance.

Vath slammed a meaty fist into one man’s temple, stunning him, then tore the wind pipe from the throat of his fellow.  The half-troll tossed the whitish tube to the weeds, stepped forward, and – with a single, violent thrust - forced the still-standing man’s nose bone into his brain.  

Vath did not spare even a glance to the twitching bodies at his feet.  He coiled and made as if to lope after the final clansman who had disappeared over a nearby swell.

“Hold!” Amelyssan called.  To tell it true, the elf thought it an ill-move to spill Cormick blood on their own lands.  “Let him run, Vath – this is not our fight.  We must move, and quickly.  Doubtless there are others, most like on horseback, not far from here.”

Vath stood in consideration for a moment, feathered shafts protruding from hip and collar, before grabbing Amelyssan and throwing the elf over his shoulders.

Now, the west _was_ an option.  They ran.

***

John watched Anar as the man spoke in hushed tones with the half-elf.  Not being privy to conversation – _any_ conversation – set the bard’s nerves on edge.  And, from the looks in their faces, the paladin and the white-cloaked ranger seemed to be discussing weighty matters.

John cleared his throat.  “Sir Anar, your manners?  Where have they fled?”

Anar turned to him, face serious and somber.  “Forgive me.  This is Wilan Whitefletch, a friend.”

John flashed his warmest smile.  “I am John of Pell.  Well met, friend Wilan.”

The half-elf dipped his head.  His cloak was fur-trimmed and white, his jerkin and breeches of similar ivory hues.  “I know of you, John of Pell.  As I know of your companions.”  Wilan spared a look toward Kellus and Raylin.  “I am heartened to see that you, all of you, are safe.”

Kellus walked past Anar and Wilan without reply.  The priest stopped to survey the valley that fell beneath them, a sleeping hamlet in its midst.  Lonely Heath, per its name, was nestled far below their current vantage point, hidden and still in the heather like a frightened grouse.  Here, on the eastern ridges approaching the town, the autumnal winds were cold and biting.  Yet beneath them the smoke of Lonely Heath’s chimneys rose in near-vertical columns before cresting the valley’s rim to disperse like so many ghosts.  “A warm fire and spiced tankard would do all of us justice.”

The others joined Kellus, each man alone in his thoughts; the band drank in the serenity of the tableau.  Eventually, Raylin was the one to interrupt their reverie.  “Yonder hamlet seems inviting, my brother-ranger, and yet we find you here, upon this cold ridgeline.”

Wilan nodded.  “I began my climb so that I might finish it before the town awoke, for I care not to have my departure marked by unfriendly eyes.  Regardless, a journey awaits me, and I can ill afford to tarry therein.”

Anar continued.  “Wilan makes for Axemarch and Ironfist, friends.  The Archmage Destan has sent him to learn what he may of the dwarven silence.”

Raylin frowned.  “Then we should accompany you, Master Whitefletch.  We recently parted with a friend of ours, native to those mountains, for he sought similar answers.”

Wilan looked to Anar.  The paladin stroked his beard.  “Destan was explicit in his instructions, Larrenman.  He asked that I return all of you to his estates in Val Hor.  As it stands, I have already failed my charge, for three of your number are not now with us.”

Kellus shrugged.  “The Archmage and his machinations can wait, Sir Anar.  You may take word to Destan of our situation, and inform him we have accompanied his man to Axemarch.”

“But this I cannot do.”  Anar appeared torn.  He strode away from the ridge and ran tender fingers along the face of his mount Comalakos.  The paladin of Lathander spoke without turning.  “Cormalakos and I have a new direction ahead of us.  A hard and cold one.”

“You leave us?”  John’s tone held a hint of annoyance.

“I must, friend.”  Anar rejoined them.  “There is one known as Guntir Sharpnose; I have wished to cross swords with him for many moons, for he has much and many fell deeds to answer for.  Wilan tells me that the gods may have given me just such an opportunity.  Sharpnose is known to be hiding in the peaks of the Borsk range, mountains not unlike those within my homeland.  Guntir is accustomed to swamps and fens, and the advantage will be mine.”

“The Borsk lays to the north, while Val Hor is west.”  Raylin rested both hands on his swords.  “So you intend to travel northerly, whilst Wilan goes to Axemarch.  Are we to arrive on this Archmage’s doorstep like almsmen, without you there to vouch for us?”

“Destan knows you.”

“That may be,” Kellus allowed, “but we do not know him.”  The fallen Helmite’s face was etched with doubt.  “I dislike this turn of events.  My loyalty is to Baden, not the Archmage.”

“I will find your friend,” Wilan offered, his tone even and confident.  “And then we will find you.”

“In Val Hor,” John finished.

“In Val Hor.”  Wilan nodded.  “I know these hills and mountains.  But a tenday will pass before I arrive at Val Hor with your dwarven friend.  We shall gain our answers and not delay.”

Raylin doffed his cap and ran fingers through his hair.  “What of you, Anar?  Will you spend the day with us in Lonely Heath?”

“Would that I could.”  Anar shook his head as he retreated from the ridge to tighten the straps around Cormalakos’ girth.  He turned.  “Though I dislike the thought of not fulfilling my promise to Destan, I believe he will understand.  Guntir is a dangerous foe, and one that must be placed within the ground before his power grows.”

The pull of Lonely Heath’s taprooms was too much for John.  “Then it is settled.  We shall spend the day in the town beneath us, then cut westward for Val Hor.”

Anar smiled.  “This is good.”

The golden-armored Gordian climbed atop his warhorse.  “From here, head westward along the Kingsway, then angle southward to intercept the Coastal Road near Corm.  Once you are through the Boarswood, you will be in the lands of the Empire, and Val Hor is but a pleasant journey from such a location.  You will enjoy that city, John – ‘tis not so large as your native Pell, but greater in its glories.”

“So long as there is a wall to separate me from Vath’s snoring…”  John’s voice faded as he realized his error.

Kellus gripped Wilan’s shoulder with one hand.  “My fellows and I put much weight into your words, ranger.  Baden is a dear friend, and we would see his bearded face again.”

“You honor me with your trust.  I shall not forsake such.”

It was decided.

The three companions – Kellus, Raylin, and John – watched as Anar, and then Wilan, disappeared into the folds of the land.  Daylight crept forward, and the sounds of the awaking folk of Lonely Heath rose upward to their position.

John climbed atop his horse, waited for his friends to do the same, and then urged his mount down the winding path.  “My tongue wearies of the words ‘farewell’ and ‘goodbye.’”

“As does mine,” Raylin agreed.

The trio paused upon the outskirts of the village.  The yellow thickets were high within the valley’s sheltered base, the weeds and brambles brushing along the bellies of their mounts.  The ground, sheltered within the vale, was wet and soft despite the wintry cold.

Kellus leaned backward in his saddle.  “I can see why men call this place Lonely Heath.”

“Aye,” John agreed.  “The heather is thick enough to form an outer wall, of sorts.”

Kellus fixed an eye on the southlander.  “I was referring to the ‘Lonely’ portion of its name.  The three of us are together, but without our other companions, and without Poridel’s guidance.  Never have I felt so alone, even during my years of wandering after first leaving my Church.”

John chewed his lower lip.  “You see?  Beneath your exterior there is a poet waiting to be born.”  The three men shared gentle laughter among friends.  “I am not certain if they taught as much in your temple schooling, Kellus, but there is a cure to your affliction.”

Kellus’ lips quirked into a knowing smile.  “There is?”

“Ale,” John gave the expected answer.  “Lots and more of it.”

“Agreed!”  Raylin’s booming laughter was infectious.  Even Kellus could not help but chuckle.  

The black-cloaked Larrenman puffed his cheeks and mimicked the moan of a bull moose.  Farmers, sleepy-eyed as they exited their hovels, stared at the three horsemen in confusion and nervousness.

“Today,” Raylin announced to all those within earshot, “the three of us shall grow so drunk that we embarrass not only ourselves, but also the spirits of our fathers.”

And so they did.


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## The Forsaken One

Reply first, read later  THE way to get first replies, now to read it 

[EDIT: Great update y0 =] ]


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## Tellerve

Awesome!  That post really had me thinking "Tolkien-esque".  I would so love to play in this game!

As always, great update.  I loved Raylin's last line, let myself have a good chuckle with that one.

Tellerve


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## darkbard

another great update, destan.  in fact, one of the best yet in terms of pacing and evoking a plentitude of moods.  by the by, i've been meaning to ask for some time:  are you familiar with the american novelist cormac mccarthy?  many of the names of the people and places in your tale echo his [both his actual name and the locales of his tales, etc.].  and if you think your vision is dark and gloomy, whoo boy, you are singing in harmony with angelic choirs compared to mr. mccarthy.  if you haven't read him, you should definitely check him out.  cheers, and thanks for the update!


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## dravot

Great story as ever, Destan.

I think that my favorite characters are Kellus and Vath, although I do have a certain fondness for each of them.

I'm intrigued that the group has split up and gone on separate errands like this, and I can't wait to find out what Baden's going to find.


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## Lela

I'm thinking of switching my favorite character to Ivlar.  He rocks.


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## Joshua Randall

Stepping away from the story hour and toward the D&D game that is its basis -- why did the PCs split up? Was this a deliberate decision by the players to accomplish more things at the same time, or the result of some disagreement over strategic direction? Or (as I speculate) perhaps some of the players were tired of their characters and wanted to have them killed off-stage, so to speak?

How did you as DM handle the dreaded split party?


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## Destan

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Why did the PCs split up? Was this a deliberate decision by the players to accomplish more things at the same time, or the result of some disagreement over strategic direction? Or (as I speculate) perhaps some of the players were tired of their characters and wanted to have them killed off-stage, so to speak?




All good theories, but...none of them true, in this particular case.

Many, many posts ago I think I may have spoken a bit about the infrequency in which we're able to get together to play.  Generally, we only sit down as a group 2-3 times per year since we're spread out from Maine to Georgia.

The party split because a few of the guys (players of John, Raylin, and Kellus) and myself had a weekend wherein all the stars were in alignment.  Rather than do some one-shot module, the group decided they'd be OK with splitting up - thereby allowing the four of us to continue the campaign for one session.  

Baden's player lives down the road from me, so it wasn't a problem for him and I to sit down and do some old-fashioned solo adventuring.

The final two characters - Amel and Vath - are played by our Maine and Georgia guys respectively.  They agreed to give Roger Wilco & OpenRPG a shot to play online.  I was pleasantly surprised at how smoothly things went; we're mostly tabletop gamers, so that medium was relatively new to us.

Thus: 

[1] Kellus, John, and Raylin continued their journey toward Val Hor.
[2] Baden departed for a homecoming at Axemarch, alone.
[3] Amelyssan and Vath fled westward across the Weedsea, hoping to eventually rendezvouz with the group in the near future.



> How did you as DM handle the dreaded split party?




With deadly efficiency. 

Seriously, the solo adventure with Baden was one of the most enjoyable roleplaying sessions I'd had in quite some time.  I think Josh was able to develop that character in the course of one evening to an extent that would have taken multiple sessions had he been sharing the limelight with 4-5 other PC's.  Because it was just him and I, we concentrated on all things _dwarvish_ to the exclusion of all else.

Which brings up an interesting thought - I've had many thoroughly enjoyable nights of gaming, but some of the best were adventures wherein I DM'd only 1 or 2 PC's.  No one gets 'forgotten' around the table that way, things seems to move smoothly, and I can devote all my attention to one or two characters.  I love the group we have now, but there's something to be said for those types of sessions every once in a while.

Curious if any DM's or players out there share my thoughts or disagree?

Lastly, I will say this:  With but one (very recent) exception, the party has never since split up again.  They learned their lesson. 

Good question, JR.

D

P.S. Darkbard, I haven't read Cormac.  I used to read like it was my job, but haven't been able to do as much lately.  Intend to dive into a mountain of books sometime this summer.


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## Piratecat

I can't remember the last time I only DMed a handful of PCs.   Wow, it's been a long time!


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## WizarDru

I think the last time I did only four players was for a playtest of "The Iron Satyr".  I've only done solo adventures once or twice in the last few years, but they were enjoyable...particularly since one was a thief adventure, and it moved quite quickly.

Although, come to think of it, I have done more solo stuff...via e-mail.  I've handled a lot of material that focused on a single character off-line, via e-mail.  It allowed me to focus entirely on that character, without forcing the rest of the group to wait.


----------



## Joshua Randall

I've been running a campaign for nearly a year now with a single main player/PC (and his cohort). This player is not normally a huge role-player, but since he cannot hide from my all-powerful DM's gaze, I can nudge him into it from time-to-time. We spend a lot of time talking about the campaign world and going into detail on the various storylines. He has commented that this is a best campaign he's ever played in, so I must be doing something right. [Is there a "swelled head" emoticon?]

As a side benefit, with only one player, combats move along right smart.

Recently, we started up another campaign in which he is the DM, and I play two PCs. They're delving into the depths of Cauldron in the Dungeon magazine Adventure Path, which I am forbidden to read (but it's *so* tempting!). 

I'll also echo what WizarDrud said: e-mail is a fantastic tool for DM/PC interaction. I use it all the time for behind-the-scenes stuff.


----------



## Lela

> Recently, we started up another campaign in which he is the DM, and I play two PCs. They're delving into the depths of Cauldron in the Dungeon magazine Adventure Path, which I am forbidden to read (but it's *so* tempting!).



 Heh, yep, you're so dead.  Slaughtered, in fact.

 But don't read it.


----------



## Destan

'Tis the season, folks, and I'm in a generous mood.  I've been devoting any time for writing to the publishing contract, so have been unable to update the story hour in some time.  

Still, fear not!  I'd like to reward loyal readers in a different manner.

I've compiled a little story hour trivia list of six questions.  They aren't easy.  That's because I don't want to just give money away.

*I'll give the first person to answer all six questions correctly a $30 gift certificate at any applicable online store or, should the winner desire, I'll simply mail them a check.*

Send your answers to me via email; do not post them there.  

Please place "contest" or something along those lines in the subject of your email.

Obviously, my players are exempt from this contest - though I doubt even they could answer all of these questions.  Most stem from the story hour and not necessarily the campaign itself.

If anyone wins (the operative word being - _if_) I will immediately post such information here.

Good luck and happy holidays!


Vath believes his god spoke to him but once; what did he say to the half-troll?
John admits to but four mistakes in his life.  What was the most recent?
Why might Baden not relish the sight or smell of basted cave crab?
Where and how did Kellus dispose of Helm’s holy symbol upon losing his faith?
Who was it that Amelyssan believes summoned Baphtemet to the Prime?
Raylin once knocked over a wine container during a meal.  What was the clansman doing to cause the accident?
Who is Martinicus?

- D


----------



## Destan

We have a winnah!

Congrats to Will, or played Geron in the short-lived Valusian PbP game.  He was the only one to get all of 'em correct (and in record time, I might add).

Happy Holidays,
D


----------



## Nifft

Destan said:
			
		

> If anyone wins (the operative word being - if) I will immediately post such information here.




**ahem**

 -- N, not impatient or anything


----------



## Tellerve

Hey Destan, could you post the answers?  A few of them I think I might know, but certainly not all.

Also, you mentioned Roger Wilco, and I hadn't even thought of it, but that would probably work fairly well.  I'll have to get Cinerarium to work on that for our campaign.

Looking forward to your campaign book when it comes out.

Tellerve


----------



## Destan

Tellerve said:
			
		

> Hey Destan, could you post the answers?




This is a copy and pase from Will's winning email.  Merry Christmas!



> 1. Vath believes his god spoke to him but once; what did he say to the half-troll?
> 
> 
> Vath was told his death would be visited upon him by a burrowing creature.
> 
> 
> 2. John admits to but four mistakes in his life. What was the most recent?
> 
> 
> John’s most recent mistake was he spoke with some of the condemned men during the party’s journey across central Valusia enroute to the Bluehorn even though his companions warned him against it.
> 
> 
> 
> 3. Why might Baden not relish the sight or smell of basted cave crab?
> 
> 
> Because it reminded Baden of his father’s death.
> 
> 
> 
> 4. Where and how did Kellus dispose of Helm’s holy symbol upon losing his faith?
> 
> 
> Kellus tossed the symbol of Helm into the quays of Tarn Cal.
> 
> 
> 5. Who was it that Amelyssan believes summoned Baphtemet to the Prime?
> 
> 
> Amelyssan believed Morgad summoned Baphtemet but the demon proved too powerful for him. Morgad could not destroy or banish the demon so he imprisoned the demon.
> 
> 
> 
> 6. Raylin once knocked over a wine container during a meal. What was the clansman doing to cause the accident?
> 
> 
> From Ciddry Revisited, Poridel and the gang were sitting around drinking and telling stories. A drunk Raylin was spreading his arms to indicate the size the antlers of a red elk he killed near Blackswamp.
> 
> 
> 
> 7. Who is Martinicus?
> 
> 
> From A World Bereft of Song, the only brother who did not swear a vow of silence because he dealt with the townspeople and lay persons at the monastary. He was the only surviving monk after the Abbot and his 41 fellow monks drank poison from the vials (which Martinicus produced from under his vestment).


----------



## Lela

I think I've become a little confused over Kellus' current feelings on Helm.  What's his view of the Great Guardian right now?


----------



## KaawGorecrow

*Another lurker voices his support*

What can I say? This story hour has enlightened my life (in a dark way)

Keep it up! You have earned another loyal reader.

Kaaw


----------



## Destan

Lela said:
			
		

> I think I've become a little confused over Kellus' current feelings on Helm.  What's his view of the Great Guardian right now?




Kellus' player and I have talked about this a couple times - trying to determine just "when" and "where" and "why" he made the switch back to Helm after having forsaken him for so long.  We both think Baphtemet had a lot to do with it; seeing evil incarnate made Kellus recognize the importance for a balancing force in the world, some sort of divine protection for mere mortals.

To answer your question - Kellus has accepted Helm once again, but remains very uncertain as to whether Helm has accepted _him._  He has not properly or officially atoned, nor has he visited a Helmite temple to start the process.  That sort of thing may or may not come later in the story hour.

Reminds me of a little Abe Lincoln vignette.  A group of politically-minded preachers visited him in the White House during the apex of the Civil War.  They told him, to paraphrase, "Do not fear, Mr. President, for God is on your side."  To which Honest Abe replied: "I am not overly worried as to whether God is on my side, gentlemen; I am very worried as to whether I am on _His._"

Lastly - welcome Kaaw!  A crow's call is the only animal call I can make with my own voice.  Had a bunch o' crows flapping above my head this morning while I was loading up the van for the drive home after the holidays.

Yes, folks, I'm sure that "talent" will reap me huge monetary gain.  Some day.

D


----------



## Lela

For now I guess you'll just have to profit from your writing skills.  But I'm sure the big Kaaw contract will come through soon. 

 Thanks for the Keullus info.


----------



## Branok

Hey, don't worry Destan. My special "talent" in that department is to quack like a duckling, and I guarantee that you won't be seeing any famous quackers for a long time, if ever.   

On another issue, it is MHO that you should make more posts through Amelyssan's point of view, since I think he's one of the more underdeveloped characters (insofar as I've seen throughout the posts) and he puts an interesting twist to the story (elves are supposed to be more enlightened than humans and dwarves, and hence, their outlook, at least as I've generally seen it, seems to be on the superior side). I say this particularly because I play a wizard in one of my campaigns, and usually they have good insights to share with the party, if it's well role-played. 

To make it clearer to you, I would like to hear more about Amelyssan's past, like that flash-back he had when he thought he would die at the hands of the demon (sorry I can't remember his name at this particular moment), and know more about the history of elves in Ostia Prim.

You can probably deduce from this post that I'm an elf-lover   , but that's not completely true; I've come to like Vath as much as any character that I've ever played, and I've always liked dwarves as well, though not as much as one of my brothers, who only plays dwarves.

Well, after several paragraphs of senseless babbling   , I hope you had a nice Christmas and hope you all have a happy New Year.

Branok


----------



## Destan

Branok said:
			
		

> You can probably deduce from this post that I'm an elf-lover.




In this game setting, elves love elves.

Ostia Prim (the campaign world) has a handful of different types of elves.  Amelyssan is a _horadrel_ (high elf); the Valusian Isle also has _gammhedrel_ (wood elves) and _morhedrel_ (delve elves, or dark elves).  Outside of the Valus, we have _furnadrel_ (desert elves), _marinadrel_ (sea elves), and a few others.  Baleraphon's race, that of the Sorrow Elves, has long been extinct (the party had encountered the spirit of Baleraphon in the Duskingdell barrows prior to slaying Ral the Torturer).

Now, that said, elves in Ostia Prim _are_ superior folk.  They are graceful, without a doubt.  They have an unmatched economy of movement - elves on Ostia Prim seem to glide rather than walk, and flow rather than run.  They do all of this, apparently, without effort.  They rarely - if ever - prespire.  Their skin is smooth and unmarred by imperfections or freckles.  Even scars disappear after a time.

But the elves _know_ they're superior.*  They are, as a race, haughty and arrogant.  And arrogance breeds cruelty, so that are that as well.  Most elves sneer at the Weanling Races of Man and Gnome and even Dwarf.  Most folk are unsure if elves are aloof because other races dislike them, or if other races dislike them because elves are aloof.

Amelyssan, of course, does not fit neatly into this racial stereotype.  But, as you may have seen, nor is he some fun-loving and affable companion.  He largely keeps to himself, minds his own agenda, and seeks knowledge where it can be found.  It is a hard character to write, and doubtless is a hard character to play.

Anyway, I will try to put some more words into the ol' horadrel's mouth.  Thanks for the comments and the question.

D

* I have loosely modeled my 'arrogant' elves on those elves of Joel Rosenberg's _Guardians of the Flame_ series, should anyone wonder.


----------



## Lela

I'd love to see a few typical elves make an appearance.  It's something I'd like to copy myself.  Problem is, it can be hard when almost every single elf I'v seen has been less than haughty.  It may also be that I don't carry that trait well myself (don't worry, I have plenty more negitive traits to make up for it) and thus find it hard to express in character.


 I can manage an Ew-Eeek! (female) and Ew-Eeek? (male) wood duck sound (I think it's a wood duck . .).


----------



## Branok

Thanks for the info, Destan. It also helps me with my campaign where I have to make one of my PC's (a sun elf wizard, ugh...) understand his character better, since he doesn't act in that manner, and I have to make it painfully clear to him (hehehe   ).
I'm pretty certain that's a wood duck, Lela, since I saw something about calling wood ducks or some such thing in the Discovery Channel a long time ago, in a place far, far away, (actually it was in Ecuador, and now I live in Chile).

Well thanks, anyway, and keep up the TPK's.


----------



## Lela

I'll find out tomarrow.  We were going through a avian book to figure out which duck we wanted to use for an NPC Totem Warriar (AU).  It's a fun sound and I recomend trying it in random places (at work, the mall, grocery store, at game).


----------



## Tellerve

Lela said:
			
		

> I'll find out tomarrow.  We were going through a avian book to figure out which duck we wanted to use for an NPC Totem Warriar (AU).  It's a fun sound and I recomend trying it in random places (at work, the mall, grocery store, at game).




Oh yeah, that'll be something to scare someone really bad, the Duck totem warrior.  Hmm, err, yeah, doesn't quite have the viciousness of a Leopard, Tiger, Bear or heck even a Rabbit totem warrior.  Hmm, although geese are exceptionally nasty, downright mean.  And at my mom's place in North Carolina the wild turkeys there are way vicious.  In fact, both my mom and I were almost attacked by them on seperate occasions.

But I'm rambling 

Tellerve


----------



## Lela

I decided to make it more defensive than offensive.  Major enimies of the gulls though.  Ever seen a seagule (or group thereoff) got at a duck?  It's viscious.

 AU comes with instructions on how to create your own animal totems.  I based it somewhat off the hawk warriar.  Great book.  I recomend it highly.


----------



## Branok

Hey, Tellerve, you *DO NOT* want to mess with the bunnies, I mean, they are just downright *Evil*  . I don't suppose you have read a book in which a rabbit becomes possessed by the devil himself, and he strarts causing all sorts of mischief; or better yet, if you've seen the movie _Fallen_ with Denzel Washington, you'll know that you did not want to mess with that squirrel (or rodent, I don't rember which, which is happening a lot lately) at the end of the movie.
Just for the hell of it I would play the Totem rabbit warrior.
Well, that's just too much senseless babble for the morning. Happy New Year's to everybody.


----------



## Lela

Don't forget Monte Python.  Viscious Dire Rabbit there.

 Yep, wood duck sound.  Double checked at game tonight.


----------



## Nasma

I thought it was a cat in _fallen_.  I could be wrong though.


----------



## Keia

Nasma said:
			
		

> I thought it was a cat in _fallen_.  I could be wrong though.




It was a cat.

Also, just wanted to note that I'm a new reader of this storyhour and found it . . . simply amazing.  

Destan, you've done a great job setting the mood and tone in your descriptions and both you and your players have developed a great sense of depth within the characters.

Great job to all.  Keep it up . . . please?

Keia


----------



## Old One

*Tremendous!*

Destan,

My time has been so limited of late and my own SH updates so lacking that I have resisted the compelling urge to enter yours until today...I have gone from front to back over the last few hours and echo the many comments of those that have preceded me...this is a hell of a SH!

I am glad you are not holding back on the writing or content now...I think your disclaimer at the front is sufficient.  Many of us prefer a more "gritty" feel after the sunshine and roses that is Pkitty and Sagiro !  I find your prose both engaging and compelling.  I have quickly become attached to the PCs and although I know that one (or more) may soon pass, I am loath to see any fall.

Congrats on the publishing contract, but we need a "Sins" fix soon !

Two somewhat unrelated questions...

(1) Are you still on active duty?  Former Army officer here and currently working with the Military Officers Association in Alexandria.

-AND-

(2) Are you still local in the Baltimore-Washington Metro area?  Maybe we need to have a DC game day !

~ Old One


----------



## Lela

> (2) Are you still local in the Baltimore-Washington Metro area?  Maybe we need to have a DC game day !
> 
> ~ Old One



 Now there's a Story Hour that might give me a heart attack to read.


----------



## sword-dancer

or would put George R.R. Martin to shame?


----------



## Destan

Old One said:
			
		

> My time has been so limited of late and my own SH updates so lacking that I have resisted the compelling urge to enter yours until today...




Old One, your post inspired me to get off my ass - or, perhaps, to get _on_ my ass - and do some reading.  I've been writing, writing, writing and haven't sat down with a cup of coffee to peruse the boards in quite some time.

I've read and enjoyed some of Rel's recent tales, and - based on that - have been meaning to do two things for quite some time: 1) Go back and read the earlier adventures, as I've only yet been able to read the few _Glory Reborn_ updates, and 2) Travel to the headwaters, so to speak, and read a story hour from the guy who inspired Rel's campaign (that'd be you, Old One). 

If this didn't grab my attention:



			
				Old One said:
			
		

> I have tried to build a world that combines the best elements of Dark Ages ignorance with Byzantine intrigue into a host of plots and subplots. If you look closely, you may see elements of Celtic, Dark Ages Britain, Carolingian France and Norman Sicily amidst the Ruins of Empire that suspiciously resemble declining Rome.




Then this certainly did:



			
				Old One said:
			
		

> ...pour yourself a cool Guinness Stout...




At one point in my life, I ate Guinness for two of my three meals daily.  I've found another drink - dare I say it? - that I like _nearly_ as much: Goose Island Honker's Ale.  It's not as dark, but is exceedinly good (and somewhat difficult to locate - though, in Virginia, I'd try Trader Joe's if you wanted to grab yourself a couple bottles).

And I love history - Greco-Roman and the medieval period most of all.  Your opening paragraph, quoted above, is similar to one I've placed within the draft I'm working on for my campaign supplement.  In its current form, it's currently written thusly:



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> *Historical Counterparts*
> Many of the lands and peoples of Ostia Prim share historical equivalencies, some more loosely than others:  Gordia is derived from Norse culture during the Dark Ages when raids upon English monasteries were relatively commonplace; Apia is modeled after the Roman Empire during its prolonged decline; Basilica upon conquered and assimilated Greek city-states; the Rorn upon the Mongolian Steppes prior to its peoples' westward expansion; Genn very loosely based on ancient Persia and Hindustan; and the Aradeeti Steppes hosts humans socially similar to both Bedouins and Berbers.
> 
> The Northern and Central Valus share a Celtic foundation - Scotland and Wales respectively.  Southern Luc Valu is modeled after a divided and disparate France during the Hundred Years War, when power was non-centralized and held by a shifting number of magnates.




History gives DM's all they need for inspiration, methinks.



			
				Old One said:
			
		

> I have quickly become attached to the PCs and although I know that one (or more) may soon pass, I am loath to see any fall.




You and me both.  Writing these characters has made me become more attached to them.  I generally try to stay away from "playing favorites" with my players' characters, and I endeavor not to pull any punches.  It's easier to kill them off that way.  But, as we approach a fatal conclusion, I feel...well, sad.  If only a little bit. 



			
				Old One said:
			
		

> Congrats on the publishing contract, but we need a "Sins" fix soon!




I have an update finished, but it ain't yet ready to place on the boards.  And it's sitting on my work computer, so as to prevent me from spending time on it as opposed to the supplement.  It'll soon see the light of day, I hope.



			
				Old One said:
			
		

> Two somewhat unrelated questions...
> 
> (1) Are you still on active duty?  Former Army officer here and currently working with the Military Officers Association in Alexandria.




Yep - still active.  Until June.



> (2) Are you still local in the Baltimore-Washington Metro area?  Maybe we need to have a DC game day!




Yep - though I'll be moving out near Reston, VA in a few months.  I would love a DC game day, in the same flavor as P-Cat's Boston get-togethers or what Dru & Co. organized near Philly.  I just have to wait a little bit.  I've already been forced to temporarily bow out of a local campaign run by Cinerarium.  If I could play D&D 24/7, I would, but my wife and kids are already close to disowning me. 

Thanks for reading, Old One.

And welcome to the Valus, Keia and sword-dancer, glad to have you along!

Happy New Year,
D


----------



## pogre

Happy New Year!
I hope you and your family had a super holiday!



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> But, as we approach a fatal conclusion, I feel...well, sad. If only a little bit.




What? What? Was someone calling me?

My players have taken to calling me the Reaper after our last two campaigns.


----------



## Old One

*Honker's Ale, eh?*



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> Old One, your post inspired me to get off my ass - or, perhaps, to get _on_ my ass - and do some reading.  I've been writing, writing, writing and haven't sat down with a cup of coffee to peruse the boards in quite some time.
> 
> I've read and enjoyed some of Rel's recent tales, and - based on that - have been meaning to do two things for quite some time: 1) Go back and read the earlier adventures, as I've only yet been able to read the few _Glory Reborn_ updates, and 2) Travel to the headwaters, so to speak, and read a story hour from the guy who inspired Rel's campaign (that'd be you, Old One).
> 
> ********
> 
> At one point in my life, I ate Guinness for two of my three meals daily.  I've found another drink - dare I say it? - that I like _nearly_ as much: Goose Island Honker's Ale.  It's not as dark, but is exceedinly good (and somewhat difficult to locate - though, in Virginia, I'd try Trader Joe's if you wanted to grab yourself a couple bottles).
> 
> ********
> 
> Yep - though I'll be moving out near Reston, VA in a few months.  I would love a DC game day, in the same flavor as P-Cat's Boston get-togethers or what Dru & Co. organized near Philly.  I just have to wait a little bit.  I've already been forced to temporarily bow out of a local campaign run by Cinerarium.  If I could play D&D 24/7, I would, but my wife and kids are already close to disowning me.
> 
> Thanks for reading, Old One.
> 
> Happy New Year,
> D




Destan,

Thank's for the tip on the Honker's Ale and Happy New Year's!  I know all about the time crunch...I am essentially working 2 full-time jobs (staff financial advisor for a non-profit + small private practice), spend ~ 16 hours in the car commuting from N. of Baltimore to Old Town Alex. each week and have an 11-month old son at home.  Add a non-gaming spouse to the mix and time to write and play is limited.  Fortunately, I have stood firm on my 1x per month Sunday game !

I definitely agree that some of the best inspiration can come from human history, plus I am a huge Ancient/Early Medieval history buff.

Joining a Beltway Bandit in Reston or going right seat on a Jumbo?

Hang in there, update when you can and let me know if you are ever free for lunch...maybe we can get together and swap tales...!

I welcome you to check out _*Faded Glory*_...it has gotten to be a bit of a long read...I was up to ~ 180,000 words of actual postings at last count...

All the best,

~ Old One


----------



## DrZombie

[LURKING MODE OFF]

Piece by piece I've read this SH, and I must say I like it a lot. I love the "tired" feeling of the world, the general background of hopelessness and darkness. It's good to know I'm not the only one who has a dislike of the simple good/bad "Holywood" fantasy setting.

A few posts ago you asked for comment. Since english is not my first language I'm not a writer myself, but I am an avid reader. As I said before, i love your writing style, the cool, distant descriptions of combat intermingled with in-character observations. The only thing I disliked is the combat scene with the gory description of Baden placing his axe where it really hurt. Not so much because of oversensitivity (I mean, have you ever seen "Braindead", I LOVE that movie (btw, directed by Peter "LOTR" Jackson) so I'm not the most sensitive guy) but because it clashed with the rest of the posts, it was a bit over the top, in my (very humble) opinion. 

I'd love to see a post from the vieuwpoint of the beatifully twisted mind of the half-Troll, my favorite char.

One last thing, it might be good to edit the previous pages and erase all the *BUMPS* and the "I love your writing" posts (such as this one), leaving only those add a little something to the story. This would make it a lot easier on a newbie reading your SH for the first time.



			
				Old One said:
			
		

> Destan,
> 
> Thank's for the tip on the Honker's Ale and Happy New Year's! I know all about the time crunch...I am essentially working 2 full-time jobs (staff financial advisor for a non-profit + small private practice), spend ~ 16 hours in the car commuting from N. of Baltimore to Old Town Alex. each week and have an 11-month old son at home. Add a non-gaming spouse to the mix and time to write and play is limited. Fortunately, I have stood firm on my 1x per month Sunday game !
> 
> I definitely agree that some of the best inspiration can come from human history, plus I am a huge Ancient/Early Medieval history buff.
> 
> ~ Old One



I feel for you, My roleplaying has been toned down to nothing at the moment(wife 4mth old son and a terrible job), but I have serious hopes for march....  Aaah well, we'll see. Hang in there.
If any of you wanna come over to Europe to see some history for yourself, let me know and I'll tell you how to avoid the tourist traps and where to see the real deal.


[LURKING MODE ON]


----------



## WizarDru

Destan said:
			
		

> At one point in my life, I ate Guinness for two of my three meals daily. I've found another drink - dare I say it? - that I like _nearly_ as much: Goose Island Honker's Ale. It's not as dark, but is exceedinly good (and somewhat difficult to locate - though, in Virginia, I'd try Trader Joe's if you wanted to grab yourself a couple bottles).



I often tend to forget that I live in a 'Blue' state, so statements like this always suprise me.  Pennsylvania only allows alcohol to be sold in 'state stores', which are only open Monday-Saturday, and beer can't be sold in the same store as wine and liquor, generally.  So when I hear of Trader Joe's carrying cool microbrews, it throws me for a loop.   (_mind you, it also confuses me when I go southwards and find that Yeungling has spread so far beyond it's home, like North Carolina or Florida_).



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> I have an update finished, but it ain't yet ready to place on the boards. And it's sitting on my work computer, so as to prevent me from spending time on it as opposed to the supplement. It'll soon see the light of day, I hope.



[Cracks whip] Back to work!  That supplement ain't writing itself, ya know! 
Much as it pains me to say it, the story hour can wait until you get to it.....hey, someone has to be the Jiminy Cricket, here. 



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> Yep - though I'll be moving out near Reston, VA in a few months. I would love a DC game day, in the same flavor as P-Cat's Boston get-togethers or what Dru & Co. organized near Philly. I just have to wait a little bit. I've already been forced to temporarily bow out of a local campaign run by Cinerarium. If I could play D&D 24/7, I would, but my wife and kids are already close to disowning me.



The Shorecon get-together was a lot of fun, even if only a few folks were able to make it.  Good food, good beer and good games.  Of course, I was able to leave the kids at the grandparents and the wife games, so I count my blessings.  On a side note, one of my players, Scorch, has taken to running my kids through their own little D&D game using some of our D&D minis, some Mage Knight castle pieces and few six-siders.  It's adorable.  I keep telling him he should make a story hour. 

Either way, make sure and arrange for some down time for yourself.  Burnout is a terrible thing.


----------



## Lela

Jiminy Cricket with a whip. . .Hmmm, things have changed since I last saw Pinochio.


----------



## Tortoise

I started reading this story hour a few days ago, thanks to Eric Noah's thread for folks to pimp story hours in, and I love it.

The writing is superb. I'll be studying this story hour to learn technique.


----------



## Destan

*Toward the Future, Pursued by the Past*

Amelyssan shielded his eyes from the sun.  “Ten.  Mounted.  Heading this direction.”  The horadrel’s voice was smooth, his manner unruffled.  Still, those who knew him well could discern uneasiness from his creased brow and pursed lips.

And Vath knew him well.  The half-troll extended an abnormally-long arm and assisted the elf downward from the jumble of boulders.  “Cormicks?”

“Yes.”  Amelyssan gathered his robes about him and sat, placing his back to the rocks.  He opened his spellbook and thumbed through a number of pages.  “I will need time to prepare.  We cannot out-run them.”

“These men are like others of their race; they desire gold.”  The half-troll spoke of coins as if they were a foreign concept.  “May we purchase our freedom?”

Amelyssan pushed hair away from his eyes, never looking up from his tome.  “No, friend.  We have slain two of theirs, and sent another running.  They will take our coins, certainly, but only after they take our lives.”

Vath nodded, wholly unperturbed.  “Let me know when you are ready.  This is not good land for a fight.”

After a while Vath, also, could discern the blurred line of oncoming horsemen.  The Cormicks thundered across the plains, a yet-silent wave of red cloaks and brown horseflesh.  Like the turn of a fish within a wave, brilliant silver would occasionally flash – doubtless the mark of sunlight on hauberk or steel cap.

“I am ready.”  Amelyssan stood and gingerly replaced his spellbook within his leather rucksack.

“And I am sorry.”

The elf raised an eyebrow.  He could not recall having heard Vath apologize.  Ever.  “Sorry?”

“I am sorry that you are here.  With me.  I should have made you stay with the others.”

Amelyssan dismissively waved, clucking his tongue.  “Yours is not the place to be sorry.  No, friend, the Cormicks should be sorry – sorry for holding such hatred in their breasts, sorry for wanting to murder those different than themselves.”  The elf scanned the horizon.  “These plains are vast, yet the Cormicks covet all of it – each yellow hillock and each brown-curdled tuft.  They act for all the world as if others wished to take these things from them; yet none do.”

“You have seen the ways of the Cormicks in your books?”

“No,” Amelyssan shook his head.  “I have seen the ways of the Cormicks in the manners of my own people.”

Amelyssan spread his hands.  He could see his distraction had not worked, that the half-troll’s eyes remained troubled.  When next he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper.  “I am here, Brother Vath, with you – and here is where I want to be.”

Resolve spread across the half-troll’s countenance, turning his boils from amber to crimson.  “Come, then,” Vath answered, ominous and low.  “Let us seek terrain better suited for suffering.”

Amelyssan climbed atop Vath’s back and the pair set out, heading west and south.  The ground passed beneath them, the sun continued to rise, and the air grew unseasonably warm.  Vath kept to the lower lands, sprinted along defiles, remained within the folds of the plains whenever possible.  Every so often they were forced to crest gentle rises, and – each time – they saw that the horsemen had gained upon them.  It would not be long.  Now now.

A reckoning was to come, soon – a blood-soaked reckoning here on the grasses of the Weedsea.

***

Vath turned his shoulders southward and loped along a crease in the land.  The horseplains gradually rolled upward to either side, and the elf and half-troll soon found themselves descending into a rock-strewn ravine.  Sweat seeped through Vath’s pores, his breathing loud and labored.  After an hour, perhaps more, they heard the sound of hoof on stone – still distant, but not distant enough.  Vath nimbly scampered from one upturned stone to another.  The rocks marked the sinuous route of a dry streambed, an enduring scar from past flood-seasons.

Vath stopped.

The valley they had been traversing ended abruptly in a wall of jumbled dirt and rock.  The streambed, like a frightened hare, darted off to one side and slipped beneath the grasses – apparently to continue its dry course underground.

Amelyssan climbed from Vath’s back.  He looked from the rocky wall to his friend, then from his friend to the northern ridgeline.  “Here, then, is where we make our stand?”

Vath was slow in answering.  He sucked in mouthfuls of air, hair plastered to his cratered forehead.  “This is not a good place.”  The half-troll coughed, grumbled deep in his throat, and spat a ball of phlegm the size of a small bird onto the ground.  “They can come at us from all sides.  Over the lips of this ravine, along the crease we have followed.  Most like they have bows, and will need not close us.”

Amelyssan shrugged.  “The reach of my fire has a greater range than any clansman’s arrow.”  Regardless, they no longer had time to choose better ground. “Let us meet them here.”

“Wait,” Vath murmured.  The half-troll scrambled forward toward the pile of stones, brow wrinkled.  He looked up.  “These stones were not brought here by floodwaters.  They were stacked.  There are still bootprints in the turf.”

“Stacked?”  Amelyssan echoed, not for the first time wishing Raylin were with them.  Without hesitation, both Brothers of Olgotha bent their backs and began to pull the stones free.  They tossed rocks behind them like a pair of digging gophers, their industry made frenzied by the impending threat.  Soon a hole – small, dark, intimidating – became evident.  “A cave.”

“Or a den.”  Amelyssan rocked back onto his heels, face shining with exertion, and tilted his head to one side.  He could not hear the Cormicks, could not hear anything.  Perhaps the clansmen had dismounted, knowing their quarry to be close?

Vath stared at the hole - silent, thinking, remembering.  Long moments passed.  “Come.”  With but a single word, the half-troll entered the cave, squeezing his considerable bulk through the narrow opening they had revealed.

Amelyssan followed.

The elf barked an arcane word and _light_ suffused his hand.  He extended his arm and stared into the darkness.  A tunnel – cramped and narrow, but passable – stretched outward before them.  The stones had been pushed to the sides of the corridor, the walls carved by pick and shovel to widen the berth.  Footprints marred the sandy turf underfoot; Amelyssan was uncertain how old they might be.

They had an advantage, here, should the Cormicks follow.  The passageway was narrow enough to prevent the clansmen from circling them.  Numbers would not be so important now, should a fight occur.  Amelyssan felt hope, so long dormant, tingle throughout his chest.

They would survive this ordeal.  They would reach Val Hor.  And their companions.

***

“Shen tu fundin!”

Baden was glad he had left his horse at the base of the foothills, else he may have fallen from the saddle in surprise.  The dwarf dove from the trail, axe springing into his hands, and pressed his back against the rock.  A brief, heart-pounding moment passed.

Baden chewed on his whiskers as silence reclaimed the land.  He had not seen the speaker, had not seen anyone or anything ahead of him on the path.  Yet the words had been in the dwarven tongue.  Shen tu fundin!  _Speak or be cloven!_  It was the common challenge of Axemarch sentries.

Baden licked his lips.  “Shen tu fundin, yourself!”  Baden rolled to one side, wincing at a sudden pain in his knee, and peered around the boulder.  Nothing.

A pregnant pause, and then – “These are Axemarch lands.”

The words were in dwarven, again, and much too fluent to be some rûcken ruse.  Baden grinned in spite of himself.  “I certainly hope so.”

“Show yourself, dwem.”

Baden frowned with consternation.  _A damned fool I am!_  He had thought his riding cloak enough to cover the black armor of Borbidon.  Evidently, he was wrong.

Baden lowered his axe, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the path.  “I am Baden Dost,” he called to the empty mountain pass, “son of Banidon, Axemarch dwarf and warrior.”

“This name is known to us.”  Baden heard rocks skitter and marked the position of the sentries, though still he did not see them.  Two of them, side-by-side.  They were foolish to reveal their position as they had.  “Baden may be many things, but Baden is no dwem.”

“The armor I wear, the shield on my back, the axe in my hands – these are plunder taken from a dwem tomb. I am no more a dwem than you are.”

“Yet,” came the voice, now slightly amused and scornful, “Baden son of Banidon left our Halls.  Why is it that he now returns?”

_Enough._  “Get your ass out on the trail, whelp, where I can see you.  And bring your friends.”  Baden patted his axe.  “Else I will pull you out by your beard.”

Baden heard a chuckle from above and behind him.  He looked upward, slightly surprised, and saw a third sentry.  The dwarf lowered his crossbow and smiled.  “Now, _that_ sounds like the Baden I remember.”

Baden squinted from beneath bushy brows.  “You are older than I remember, Katon, though just as ugly.”

“Well met, Baden.  Your beard grows white enough, yet you stink too badly to be dwem.”

Katon tied his crossbow to his belt and climbed downward from his perch.  Baden waited while the sentries – three of them, all told – converged upon his position.  “It is good to be home,” he announced without preamble.

“You should not have left.”

Baden fixed a hard stare on the speaker.  “Who are you?”

“Bardo.”

“I know your father.”

“He is dead.”

Baden nodded, genuine sadness in his eyes.  “Then – I knew him.  He was a good dwarf.”

“And loyal.”

“Yes, Bardo - and loyal.”  Baden dragged a hand across his face, wiping away some of the road’s chalk.  He could hear the accusation in the dwarf’s tone, and accepted such as what was due.  Baden looked toward the third dwarf.  “You are Bardo’s brother, then.  Tamil, is it?”

“I am.”  Tamil shoved a warhammer behind his belt buckle.  “I was surprised to see a lone dwem making his way upward along the trail.  I am more surprised to see that it is you.”

“Yes,” Baden allowed.  “I am surprised myself.”

He studied the dwarven trio – decent armor, good weapons.  But they were unmarked by scars, unseasoned by battle – as far as Baden could tell.  And they had been little more than dwarf-children when he had left his Halls.  _Young, very young.  And standing the watch – alone - upon the sole approach to the Foggun Maw._

“Tell me of our people.”

“Not here.”  Tamil shook his head.  “It is not safe.  We have a camp in the rocks above.  ‘Tis not far.”

“A camp?”  Baden grimaced in confusion.  “The Halls are near, why not quarter therein?  Where is your relief?”

Bardo shared a look with his companions.  “We have no relief, Baden.”

“No relief?”  Baden looked to Tamil and Katon to judge the truth of the words.  “A sentry must share his shift, else he grows lax.  I do not understand why-”

“Not here, Baden.”  Tamil turned and began to walk upward, along the trail, shoulders bent.  “When we are hidden behind rock and mountain, we will talk.  Not before.”

Baden stood in silence as he watched the three dwarves begin their ascent.  A weight – heavy as the Balantir Cor – descended upon him.  He yearned to hear of his people, and yet he dreaded what such tidings may bring.

It was then, of course, that Baden first realized what he had dreaded all along – _I am too late.  I have come too late._

***

Baden sat quietly, head bent, bearded chin resting upon his fist.

The firepit at his feet remained unlit, yet his eyes smoldered as he stared at the snow-covered kindling.  Bardo and Tamil sat near him, each wrapped in wool and huddled in his own thoughts.  The lot of them made for a cheerless, soundless, and cold camp.

Ilvar interrupted Baden’s contemplation.

_-You mean to enter your Halls?

Of course I do.

-Then why not tell them?

Who?

-The dwarves you have just met, two of which are sitting next to you.

Because they feel shame.  And that shame will make them want to accompany me.

-They are as much the sons of Axemarch as you are.

No, they are more.  And I would not have their blood on my hands.

-They are old enough-_

“Blasted bellows, Ilvar - shut yer hole for a moment!”  Baden grumbled and abruptly stood.  He began to pace.

“I like you, Ilvar, but never did we marry – dead elf-boys ain’t my type.”  Baden kicked the firepit as if he were stoking nonexistent flames.  “So stop yer naggin’...please.”

The voice was quiet within Baden’s head.

“Ah,” Bardo stared at Baden, “who are you talking to?”

Baden frowned, red-faced.  “Myself.  Sometimes I talk to myself.  ‘Tis nothing to worry over.”

“If you say so.” Bardo sounded unconvinced.  He turned to share a look with his brother, but Tamil was oblivious to their byplay.  

“Something is out there,” he whispered.  “Watching us.”

Baden drew his axe and stepped between the two dwarves and the dark line of hemlock and spruce.  He willed his darkvision to penetrate the shadows beneath their boughs, the murk between their boles.  “I see nothing,” he hissed, albeit quietly.

“Nadas nur Orbaru yurnu.”  _That is because I do not wish to be seen._  The words were elven, and yet – Baden understood them!

_-Consider it a gift.  Though, honestly, the way you treat me-_

“Come out!” Baden hefted his axe.  “’Tis passing rude to spy on a campsite – even elves should know as much.”

A figure stepped from the shadows.  He wore a white, fur-trimmed cloak, white breeches, a white surcoat, and a cap of ivory-colored wool.  His boots were long, folded at the top so as to keep the snow out, and – of course – white in color.  Even his skin – fair, aquiline, perfect – was pale as the waxing moon overhead.  Behind his shoulder rose the nub of a longbow, and a sword hang from a baldric around his waste.  When he approached, the snow neither moved nor crunched beneath him.

Baden had seen elves before – had seen how they could glide.  But, this one – this one _flowed._

“You are Baden Dost.”  The voice was perfection.

“And you are an elf – an elf I do not know.”

Bardo stood, axe in hand, whilst Tamil readied his warhammer.

“My mother is elven.”  The half-elf dipped his head in a show of respect.  “I am Wilan Whitefletch, a huntsman.  And I am honored to make your acquaintance, Master Dost.”

Baden chewed his beard.  He disliked being surprised, but he disliked fancy words even more.  _The half-elf seemed…fine.  But – hadn’t Aramin?_  Baden squinted.  “How do you know me?”

“As your friends know you,” Wilan replied, palms up and arms spread, “for it was they who bid me find you.”

“What friends?”

“John of Pell.  Kellus Varn II.  Raylin mac Larren.  They travel with the Lathanderite Anar von Girval.”

Tamil placed both hands on his belt.  “For what it’s worth, Baden, I know him.  He’s been here before.  He spoke with King Droggi before…”

_…before he died_, Baden finished, within his head.  _Damned near all of ‘em have gone and died._

Wilan seemed to understand the grief in Baden’s features.  He lowered his head.  “Then our fears are realized; the King in Axemarch is no more.”

Baden was not ready to discuss the matter – certainly not with an elf.  _Er, half-elf._  “Where did you see those men you have named?”

“Outside Lonely Heath-”

“Were they well?”  Baden’s interruption betrayed his concern.

“They were.”

“Yet…they were alone?  There was no elf, no half-troll?”  Baden had hoped Amelyssan and Vath had been able to intercept the route the rest of his friends had taken.  

“No, Master Dost.  I am sorry.”

***

Baden looked away from the meager flames.  “Ah!  Look who returns!”

Katon walked toward the light, his cloak draped with snow, face etched with surprise.  He stopped at the edge of the firelight and studied Wilan.  “Master Whitefletch?  But…how did you get here?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” Baden grumbled, a gimlet eye fastened on Katon.  “Were you not on watch?”

Wilan appeared embarrassed.  He stood.  “Come, please.  Share our fire.  There is danger below, but none close.  We are safe here, at least for a while.”

Katon stalked forward, face sheepish, and dropped onto a log that had been rolled forward for such a purpose.  He accepted a pewter pot of gruel with grunted thanks and began to stain his beard in earnest.

Wilan crossed his legs and sat upon the ground.  “These are hard tidings, friends, to know that King Droggi and his Captains are missing.  But missing is not dead, friends, and there is yet hope.”  The half-elf swiveled his open gaze toward Tamil.  “You said that most of your clan is now within Ironfist Halls?”

Tamil nodded, licking the juice from his fingers.  “Aye.  Matron Ularta bid us all leave, after the King and his men didna’ come back for a tenday.  Most listened to her.”

“But you did not?”

Tamil appeared slightly embarrassed.  “The three of us stayed behind.  We wanted to wait a bit longer, give ‘em a little more time.”

Baden twirled the ends of his beard between thumb and forefinger.  “You disobeyed the Matron.  You disobeyed the Dwarf-Mother who speaks with the King’s voice when the King is not present.”

“By forge and fury, Baden,” Bardo answered, “you are not one to lecture us on obedience.”

Baden felt his rage begin to bubble upward, but he quelled it with effort.  “I have learned.  I have erred.  I would not see you do the same.”  Baden looked at the upturned faces of the younger dwarves, his gaze stopping on Katon.  Something within his face seemed to indicate he agreed with Baden.  “Katon, lad.  You wish to go to Ironfist?”

Katon looked from Baden to the brother dwarves and back again.  “I waited, Baden.  I waited with Tamil and Bardo.  Ten days, or more, it has been since King Droggi di-…went missing.  Me mom is in Ironfist, and me younger sisters as well.”

Baden nodded.  He made his voice as soft as he could.  “You have done what you thought best, and no harm has come of it.  Master Whitefletch heads to Ironfist; you may travel with him on the morrow.”

Wilan’s eyes narrowed.  “You do not mean to come with us?”

“No.”  Baden shook his head.  “My friends bid you find me, and find me you did.  And I thank you for bringing me word of their good health.  Truly, I do.”

Wilan was not one to argue another man’s motives.  “Where do you go?”

“No where.”  Baden brushed snow from his thighs, leaned forward, and grabbed his whetstone.  “I am where I need to be.”

Tamil was the first to speak after a lengthy pause.  “The Halls are not ours anymore, Baden.  We have told you – all of us have told you.  We saw them with our own eyes.”  The young dwarf’s voice grew soft, his face somber.  “They are many, and they are foul, and they-”

“-will pay with their heads for staining the cobbles o’ Axemarch.”  Baden reached out and patted Tamil’s shoulder.  “I left home once, when times were hard.  Damned if I’ll be doing it again.”

Bardo pounded one fist into an open palm.  “Praise Moradin!  We – my brother and I – will come with you.”

Baden stared at the fire.  After a long moment, he nodded.  “I know you will.”

Katon tossed his bowl into the snow in front of him.  “Cave orcs – that is one thing.  Bad enough, I say.  But…they have a cave troll with them.  A cave troll, Baden!”

Baden shrugged.  “A mountain troll, I be thinking.  A bit bigger, perhaps, than most.”

“No,” Tamil spoke.  “I saw it.  My brother and Katon did not.  It was no mountain troll, friend Baden.  Huge, black-skinned, tusked.  It wore a necklace…it wore a necklace of dwarven bones.”

Baden spoke with a confidence he did not feel.  “All the more reason to kill the bastard.”  He stood, the whetstone forgotten.  “There is a chance – a small one, I’ll allow – but there is a chance that our King is alive.  There is a chance that Axemarch dwarves are – even now – in the deeper mines of our Halls.  I cannot turn my back to my home, not a second time, and certainly not with that thought in the back o’ me head.”

Wilan pushed snow onto the embers after a lengthy silence.  They watched as the dying fire hissed and spat, and smoke wound upward into the cold air.  Dawn was coming.  The half-elf smiled.  “I will tell your friends of your decision, Master Baden.  I will tell them of your bravery.”

Baden shrugged.  “Tell them what you will.”  He jerked a thumb toward Katon.  “Just make sure that dwarf-lad makes it back to his mom.  Give Ironfist our thanks, and give Matron Ularta our regards.  Tell her…”

Baden looked eastward, uncertain what to say.  “Tell her I will come to Ironfist soon enough. I will come with rûcken heads on my belt.  I will come with the brothers Bardo and Tamil by my side.”  He bent, retrieved his axe and whetstone, and walked from the fire.  “Tell Matron Ularta I will come to face my judgment – but I must do this thing first.”


----------



## Destan

pogre said:
			
		

> What? What? Was someone calling me?




Alas, I'm not in the RBDM TPK Club (yet).  I have only been able to kill 'em off piecemeal.  But I'm working on it. 



			
				Old One said:
			
		

> Joining a Beltway Bandit in Reston or going right seat on a Jumbo?




Beltway Bandit.  My flying days are over.



> Hang in there, update when you can and let me know if you are ever free for lunch...maybe we can get together and swap tales!




Gonna send you an email. 



> I welcome you to check out Faded Glory...




And I thank you for it!  There's a lot there to digest, and all of it great.  You've given me yet another excuse to put off work - as if I needed one.



			
				DrZombie said:
			
		

> A few posts ago you asked for comment...The only thing I disliked is the combat scene with the gory description of Baden placing his axe where it really hurt. Not so much because of oversensitivity...but because it clashed with the rest of the posts, it was a bit over the top, in my (very humble) opinion.




Alas, that's the dangers of writing gore.  There's a fine line between a good battle description and unnecessary carnage.  I'm working on it, but it'll probably be something I'm always working on - and will never master.



> I'd love to see a post from the viewpoint of the beautifully twisted mind of the half-Troll, my favorite char.




You're in luck.  Vath will be a central figure in the near future of my updates.



> One last thing, it might be good to edit the previous pages and erase all the *BUMPS* and the "I love your writing" posts (such as this one), leaving only those add a little something to the story. This would make it a lot easier on a newbie reading your SH for the first time.




I wasn't aware this was a problem.  If other (new) readers feel this way, maybe I could petition the Powers That Be to help trim the fat, so to speak.  But, mind you, those posts are as important to me as the story itself.  

I think Cheiromancer once mentioned he was archiving this thread.  He's done a great job doing just what you suggest with Sep's story hour.  But Sep's is much longer, and much more interspersed with praise - I don't think it's warranted here, though it's a problem I'd love to have.

After a scare a little while ago, and at WizarDru's suggestion, I have been saving my posts as Word files (which is where I write them, anyway).  But the saved versions are never what gets thrown up here.  Invariably, I have to "edit" stuff once it's on the boards - for some reason, I miss a lot of mistakes in the Word files and don't see them until after I post it.



> If any of you wanna come over to Europe to see some history for yourself, let me know and I'll tell you how to avoid the tourist traps and where to see the real deal.




I've made the trek about a half-dozen times.  On the most recent foray I dragged my wife from one Welsh castle to another, some of them little more than hills in the countryside.  Still, I manage to wander in many tourist traps.

Thanks for reading, DrZombie. 



			
				WizarDru said:
			
		

> I often tend to forget that I live in a 'Blue' state, so statements like this always suprise me. Pennsylvania only allows alcohol to be sold in 'state stores', which are only open Monday-Saturday, and beer can't be sold in the same store as wine and liquor, generally.




Ah, yes - don't forget: I'm from the great Pennsylvania wilderness, as are four of my players.  I love that state, even with all its Puritan influences. 



> It also confuses me when I go southwards and find that Yeungling has spread so far beyond it's home...




Yuengling = Good.  I love their Black & Tan.  Don't know if they still brew that or not.



> On a side note, one of my players, Scorch, has taken to running my kids through their own little D&D game using some of our D&D minis, some Mage Knight castle pieces and few six-siders. It's adorable. I keep telling him he should make a story hour.




Maladrac (John of Pell's player) does the same thing with his kid and his kid's friends/cousins.  They set up a little campaign in the Boarswood, a forest which we'll soon see here on this story hour.  Nothing like corrupting impressionable young minds.



> Burnout is a terrible thing.




Amen.  I'm not in danger of story-hour burnout, but the supplement burn-out threatens occassionally.  Which is when I head to these boards and write about these characters.  It's refreshing. 



			
				Tortoise said:
			
		

> I started reading this story hour a few days ago, thanks to Eric Noah's thread for folks to pimp story hours...




Good stuff!  I was wondering if that thread would be able to foment any interest from folks who either haven't read this story hour or - more importantly - don't visist the Story Hour boards.  I know, personally, I only browsed the "Rules" forum for about the first six months on EN World.  Never realized there was so much more to be had.

G'nite, all.  Thanks for reading.

D


----------



## pogre

I love the Dwarven goodness in this post. Reminds me of the desperate attempts of the Dwarves to hold their fortresses in my old WFRP campaign. Sure, Elves in their perfumed foppery are more popular, but nothing beats a blood-stained, bearded Dwarf for my coin!



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> I wasn't aware this was a problem.  If other (new) readers feel this way, maybe I could petition the Powers That Be to help trim the fat, so to speak.  But, mind you, those posts are as important to me as the story itself.
> D




If you decide to go this route check out this thread.


----------



## Lela

Personally, I get board of the Rules and General forums from time to time. Same threads/arguments come up every month or two. Drives me nuts. That's probably why I tretreat to this forum, really. Always something new and, even when published adventures come up, always fresh.

 Actually, I may have dropped the boards entiurely a couple years ago if I haden't been reading Old One's SH. Big thank for that one double O. 

 And if you do decide to trim the thread, for whatever reason, I say just cut out the bumps.  Not that I agree with trimming the SH threads really.  But definitally keep the "This is great" posts.  It's easy enough to just skip past them.


----------



## Despaxas

> But…they have a cave troll with them. A cave troll, Baden!




Ok thats plagiarism and you know it! 

Hopefully Baden has some small hobbit-like people with him to distract the cave troll while the truly dangerous people hit it again and again and again. We all know cave trolls will completely ignore the dangerous ones and focus on the small hobbit-like person cowering in a corner doing nothing threatening.


----------



## leel

*Its Great*

long time lurker, first time poster, and i just wanted to say how much i enjoy reading this thread. someone has likened it before to George RR Martin, and this thread inspired me to buy and read them. Anyway before i rant on, i have to say keep up the good work. Well done


----------



## Old One

Destan said:
			
		

> 1.  Beltway Bandit.  My flying days are over.
> 
> 2.  Gonna send you an email.
> 
> 3.  I've made the trek about a half-dozen times.  On the most recent foray I dragged my wife from one Welsh castle to another, some of them little more than hills in the countryside.  Still, I manage to wander in many tourist traps.
> 
> D




Destan,

1.  Ahh...good deal...we have lots of contacts with BBs and a great resume/job data base for retired/former military officers.  Keep us in mind if you are ever job hunting (www.moaa.org).

2.  Sounds good!  I work from home on Wed and travel a fair amount, but am usually availabe for lunch M, T, Th, F.

3.  Too funny! My wife and I honeymooned for 2 weeks in Ireland and Wales.  I dragged her through every tower, gatehouse, moat and privvy of half the castles in Wales, including: Aberystwyth, Beuamaris, Caernarfon, Castell-y-Bere (one of my all-time favorites), Conwy, Dolbadarn, Dolwyddelan (ancient seat of my wife's paternal lineage), Gwydir (also another holding of my wife's paternal lineage), Harlech, Manorbier, Pembroke and Tenby !

She was a real sport about it, but rebelled when we got to Ireland...so I had to suffer through the second half of the trip with no kissing o' the Blarney Stone !

Looking forward to hearing from you and a very intriguing update!

~ Old One


----------



## Old One

*Destan's Death Pool...*

OK...so I am becoming a "Sins" posting whore !

Since Destan let on that a death is imminent, who do we think it is going to be?  There has been some good foreshadowing for Vath and Amelyssan, since they have enemies pressing from behind and are entering a cave that undoubtedly contains something other than the local girl scout troupe.  Also, our favorite dwarven eviscerator Baden seems heading for a date with a cave troll necklace.

Will it be one of the above or one of those that have momentarily faded into the background...John or Raylin?

I will lead off the voting with my own prediction...

I think Amelyssan is destined for the graveyard...they are either going to run into something in the cave that gets him before he can get his spell mojo working or he will get filled with arrows on the exit.  Vath is a tough ba$tard, so he will pull through, but the poor elf is doomed.

~ Old One


----------



## robberbaron

Vath must survive.

My betting is on Baden. Tough as the dwarf is, I think he is a bit too outnumbered this time.


----------



## Whitey

Finally.
An adventuring party that's not afraid to get a little dirt under their fingernails.
In Whiteyville, this is epic gaming.  Doesn't matter what the numbers or handbooks or rolls behind it are.  The party deals with evil and the nature of evil.  They deal with good and the nature of good.  And they do it all in a way that's superb to read and speaks well of Destan's writing - and the PC's willingness and ability to dive right into a well-crafted world, with such issues at the fore.

It's inspired me to [pimp] pen stories here of some of my campaigns, [/pimp] and to really get into that part of the community.  I don't know if that means anything to you - it's supposed to be a compliment.  I do know I'll be eagerly awaiting the next bout of trials and trepidations they'll face, and to see how great a bunch of heroes they become.


----------



## Celtavian

*re*

Destan,

Nice addition to the story  

How goes the supplement writing? You getting close to done? I'm hoping you start that other campaign again when you are done. Or maybe need a player to test run an adventure for your campaign setting. Either way, good to see you active on the boards.

Hope you had a great holiday.


----------



## WizarDru

Destan,
 another wonderful update.  It's a tough call, but I think Baden may be my favorite character.  Shame if he dies, but if he does die, they'll remember who he was, that's for sure.  I suspect the two young dwarves at his side aren't long for this world, either way.

You know what I liked?  I liked that half-elf ranger.  An excellent character, fleshed out wonderfully with so few words and so little dialogue, and yet he felt very distinctive.  The whole campfire scene was just wildly wonderful stuff. This part of the exchange, for example:



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> “No.” Baden shook his head. “My friends bid you find me, and find me you did. And I thank you for bringing me word of their good health. Truly, I do.”
> 
> Wilan was not one to argue another man’s motives. “Where do you go?”
> 
> “No where.” Baden brushed snow from his thighs, leaned forward, and grabbed his whetstone. “I am where I need to be.”



In one paragraph we learn more about Wilan and Baden than a descriptive text might reveal.  Deftly handled and enjoyable throughout.  It just seems...well, *right*.  Mind you, the impending battle for Vath and Amelyssan was wonderful, too.  Once again, a great reading of how a simple game mechanic, spell preparation this time, can be renedered interesting and flavorful.

Incidentally, I'm not a PA native by birth, unlike my wife.  I was born in upstate NY, and began sliding southwards every since, through NJ, Philly and then down to DE, then bounced back into southeast PA (the resulting insinuation about my opinions of the nation's first state being left as an exercise for the reader).  My wife's family, however, comes from coal country, which is why she's curious what part of PA you hail from, Destan.


----------



## Destan

Despaxas said:
			
		

> Hopefully Baden has some small hobbit-like people with him to distract the cave troll while the truly dangerous people hit it again and again and again. We all know cave trolls will completely ignore the dangerous ones and focus on the small hobbit-like person cowering in a corner doing nothing threatening.




Well, I have mentioned that Tamil and Bardo, the two dwarves with Baden, are quite young.  So I suppose they _could_ be considered 'hobbit-like'.  What do they say in creative writing classes?  There can be no more original stories.  Or something like that. I've stolen copious amounts of inspiration and themes and - yes, cave trolls - from other authors.  I'm sure there'll be more examples in the future. 

Leel - I'd bet the $2.32 I have left after the holiday season that you'll enjoy Martin's books; glad to hear you're picking them up.



			
				Old One said:
			
		

> Since Destan let on that a death is imminent, who do we think it is going to be?...Will it be one of the above or one of those that have momentarily faded into the background...John or Raylin?




Let's not forget Kellus.  If he bites it without serving atonement, his faithless spirit will be doomed to wander Ostia Prim until it sinks beneath the waves.  Then, as a DM, I could have him pop back in as miserable Jacob Marley ghost from time to time, lamenting the errors of his ways.  Whee!



			
				Robberbaron said:
			
		

> Vath must survive.




Must he?  Muwahahhaa!



			
				Whitey said:
			
		

> It's inspired me to [pimp] pen stories here of some of my campaigns, [/pimp] and to really get into that part of the community. I don't know if that means anything to you - it's supposed to be a compliment.




It means more than you know.  I've found what folks like PC, OO, Sep, Sag, Zad, et al. have known for quite some time - writing story hours is a whole other, new aspect of "fun" that can be derived from gaming.




			
				Celtavian said:
			
		

> How goes the supplement writing? You getting close to done? I'm hoping you start that other campaign again when you are done. Or maybe need a player to test run an adventure for your campaign setting.




The supplement is churning along.  But, alas, I'm no where near being done.  I'm finding that my chicken scratches and on-the-margins notes don't easily translate into prose suitable for public consumption.  Regarding test runs - I imagine I would like some help in that area, but it won't be for a while yet; adventures are the last thing I'm gonna tackle. 



			
				WizarDru said:
			
		

> My wife's family, however, comes from coal country, which is why she's curious what part of PA you hail from, Destan.




I'm from central PA - a town called Lock Haven.  All of my extended family are from the Pittsburgh area, and still live there.  So I blame them for the fact that I love the Pirates (one of the worst teams in baseball), the Penguins (at the bottom of the NHL), and the Steelers (sitting at home after going 6-10).  At least I have Pitt hoops to cheer.

Hasta!

D


----------



## WizarDru

Destan said:
			
		

> I'm from central PA - a town called Lock Haven. All of my extended family are from the Pittsburgh area, and still live there. So I blame them for the fact that I love the Pirates (one of the worst teams in baseball), the Penguins (at the bottom of the NHL), and the Steelers (sitting at home after going 6-10). At least I have Pitt hoops to cheer.



Ah ha! So you're from around north of State College way. My wife's uncle lives in Danville. And most of her family are from further east, around Ashland/Frackville way, if you know where those are. (checks map...Cripes, you're almost in Potter county...isn't that the county where they have more deer than people?).


As for your teams....You poor, poor man. Well...it could be worse. You could be rooting for, I dunno, Seattle, maybe.  You can always root for Penn State.


----------



## robberbaron

It would be hugely unfair to kill Vath - he must suffer and the most suffering would come from seeing his friends torn apart and having to live with the memory.


----------



## Lela

Robberbaron is right. Irony would really add to Vath.

Of course, D&D doesn't always bend to the best methods of storytelling. Interestingly enough, this usually makes it better. How ironic.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Great update, Destan. Just one minor criticism. This passage is confusing:


> Baden looked away from the meager flames. “Ah! Look who returns!”
> 
> Katon walked toward the light, his cloak draped with snow, face etched with surprise. He stopped at the edge of the firelight and studied Wilan. “Master Whitefletch? But…how did you get here?”
> 
> “I was gonna ask you the same thing,” Baden grumbled, a gimlet eye fastened on Katon. “Were you not on watch?”
> 
> Wilan appeared embarrassed. *He* stood. “Come, please. *Share our fire.* There is danger below, but none close. We are safe here, at least for a while.”



Why is Wilan inviting Katon to share the fire? Didn't Katon and the two younger dwarves make the fire? Even if they didn't, isn't is inappropriate for Wilan, who is a guest there, to be inviting Katon to share the fire? Actually why would anyone need to invite Katon to share the fire? It's his fire as much as anyone's!


----------



## WizarDru

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Great update, Destan. Just one minor criticism. This passage is confusing:
> Why is Wilan inviting Katon to share the fire? Didn't Katon and the two younger dwarves make the fire? Even if they didn't, isn't is inappropriate for Wilan, who is a guest there, to be inviting Katon to share the fire? Actually why would anyone need to invite Katon to share the fire? It's his fire as much as anyone's!



Presumably the fire was made when Baden and the other two dwarves walked up the hill to the cave they'd been staying in, while Katon stayed the watch.  Wilan sneaked past him, and found Baden and the boys.  While Katon made the campsite, technically he didn't make this particular fire, I'm assuming.

Either way, I don't think it really matters much, as I think Wilan is just inviting Katon to enjoy the fire they're already enjoying, not that he's granting permission for Katon to share the fire at a campsite that Katon helped make.

Besides which, Wilan is a half-elf...that makes him half-presumptious.


----------



## Destan

What Dru said. 

It _is_ confusing, though, and it's a perfect example of something that made sense when I wrote it (to me), but now appears...well, confusing.

The bottom line is that Baden and his buddies walked back to the campsite the three younger dwarves had been using.  They didn't light a fire, for fear of nearby enemies.  Katon marched off to stand watch.

Wilan shows up, the group lights the fire, and settles into discussion.

Katon then returns and is surprised to find Wilan sitting with his comrades.  Baden pointedly lets Katon know he "blew it" while standing watch, since he should have heralded Wilan's arrival.

Wilan, being the polite guy he is, felt embarassed - not for himself, but for Katon.  The half-elf realizes that he's good enough to remain unseen, and his unannounced arrival is more a result of his own woodland skill than Katon's lack of vigiliance.

Clear as mud?

D


----------



## The Forsaken One

Soak Soak, yeh =]


----------



## Nasma

My money's on Vath.



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> a hole – small, dark, intimidating




Sounds just like the place a burrowing creature might live.


----------



## Old One

*Good point...*



			
				Nasma said:
			
		

> My money's on Vath.
> 
> 
> 
> Sounds just like the place a burrowing creature might live.




Nasma,

You could be right...I had forgotten about that prophecy !  But what will we do without Vath's oozing pustules, should that come to pass?

~ Old One


----------



## WizarDru

Old One said:
			
		

> Nasma,
> 
> You could be right...I had forgotten about that prophecy ! But what will we do without Vath's oozing pustules, should that come to pass?
> 
> ~ Old One



Well, if it's oozing pustules you want, I'm sure John could get some disease from one of his dalliances with a woman of questionable values, but I guess that wouldn't be the same.


----------



## Nasma

Old One said:
			
		

> what will we do without Vath's oozing pustules, should that come to pass?




Just hope Vath's player does what I'd do;  Create Vath 2, identical in every respect, except that his name is one sylable longer.


----------



## Lefferts

*Vath=Yip?*



			
				Nasma said:
			
		

> Just hope Vath's player does what I'd do;  Create Vath 2, identical in every respect, except that his name is one sylable longer.





Kind of like the Yip's from arwink's Copperheads storyhour.

Lefferts


----------



## Lela

Lefferts said:
			
		

> Kind of like the Yip's from arwink's Copperheads storyhour.
> 
> Lefferts



Though we're starting to get some radically different personalities out of those buggers. The current Yip, for example, has a little harder edge than the previous one. 

I think they plop different classes on them each time around as well. The fact that they have him be disposable point man is probably the only reason he keeps dying at this point. The player was bound to come across the perfect combination of classes, skills, and feats a good while ago.  He just got shot down before he could shine.


----------



## Destan

Folks,

If you have five seconds, or even if you don't, I _highly_ recommend you take a look at this guy's art.  He's crabclaw here on the boards, and he's about 85% finished with a map depicting the isle of the Valus - the setting for this story hour (at this point in time).  

There aren't any towns or roads labeled, presently, but that may change. 

I'm biased, certainly, but I truly think his work can stand toe-to-toe with the maps we'd normally see in WotC publications.

Enough.  Click the link.  Please.

*Crabclaw's Rendering of the Valus Isle* 

D

EDIT: Once you head to that link, just scroll down a bit.  You won't miss it.


----------



## darkbard

wow!  that certainly is top-notch stuff.  hats off to mr. crabclaw.  can't wait to see it with cities added, so that visualizing the journeys of our heroes is all that much easier.


----------



## Gaius

I don't know what it is about clerics who worship the Suffering gods, but Vath is hands down my favorite character in this story hour, much as Dranko is my favorite in Sagiro's.  It's too bad that Vath is going to die in that barrow that he and Amelyssan retreated into.

Gaius


----------



## Hjorimir

Vath is cool and all, but he's so quiet I have trouble relating to him as much as the other characters. When I started reading Sins, John was my hands down favorite (granted he had most of the "screen" time). As the story evolved Baden has stepped up and become my favorite (though John is still _very_ cool but I admit a soft spot in my heart for dwarves as I play one currently).

I'm hoping as the story continues we will look deeper and deeper into the other characters.

Great stuff, Destan...looking forward to your next update.


----------



## thebitdnd

*Bump*

BUMP

Page three won't do.


----------



## dpdx

Destan said:
			
		

> Folks,
> 
> If you have five seconds, or even if you don't, I _highly_ recommend you take a look at this guy's art....



Yep. I can even pick out clearly where Hrynnar and his band got left out in the Fens...


----------



## MACLARREN

BUMP!!!  Destan has been busy with the upcoming supplement.


----------



## Piratecat

Yeah, even I'm updating! Aren't I setting a good example for Destan?


----------



## Old One

*He is VERY busy...*

Destan is mucho busy...he has a deadline approaching on his supplement project and thus must avoid the lure of electric s*x that is EN World !

I am sure he will be back around when the paper blizzard clears...

~ Old One


----------



## WizarDru

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Yeah, even I'm updating! Aren't I setting a good example for Destan?



"_Nobody wins a butter-eating contest._"
   -Homer Simpson, sage for our times.

Destan is in major crunch-time right now, so let's not tempt him away with the Story Hour.  He'll be back, don't worry. Now go read PC's updates for a few minutes.


----------



## Lela

When is that deadline?


----------



## Darklone

Hmm. To choose between buying his d20 book soon or another update...

My money is on Vath as well. Con 10 for a monk against a RBDM?


----------



## WizarDru

Lela said:
			
		

> When is that deadline?



Soon enough that the story updates will need to wait a while.


----------



## Destan

Darklone said:
			
		

> Hmm. To choose between buying his d20 book soon or another update...
> 
> My money is on Vath as well. Con 10 for a monk against a RBDM?




Welcome Darklone!  I've been hoping to lure you into this story since the first few posts.  I think you and Lela have the monopoly on story hour addiction, and it's those types of readers that generate interest in other readers.  At least it did for me when I was reading SH's and not writing 'em.

Speaking of not writing SH's, I know it's been a while.  As some of you cats mentioned, I'm sorta buried in my own incapabilities right now.  Spent (another) day at Border's trying to drink enough coffee to pimp my creative juices into high gear.

Deadline is within a number of days, not weeks, and then maybe I'll be able to come up for air.  Or not, if the (mean) editor kicks it back my way again. 

Take care folks, and see you in the Valus soon enough!

D


----------



## Lela

Focus on the money Destan.  We'll wait.  Besides, I rarely (as in never) get an oportunity to buy a book writen by one of my favorite SH authors.

 And thanks, I think, for considering me a member of the monopoly.  I always miss Horacio when that comes up though.  Wonder what happened to him.


----------



## Darklone

Lela said:
			
		

> And thanks, I think, for considering me a member of the monopoly.  I always miss Horacio when that comes up though.  Wonder what happened to him.



Fame and Glory goes to Dougal, he threatened to kill Luff Pah if I don't come over here 
Just joking, he said you rock and if I got 5 minutes left somewhere between girlfriend and Rules forum... Well, got stuck somehow and read everything over the last weekends. Dougal stole a lot from your SH for his AU game and it's good stuff even if you know it already.

Story hour addicts: Me too. The French dude is sorrowly missed. I remember I read something from him why he's gone, but not WHAT he wrote...


----------



## Lela

Oi, with the Darklone.  Oi.


----------



## Dougal DeKree

*Ippy in AU*



			
				Darklone said:
			
		

> Fame and Glory goes to Dougal, he threatened to kill Luff Pah if I don't come over here
> Just joking, he said you rock and if I got 5 minutes left somewhere between girlfriend and Rules forum... Well, got stuck somehow and read everything over the last weekends. Dougal stole a lot from your SH for his AU game and it's good stuff even if you know it already.
> 
> Story hour addicts: Me too. The French dude is sorrowly missed. I remember I read something from him why he's gone, but not WHAT he wrote...




Ahem. Ok, so i have to delurk and admit it. *bows head in shame* I just cannot help it - if i stumble upon ideas i just love, i have to include them in my games (if i am DMing). So i simply stole Ippizicius without asking or describing the TMDestan on his left hoof and included it in Plague of Dreams. Not because the adventure needed it (it is lot's of fun, actually) but because i needed to include it. Of course i took other stats to...errr, not infringe copyright    (a CR8 Demon from Tome of horrors for my lvl2 group - luckily they took the choice of preparing properly instead of rushing in headlessly...    )

In Short: I love your style, Destan, the gore, the characters and especially the demons we saw so far.

But now i will go back to lurk among those hundreds of other lurkers, waiting for an update.

Cheers! Dougal


----------



## Mr Vergee

Please Bump!

BTW, great story.

Mr Vergee


----------



## Horacio

Darklone said:
			
		

> Story hour addicts: Me too. The French dude is sorrowly missed. I remember I read something from him why he's gone, but not WHAT he wrote...




Once a story hour addict, always a story hour addict...
I've reading them, even if I haven't written a single "bump" in 8 months.
And about why I am gone... long story, and this is neither the place nor the moment to tell it.
Well, that's all for now...

Ah, yes, and  BUMP!


----------



## shilsen

Horacio said:
			
		

> Once a story hour addict, always a story hour addict...
> I've reading them, even if I haven't written a single "bump" in 8 months.
> And about why I am gone... long story, and this is neither the place nor the moment to tell it.
> Well, that's all for now...
> 
> Ah, yes, and  BUMP!




Nice to see you back and bumping as usual, Horacio!


----------



## WizarDru

shilsen said:
			
		

> Nice to see you back and bumping as usual, Horacio!



What Shilsen said.  It's good to know you're still out there, lurking.


----------



## Horacio

Once a story hour addict, always a story hour addict 

Thanks, guys!


----------



## Lela

If you need anything H, let me know.  And welcome back!


----------



## Destan

Dougal DeKree said:
			
		

> ...so i simply stole Ippizicius without asking or describing the TMDestan on his left hoof.




There are no royalty fees so long as he killed or seriously wounded a PC or two.  I miss ol' Ippi - might have to bring him back for a showdown on his native plane.  Hmm...



			
				Horacio said:
			
		

> I've been reading them, even if I haven't written a single "bump" in 8 months...




I fell off my chair when Darklone first posted on this thread a couple days ago.  And now _Horacio_ shows up from the nether!  The world must be ending!  Welcome back, H.

Speaking of the world ending - it feels like it has.  I'm finally finished with the first, final draft of the supplement.  What does this mean for you?  Well, it means I should have time in the near future to kick this story into gear again.  No promises, but I will try.  

In the interim, I may try to throw up a couple snippets from the supplement that may give you cats a better appreciation for the world as a whole, if you're interested in that sort of extraneous stuff.

Okily dokily, neighborinos, enjoy Super Sunday.

D


----------



## Lela

We're definitally interested.  Well, at least I am.

 And, though it's a little late, be sure to let me know if you need/want any help.  I think I forgot to mention that when this started. . .


----------



## LightPhoenix

See, the good thing about not having a job is you get to catch up on the good story hours that you should have started reading long ago but for one reason or another didn't.  Of course, I don't have any money, but that's not really important.  Well, now it is, seeing as how I've read through this all.  

My only suggestion is to ask Piratecat if you can go through your thread and delete some of the bumps, praise, and what have you.


----------



## Darklone

Destan said:
			
		

> There are no royalty fees so long as he killed or seriously wounded a PC or two.  I miss ol' Ippi - might have to bring him back for a showdown on his native plane.  Hmm...



Nope, have to disappoint you. I wasn't there, but I know our Giant Warmains damage output (AU) with two weapons... and we were cautious enough to take a nice NPC with us who took most of the hits... 


> I fell off my chair when Darklone first posted on this thread a couple days ago.  And now _Horacio_ shows up from the nether!  The world must be ending!  Welcome back, H.



Stop making us proud for annoying other people with our babbling and go for an update 

Or finish that d20 supplement, I wanna buy it 

PS: Horacio, same as Lela.


----------



## Darklone

*Darklone checks whether Destan climbed back on his chair... *


----------



## Destan

This isn't an update, obviously, but it is _something._ 

Most of the action thus far takes place in a relatively confined area in the central Valus. 

Legend:

*[1]* - The group traveled eastward along the Battlemarch to summon Ippizicus in a ruined temple on the banks of the Bluehorn (not shown). The returned via the Coastal Road (just south) whereupon they met Laughing Luke and his merchant & mercenary band.

*[2]* - This is the mountain known as Borbidon's Rest, one of the larger peaks in the Balantir Cor mountain range.  It looks over the Godspring, a depthless tarn.  The party climbed its heights while following a wyvern that had plucked Bishop Herryn from his horse.  Here was where the party first encountered Baphtemet in the old dwem tomb, and here was where they slew the demon-diplomact the second time around.

*[3]* - Hopefully some of you remember ol' Dog Bigby.  The party was set upon by wolven while he lead them across the Dusk Ford.  Shortly thereafter, Bigby departed after dropping the party at the Duskingdell barrow mounds.

*[4]* - A lot happened at this location, most of it "off stage" from the story hour.  The party plundered Belaraphon the Sorrow Elf's tomb, released Ral the Torturer from his imprisonment, and killed the blue-skinned demon.  Then they left, were assault by Cyrics, resuced by Anar von Girval, and - finally - Vath and Amelyssan set off alone to the west.

*[5]* - Baden split off alone toward Axemarch shortly before Kellus, John, and Raylin entered the hamlet of Heath.  Now the remaining trio makes southwest toward the road, then west toward Val Hor.

That's where we stand now.

Gotta run - hope this helps!

D


----------



## handforged

whoa

thank you for that.  are we to presume that this is part of a map from your book?  if so it looks great.  if not it still looks great.

~hf


----------



## grodog

Great stuff destan---I can't wait to compare the PCs' wanderings to your maps and campaign book


----------



## dpdx

From the map, it almost looks like (provided they survive), that Vath and Amelyssan could intercept and rejoin the main party...


----------



## WizarDru

Destan, do we have a general idea of a release date for the book? 

That map is very nice.  I can't wait to see the rest of it.

Oh, and will you be taking part in the Story Hour Author chat?


----------



## Destan

handforged said:
			
		

> are we to presume that this is part of a map from your book?




Yep - it's a portion of the central Valus, or the middle part of the island.



			
				WizarDru said:
			
		

> Destan, do we have a general idea of a release date for the book?




I'm not sure. At the earliest - probably three months from now.  But, really, I don't know.  Sorry.



> Oh, and will you be taking part in the Story Hour Author chat?




Yes - I plan to attend. 

D


----------



## Lela

_Wah!_  Story Hour Author chat. . .

Pray tell, when!?!


----------



## WizarDru

Lela said:
			
		

> _Wah!_ Story Hour Author chat. . .
> 
> Pray tell, when!?!



February 18th, iirc, at what 10 PM EST?  Should be quite a discussion, I think.


----------



## Horacio

WizarDru said:
			
		

> February 18th, iirc, at what 10 PM EST?  Should be quite a discussion, I think.



 Hmmm, 10 PM EST is what hour in GMT?

Anyways I hope there will be a transcription of the chat


----------



## dravot

Horacio said:
			
		

> Hmmm, 10 PM EST is what hour in GMT?
> 
> Anyways I hope there will be a transcription of the chat



 That'd be 3am GMT (there's a 5 hour difference between EST and GMT)


----------



## grodog

WizarDru said:
			
		

> February 18th, iirc, at what 10 PM EST?  Should be quite a discussion, I think.




WizardDru, is there another thread with additional details on where, where, who's attending, etc.?


----------



## Lela

That's two hours later than Mountin Time right?


----------



## WizarDru

grodog said:
			
		

> WizardDru, is there another thread with additional details on where, where, who's attending, etc.?



Quite honestly, I have no idea.  Zad posted details in my story hour, and I know who was invited, but I don't know who's said "Yes", though I suspect you'd recognize the names of all the authors, and I'm assuming that several of them were planning on attending.  I'll double-check if Harlock had posted the details anywhere, yet.

If not, I may start a thread to raise awareness about it.  It's not that far off, really.


----------



## Destan

*The Beginning*

Baden eyed the small hole in the mountainside as one might eye a deadly viper.

It was as wide as his shoulders – if but barely - and pierced the mountainside about ten paces above the narrow trail.  The scent of the Deepingdelve wafted outward – it smelled of stale air, of mines, of deep earth.  The snow around it was melted somewhat, and stained gray from the warmer air issuing outward. Baden doubted he would have noticed the hole if Bardo and Tamil had not pointed it out to him.

Which, of course, was a good thing; most likely the rucken now within Axemarch were unaware of the its presence.  If they _did_ know of it…_Well,_ Baden quietly mused, _my lifeblood will be spilt upon the flagstones of my people.  There are certainly worse ways to die._

The hole led to the lower level of a relatively new mine – a mine that had not existed, Baden regretted, when he had first departed Axemarch.  The rucken had established a base of sorts somewhere near the hole’s opposite end, below the Halls of Axemarch.

Bardo had told Baden as much, many times, but such did not prevent Baden from asking again. “Tell me, one last time - where does this hole lead?”

Bardo had the courtesy not to sigh.  “The hole is the mine’s air vent, Baden.  It slides downward, at an angle, for two hundred feet-”

“Three hundred, more like.  Perhaps four.”

Bardo shrugged at his brother Tamil.  “Perhaps, perhaps.  We will know once we descend how far it goes, but – now – I can only hazard a guess.”

“And it ends in a room?”  Baden did not care whether the shaft stretched for two hundred feet or two hundred miles – there would be no escaping, at least not along the same route they proposed to enter.

“Yes,” Bardo explained for perhaps the fifth time since Wilan and Katon had left.  “A small room.  One exit – it leads westward, further into the mines. And there be a well in the floor, with a grating on top o’ it.  We’ll be on the second level of the mine when we exit the hole’s tunnel.”

“The well is dry? And the well leads downward to the third level?”

“Yes, Baden.”

“And the third level,” Baden continued with methodical diligence, “is where you last saw these beasts?”

“Aye.”  Tamil drew a circular shape on the snow with the butt of his warhammer.  “Our miners had broken into a large cavern.  It was part of a wet cave; the walls glisten therein and there are pools water scattered about.  A number of natural tunnels branch outward from that main room.”  Tamil illustrated by sketching lines from the circle he had drawn.

Baden had already seen the room’s shape – he had made Tamil draw it more than four times already.  Still, he wanted to be certain, wanted to know as much as he could about where they intended to go.  He did not like feeling responsible for the young dwarven brothers, but responsible is what he was.

Bardo spat, his spit creating a hole in snow within the center of the drawing.  “That be the location of the main pool.  The waters glow blue, so we be pretty sure that _katshko_ fungi be growing under the surface.  Them orcs seem to like feeling light-headed and seein’ things that ain’t there; they don’t venture too far from those polluted waters.”

“For now,” Baden agreed.  “But the _katshko_ will not last forever, and they will soon grow immune to its effects.  Then they will leave, most like head upward into our central Halls.  I wonder if they know our people have already deserted?”

Neither Bardo nor Tamil offered a reply.

Baden shook his head, as if waking from a dream.  “No matter.  We head down the shaft, as we discussed.  When we drop into that room, do not tarry.  We put on our armor, gather our weapons – quietly, mind you.  Then we head down the well to the third level and…well, we do what we must.”

Baden hefted a leather rucksack over his shoulder.  Borbidon’s armor was within the satchel.  His shield would remain here, buried under sticks and snow; it was too wide and large for the airshaft.  Baden hoped the axe on his back would not stopper him like a plug within the vent.  He looked to Bardo and Tamil – both dwarves had likewise stuffed their own armor in bags. 

“Tie ‘em up, boys.”

The three dwarves looped cords about their satchels and tied the bitter end to their ankles.  They would be moving downward, at a steep angle, headfirst.  The bags would drag – or, perhaps, slide – behind them.  It was the only way.

“Me first. Then Bardo.  Then you, Tamil.  Once you pull yourself into that shaft, there ain’t no coming back.  You won’t be able to move backward, even if you try.  So, think long and hard ere slipping through.  Should I reach the bottom, and not have you with me, I will think no less of either of you.”

Baden turned away, then.  Before either of them could respond.

***

In the end, all three of them had agreed it would be best to skirt the Marcher Lords of Rhelm.  Dun Meggen’s Earl was known to kill noble and commoner alike on nothing more than a whim.  And Dun Tullow was worse – Enion Cold-eyes had sent countless Valudians to their deaths over the past twenty years.  Though none of them were Valudians by birth, and though Kellus was a Rhelmsman, the threat of the Marches caused them to turn their route southward earlier than they would have liked.

So it was that they rode outward from Lonely Heath along the far banks of the Bramble, the same river whose headwaters began near the halls of Baden’s homeland of Axemarch.  The weather was tolerable if not pleasant, and the air seemed permanently white from falling and swirling snow.  The breath of their mounts mixed in wispy tendrils with their own as they continued the trek.  The Weedsea was desolate and serene around them.  It was as if they were alone in the world, and the laughing taprooms of Lonely Heath retreated more quickly than their progress would suggest.

They had John, however, and the bard was ever the enemy of silence.  He strummed more tunes during those days than he had since the party first gathered beneath Aramin’s hide tent.  John had been a bit perturbed at dodging the Marches in favor of the cold plains; he had heard of the fabled beauty of Dun Moor’s reigning Countess and wished to gaze upon her with his own eyes.  He gave voice to his annoyance through his selection of tunes.  He would sing simple verses that painted Tundreth Clansfolk as primitives, wait until Raylin’s mood grew too dark for comfort, and then John would switch to ribald, lecherous rhymes that caused Kellus to blush crimson.

Despite the southlander’s verses, the wintry desolation of the surrounding prairies, and the bitter cold – the journey was not unpleasant.  They gave their mounts the reins, allowing the horses to pick their way in a southerly direction.  There were no roads, and little landmarks.  Raylin lead them southward by a cheerless sun, and by stars when the trio rode into the evening hours.  And when such astrological guides were concealed, the ranger merely followed the downward slope of the land.

In this manner did the three Olgotha brothers first spy the eastern edge of the Boarswood.  The forest was vast and menacing, its green so dark as to appear black.  Two months’ of fallen snow draped its trees in a white mantle, a contrast which only served to accentuate the shadows beneath the boughs.

“Decision time, friends.”  Raylin cupped both hands and blew warm air.

“I choose – yes.”  John dismounted, undid his breeches, and urinated onto the snow.  His mount copied him.

Raylin produced a small tin from his pack and removed the lid.  He dabbed fingers onto the waxy contents and smeared ointment on his lips and the tip of his nose and ears.  He offered the tin to Kellus who accepted it without comment.

“The decision,” Raylin continued, “was not whether you should piss or not.  We must decide our route.  Into the forest or around it?”

John tied his breeches with fingers made clumsy from the cold.  “Are we close to Val Hor?”

“One-hundred fifty miles.  Mayhaps more.”

“That’s not close.”  John coughed, spat, and flung snot from his upper lip with one hand.  “Which way is quicker?”

Raylin considered.  “Entering the forest, here. We could cut south until intersecting the Coastal Road, then turn westward into the lands of Valudia.”

Kellus dismounted and walked to the front of his mare.  He fed the horse oats from his own pouch.  “The Boarswood is unkind to those who leave its paths.  Have you ever penetrated that forest?”

“No,” Raylin allowed.  “But it is a wood, like any other, and I believe I could keep us from becoming lost.”

John looked up, hesitated, and then spoke, “But if something should happen to you?”  The bard climbed once more atop his horse.  “A man could wander the rest of his years in such a forest and never see another tavern.”

Raylin shrugged as if such a fate would not be wholly unpleasant.  “Then you wish to go around?”

Kellus nodded.  “I think it best.”

“Very well.”  Raylin stood in his stirrups and shielded his eyes from the sun.  “We will keep the woods to our right, within sight.  In two days’ time we should see the Coastal Road.  From there we cut west, through the forest but on the road, and then…then, friends, we approach Val Hor.”

“And,” Kellus added softly, “see once more the faces of our lost companions.  Helm willing.”

***

Amelyssan’s _light_ revealed a small alcove off the tunnel they had been traveling for the better part of the day.  All thought of the pursuing Cormicks was now gone; they had not been followed in the subterranean darkness.  Vath, would could see in the blackness, had already slipped within the alcove.  Amelyssan found the half-troll resting on his haunches, shaggy head swaying side to side as he sniffed the still, cool air.

The side room was a cache of sorts – that much was obvious at first glance.  Neatly stacked torches were against the far wall.  Other items were likewise organized throughout the chamber - two barrels, four boxes, seven red Cormick cloaks, and a number of arrows.  _But,_ Amelyssan thought, _if the Cormicks stock these warrens, why did their riders not follow us herein?_

Vath poked a talon through the tops of both barrels.  “Water.  And oil.”  The half-troll pulled the lid from the first and plunged his head as far into the barrel as its dimensions would allow.  Amelyssan watched the half-troll’s chest rise and fall as he sucked in the water.  After what must have been nearly a minute, Vath stood, water streaming over the lesions and boils upon his face.  “Good water,” he announced without preamble.

“The water _was_ good,” Amelyssan said with a soft smile.  Still, the horadrel stepped forward, cupped one hand, and drank.  “I taste the lice from your head.”

Vath showed broken teeth, eyes glinting.

Amelyssan opened his mouth to reply, then stopped.  “Behind you.  A door.”

Vath turned, reached out and ran a hand along the cave wall.  He saw it, now – a thin line marking a square, perhaps one foot to each side, in the stone.  Without delay the half-troll pushed the square, and stone ground on stone.  Behind, to one side, was revealed a niche cut into the wall.  “Another box.  Iron.  Small.”

Amelyssan _detected magic_ and, seeing none, shrugged.  “Let us see what these Cormicks felt was worth hiding.”

Vath removed the iron coffer and set it down on the floor between them.  He flicked a latch with a fingernail and lifted the lid.  Both half-troll and elf recoiled in surprise as a cave cricket, the size of a small house cat, jumped from the container.  Immediately, it began to chirp.

“I am not sure what I expected,” Amelyssan murmured, “but it was not _that_.”

Vath frowned and ran his hand along the interior of the box.  Vegetable scraps, rotted but still moist, littered the floor of the container.  The half-troll leaned back on his haunches and winced.  “By Ilmater, the smell is wonderful.”

“Indeed.”  Amelyssan held a kerchief to his nose, eyes watering from the horrid stench.  He stared at the box as a man might a riddle.  “There is a mystery here, one we should solve before continuing.”

Vath’s hand shot out and grabbed the cricket. The chirping stopped. 

“The box was sealed so tightly as to prevent us from smelling the creature; no mean feat considering your scent ability.  And the fruit is still moist, yes?”  Amelyssan pursed his lips in thought.  “Someone regularly sees to the insect, else it would have suffocated long ago.”

Vath appeared unconcerned.  Slaver dripped from his chin.  “I am hungry.”

Amelyssan, try as he might, could not answer the riddle.  If indeed there _was_ a riddle.  Perhaps some eccentric Cormick simply kept the cricket as a pet?  For some reason, that did not seem probable, or even possible.  “Eat.”

Vath grabbed the bug as one might an ear of corn, the ensuing feast noisy and wet.

***

Baden fought to keep his breathing under control.  He was red-faced and soaked with sweat from the descent and the sudden, chaotic fight afterward.  Two rucken guards – both cave orcs – lay in their own blood at his feet.  They had been standing sentry near the base of the well, on the third level.  Had their post been one level higher, outside the airshaft’s exit, doubtless the whole complex would have been alerted of the dwarven intruders.

Bardo and then Tamil climbed down the knotted rope Baden had tied above.  They glanced from the dwarf to the dead orcs.  Bardo frowned.  “Seems we be a bit late.  Sorry.”

Baden waved a hand, chest heaving.  “No need.  It is over.”  He once more took stock of his armor – every strap was in place, every buckle clasped.  Still, he felt naked without his shield.  “Where now?”

“Behind that bend is a tunnel that leads to the wet cave.”  Bardo toed one of the corpses with his boot.  “More of his ilk will be found therein.”

Baden wiped sweat from his brow.  “Good, then.  Let us-”

Tamil hissed a warning for silence.  The three dwarves stood quiet as the stone around them.  For long moments nothing was heard and then – a muffle.  A groan, perhaps.  Tamil pressed a finger to his lips then pointed around the bend.

Baden nodded, hoisted his axe, and moved forward with as much stealth as he could muster – which, admittedly, was not much at all.  _By Moradin’s singed brows,_ he swore silently, _this is work for Raylin, not me._

The tunnel cut to their right after twenty paces.  Baden peered around the corner, saw the hallway as it continued into the mountain.  Empty.  Opposite his position was an iron gate.  _Odd._  A second tunnel continued beyond the bars before turning around its own corner.  “The sound comes from there,” Baden whispered behind a cupped hand.  “Beyond the gate, around the corner.”

Bardo squinted past Baden’s shoulder.  He pressed his mouth to the dwarf’s ear.  “The gate was fashioned by our own miners.  That tunnel was to lead to the surface, but was never finished.”

Baden chewed the whiskers of his beard.  The gate appeared sturdy – as all dwarven craftsmanship should.  It also, by appearances, was locked.  _Do I open it?_  He answered his unasked question after a moment’s thought.  “Leave it.  We move to the wet cave.  Are you ready?”

Both Bardo and Tamil gave grim nods, and so they continued.

***

“We should go around.”  Raylin sat easily on his horse, facing John and Kellus, the dark sentinels of the Boarswood to either side of the road.  A palpable threat issued from beneath those shadowy eaves, though nothing stirred.

“You want us to step off the path?”  John’s voice was hushed, incredulous.  “Do you know what happens to those who leave the roadway while within this evil wood?”

“No,” Raylin answered.  “Do you?”

“Well…no.  No, I don’t.”  John spat quietly.  “That’s not the point.  It’s only a bug up ahead.  Not reason enough to leave the trail.”

“It _is_ a rather large bug.”

John frowned.  He disliked the Boarswood the moment his horse stepped beneath the canopy.  City folk, such as he was, were unaccustomed to such a huge swath of greenery.  The forest was massive, stretching in all directions, its walls of wood and ceiling of branches pressing ever upon his mood.  He felt…_little._  Everything was huge around him – trees, limbs, pinnacles of solitary rock.  The sun was forgotten, hidden by the leafless firmament.  The place must have been even darker, John knew, when the trees yet held their leaves.  Though they sat upon their hoses in the middle of the Coastal Road, John could not help feeling lost.

“I don’t give a harlot’s hello how big it is.  ‘Tis a bug.”

Raylin looked to Kellus.  “What say you?”

The Rhelmsman frowned.  He had been quiet since entering the forest – even quieter than his normal, reticent self.  At the end of their journey, all knew, he would face the officials of his Church.  Atonement was never easy, should it even be allowed.  “It grows dark.  We could camp here, on the road.  Perhaps it will be gone by the morrow.”

Raylin shook his head.  “I doubt it, friend.  The beast is a wasp of sorts – as big as a destrier.  It hovers, buzzing, above the body of a spider that is its equal in girth.  A stranger sight I have never seen.”

“A spider?”  John blanched.  “Is it blocking the road?”

“It is dead.  I think the wasp means to eat it.  No,” Raylin corrected himself, “the wasp may be laying eggs within its corpse.  Both are astride the road.”

“We could wait for travelers from the west.  Perhaps they will do our work for us.”

Raylin eyed Kellus.  “We have been within these woods for two days, and have not seen fellow journeyers since.  This is not a season for travel.”

John had heard enough. The menacing forest, the lightless sky, the frigid air – it was too much.  “No more chatter.  Let us ride at the thing, scare it off for a bit.  It can go back to whatever work it was about once we pass.  I sicken of these woods.”

Kellus withdrew his mace and unlimbered his shield.  “As you wish.”

Raylin chewed upon his lip, measuring the mood of both his companions before finally nodding.  “Very well.  We ride it down.  Stay close.  Do not pause.  Should one of us fall…we stop.  Otherwise, we gallop onward.”

Kellus and John agreed with grunts.

The trio kicked spurs to flanks.  They thundered forward, their battle cries sounding foolish and feeble beneath the weight of the forest.

***

“Wait,” Amelyssan interrupted, “do not eat that one.”

It was their fifth alcove, and the fifth time they had found a box containing a very lively cave cricket.  Vath had devoured the previous four insects.

“Something is amiss, friend,” Amelyssan whispered.  The blackness of the tunnels seemed a thing alive.  The horadrel hated not knowing the answer to a question, but hated even more not knowing which question to ask.

Four alcoves, four hidden boxes, four crickets.  Now, five.

He thought aloud.  “Why seal the box so that neither sound nor scent cannot escape?”

“To hide them,” Vath answered, his eyes solely upon the silent cricket in his grasp.

“Perhaps,” Amelyssan answered.  “But, then - why hide them?  I wager that Cormicks do not appreciate the taste of cricket as much as you, friend.”

Suddenly the cricket within Vath’s hand began to squirm.  Half-troll and horadrel stared at the creature with mild surprise.  None of the previous insects had moved once Vath had grabbed them.  They all had gone completely quiet, nearly immobile, the result perhaps stemming from an innate defense mechanism.

But this one…this one grew agitated.  It began to chirp.

“Odd,” Amelyssan breathed.

Even as the word left his mouth, the cricket’s chirps changed in frequency and rhythm. The sounds were loud now, nearly screeching, one quickly after the other.  Clearly, the insect was excited.

“Vath-”

The half-troll, face wrinkled in confusion, dropped the cricket onto the floor.

“No,” Amelyssan murmured.  _The cricket - it is afraid!  It serves as a warning!_  The elf dropped his _lighted_ staff and dove forward, manicured hands grabbing for the insect.  “Quickly!  We must get it into the box!”

The cricket bounded away from Amelyssan, still frantic with its cries.  Vath frowned but obeyed.  The monk leapt forward, landing smoothly next to the hopping insect.  He reached downward-

-and the world exploded.

Stone and earth shot upward from the ground.  The cricket was gone – swallowed by a wide, gaping, black and red maw.  Vath was propelled upward with the force of a shot bolt, his head slamming against the tunnel’s ceiling before he collapsed heavily to the rock-strewn floor.  Amelyssan, already prone from his dive after the cricket, rolled away from the explosion.

The horadrel’s eyes went wide.  “An ankheg!” he hissed, though the clattering debris and groaning corridor muffled his call.  He spat a word and a pair of arcane, purple missiles shot outward to impact against the worm’s nearest eye – a lidless, lightless orb that bespoke of death.

Vath stood, blood running freely down his face.  He took but a moment to survey the situation before doing what he always did – he charged headlong into suffering.  The ankheg belched a yellowish fluid, and the half-troll’s hide hissed like wine spat into a campfire.  Vath wrapped both arms about the worm’s head, its carapace creaking beneath the brute force of his grip. 

Amelyssan gained his feet, the words of _fire_ burning across his consciousness.  But he could not – not while Vath was locked in a deadly embrace with the creature.  So instead he attempted to _scare_ the ankheg, his once-aquiline features twisting into rictus of horror as he barked the invocation.

The ankheg, apparently, shrugged off the effects.  Both mandibles closed upon Vath.  The half-troll’s hide split from pressure more than sharpness, green blood oozing outward, pooling upon the tunnel’s floor.  Amelyssan watched in horror as he saw his friend’s eyes slowly close – Vath was losing consciousness along with his blood.

Again, Amelyssan considered sending a _fireball_ down the tunnel.  But…but it would be too much.  He was certain Vath could not withstand such an inferno, even though it would certainly immolate the worm.  Two more missiles streaked outward from the horadrel’s fingers, cutting sinuous lines through the air and imprinting their course upon Amelyssan’s vision.

Vath grunted, fighting to remain conscious, prodigious muscles rippling beneath his scabbed hide.  He gripped one wrist with his left hand, squeezing the beast’s head even as he was squeezed in turn.  The ankheg began to twist and writhe, attempted and failed to withdraw into the hole it had created when first bursting into the tunnel.

Amelyssan looked at his outstretched hand.  The ring upon his finger glimmered.  A _Ring of Life Transference._  The elf was unhurt – he could give some of his health to his companion, perhaps saving them both in the process.  Just as he opened his mouth to speak the command word, however, he heard a rumble in the wall nearest him.

A second ankheg.

Rocks showered onto the horadrel as he shielded his face with his arms.  The newly-arrived beast shot forward, maw dripping the same amber ichor that had eaten through Vath’s skin.  In the time it takes a man to know his death has arrived, Amelyssan was pinned within its mandibles – each the size and length of a greatclub.

The elf swooned in pain, his eyes watering.  The bite was horrible, the acid burning his hips, sliding down his legs and pooling in his boots.  His arms were pinned to his sides.

_It is over for me,_ he thought, in a single, odd moment of peaceful clarity.  _But not for Vath._

He spoke the command word, and his life – all that he yet possessed - fled.

***

The giant spider wasp had no intention of waiting upon their charge.  It rose, buzzing angrily, the sound more than that of a hundred hives.  The bloated creature streaked forward, eggs the size of apples dropping from its swollen abdomen.  Raylin raised his swords, surprised by the furious onslaught.

John cried out as he saw the beast’s stinger enter the Larrenman’s stomach, lifting him completely from the saddle.  Raylin rolled backward off his now-panicked horse, landing with a crack and thud onto the dirt of the Coastal Road.

“Die!” John screamed, nothing more poetic coming to mind.  He stabbed outward with his rapier, the point slicing easily into the thorax of the wasp.  Kellus was beside him, also mounted, his sword hacking in great downward strokes, blood and gore fanning outward in its wake.

Chaos ensued.  John was not nearly as nimble on the back of his mount as he was on his feet; it took all his effort to guide his horse with both knees, and the mount threatened to break at any moment.  Kellus was faring better, but the wasp had turned to him.  Once, twice – the stinger shot outward.  The first missed, the second clanged hollowly on the priest’s breastplate.

John slipped off his saddle, ignoring his horse as it bolted into the trees, and leapt forward.  He stabbed and thrust.  Wildly.  Gore splattered into his eyes, was warm on his forehead.

_Thunk!_

The stinger took Kellus in the breast.  The priest grew pale, almost instantly.  His arms froze.  He toppled from his horse like a statue, landing inert on the ground near where Raylin had first fallen.

John ran.

***

Baden wept, even as he strode forward, death in his eyes.  The narrow tunnel was made more constricted from the bodies of dead dwarves.  Tens, scores, perhaps one hundred of them.  Pushed against the walls without thought or care.  Their corpses were stones, their entrails a macabre mortar.

“B-Baden,” whispered Tamil, voice hoarse, face white from the horror of the scene.  “We should go.”

But Baden was beyond words.  Beyond thinking.  _DAMN THIS WORLD!_  His head pounded, his fingers were white upon the shaft of Borbidon’s axe.  Somewhere, far off, he heard Ilvar whimpering within his head.  He paid no heed to the child-spirit.

Baden spoke the language of his enemies.  “RUCKEN! DA KOM AT’K K’TAR!”  _Rucken! I am here!_  Over and again he called, his voice choked with rage and hard upon his own ears.

He felt rather than heard the creatures mobilize. The tunnel’s floor thrummed with their bootheels.  A drum began to beat.  A horn blew.  They were coming.  All of them.

_Good._  Baden breathed deeply, suddenly quiet.  _This is my goddamned house._ “MY HOUSE! DO YOU HEAR ME!”

The cave orcs came streaming into the far end of the tunnel, the blue light of the fungi pools behind them.  This would be a battle in blackness.  Darkvision.  Baden spread his legs and, though it pained him to do so, kicked the rotting corpse of a fallen Axemarch warrior away from his position.

Bardo and Tamil took up positions behind him, the latter scrambling upward onto the palisade of corpses to gain a better vantage point for his crossbow.  _Twang!_  The lead orc somersaulted backward, feathered bolt in his forehead.

Baden heard Tamil begin to crank upon the windlass of his crossbow.  “Bardo, stay with me.”  It was the only guidance he could give.  The orcs were upon him in a wave of black flesh, burnt armor, and stink.

Baden nearly went under.  He shot his hand downward to stop his fall, his fingers tearing through the decayed flesh of a dead dwarf.  He swung the axe with his other arm, upward, the blade skipping along an orc’s greaves until impacting its groin.  Bardo chopped downward like a man cutting firewood.  The sound of steel on orc helmets – both the teeth-grinding screeches of near misses and the loud report of direct hits – mingled with the din of dwarven cries and rucken shouts.

Baden regained his footing and began to lay about with the fury of his fathers.  He was a stone pillar, the orcs little more than driftwood as they fell at his feet.  Footing grew treacherous.  The tunnel sloped gently toward the dwarves, causing a slow-moving canal of gore to flow toward them.

Chop. Cut. Punch.  Baden even bit one orc that foolishly attempted to grapple him.  He spat out a glob of rucken flesh, flashing a red smile.  Once Bardo was nearly bowled over, but Baden sundered the spine of the orc who had climbed atop him.  Through it all, Tamil’s bolts sped into the tunnel.  The dwarf hardly needed to aim, so thick was the press of rucken bodies.

The drum stopped.  The horn silenced.

The few orcs that yet remained tried to scramble backward.  Baden would not let them.  He left his position, his boots making sucking sounds in the grisly mire.  Two more fell to his axe.  A third.  A fourth to Bardo’s crescent blade.  A fifth to Tamil’s bolt.

The wave, which had once rushed forward, began to recede.

“Behind us!”  Tamil hissed a warning.  And then, “I have no more bolts!”

Baden did not turn.  A silhouette blackened the tunnel before him, the few orcs still upon their feet appearing like children at the knees of their father.

Bardo had not lied – a cave troll.

“Bardo,” Baden whispered quietly, voice even, “assist your brother.  This one is mine.”

Cave troll and Axemarch dwarf met in the tunnel, surrounded by bodies upon bodies of both orc and dwarf.

And in the blackness, death came swiftly.

***

Vath felt life swirl and explode within the very core of his being.  The smell of horadrel, the smell of Amelyssan, was in his nostrils.

His eyes snapped open, his mouth cried a shout of rage, his muscles bunched once more.  With a grimace, the half-troll shifted to one side, dragging the ankheg bodily from its self-made hole, twisting the beast’s great neck.

As the wyvern had died to Vath, so too did the ankheg.

The crack of its spine was loud.  It echoed in the tunnel.

The half-troll turned, dripping blood and acid and hate.  Amelyssan lay on the floor between him and the second worm.  The elf had been severed in two.

“Praise Ilmater,” Vath croaked.  Tears, foreign to him, flooded his vision.

The ankheg mindlessly scampered forward, its hard feet pattering like rain upon the stone.  Vath went to meet him.

They clashed above the corpse of Amelyssan.  The half-troll rained blow after blow upon the worm.  Knees, elbows, teeth, fingers, fists.  The beast’s carapace was hard, but not so hard that it did not sunder and split and crack under that furious onslaught.

The ankheg bit in pain and fear, its mandibles crunching upon Vath’s neck.

It was a lucky attack.  A deadly one, for Vath.  He tried to speak but his windpipe had been crushed in the viselike grip.  Blood – his own – poured outward from Vath’s mouth, a steaming waterfall over his chin.  It fell in sheets, mixing with that of Amelyssan, green amongst the red.

Vath, his vision already growing black, reached upward.  He plunged an outstretched hand into the eye of the worm, pushed forward as far as his elbow.  He opened his fingers then, twisting and turning his hand, watching with grim satisfaction as the beast’s eyes grew dim, then dark.

Half-troll and ankheg fell atop Amelyssan’s upper torso.  The tunnel went quiet.

Vath lay still.  His face was inches from Amelyssan’s.  The elf was composed, even in death, his alabaster skin so smooth and so unlike Vath’s own cratered hide.

“I suffer,” Vath choked.

None hearing him could have discerned the words, but such did not prevent the half-troll from speaking.  His jaw opened and closed jerkily, the feeling leaving his limbs, his tongue swollen and numb.  The blood upon the ground rose as the worm’s dying heart beat fluid outward rhythmically.  Soon Vath’s nose and mouth were drowned.

Still, he spoke, or tried to.  “I suffer.”

His hearing went first.  The cave, already quiet, was suddenly as silent as death.  He no longer heard the trickle of blood, the clicking of the dying ankheg’s appendages, his own wheezing.  

For once, Vath did not moan while breathing.

For he no longer breathed.  He tried once more to speak, but such was beyond his capacity.  Blackness fell upon him, complete, stifling.

He heard his own voice, now strong and clear and filled with the breath of his god:  “I suffer.”

***

John sprinted, turned, and pulled the crossbow from the holster at his thigh.

The wasp had retreated.  It was buzzing about the eggs that had fallen onto the ground during its rush.  After a moment, it returned to the spider carcass. 

John dragged a hand across his eyes.  He was weeping.  Openly.

He lifted the crossbow and tried to aim at the wounded wasp.  It was impossible.  He was in no condition to make such a shot.  His gaze kept going toward the still bodies of his friends, both frozen in odd caricatures, covered in blood.

John forced himself to breathe evenly.  If he died, there was no hope.  Not for any of them.  He walked forward, along the path.  He stepped over his friends.  He could not bear to look, not now.  One of their horses had been killed in the fight, though John could not remember such happening.

He sat down, behind the animal’s body, and placed a handful of bolts onto its flank.  _Just like shooting dwem at Olgotha,_ John tried to encourage himself.

He pressed the butt of his crossbow to his shoulder, aimed, and squeezed.  The bolt flew harmlessly over the wasp.  The insect raised upward, buzzing, fly-like eyes staring in his direction.  A moment passed.  Once again the creature fluttered downward and began to lay its eggs.

John spat phlegm.  His nerves were returning.  He fitted a bolt to his crossbow, lay full upon the dead horse, closed one eye, and shot.  The bolt flew true.  It took the spider just above its wing, burying itself completely.

The insect’s buzz was maddening, loud.  It filled the forest.  It turned and sped toward John, just as it had done earlier.  Blood fountain in its wake.  Yet now its flight was erratic, slow.

_One…more…shot._ John calmly reloaded, for all the world appearing like a man at target practice.  He exhaled.  The beast closed.  He lifted the crossbow to his shoulder.  The wasp was nearer still.  Fifteen paces.  Ten.  Five.  John sighed, and fired.

He missed.

***

Baden had not known cave trolls could speak, until this one did.

“I am Buk’lokik,” came the sonorous voice in the tongue of giants.  “I have smashed forty-two grubs” – the word for dwarves – “and pissed upon the altar in your Halls.”  The massive troll walked forward, stooping beneath the tunnel, a great iron warbar held easily in one hand.

“I am Buk’lokik,” it continued, ignoring the fleeing orcs beneath its ponderous belly.  Its flaccid manhood swung in the blackness of the tunnel.  “I have ground the bones of your women for my porridge.”

The cave troll stopped, feet spread wide, war bar swinging casually from one hand.  The sounds of fighting filtered forward from the rear of the tunnel where Bardo and Tamil engaged in a bloody, hand-to-hand fight.

“I am Buk’lokik,” it said, again.  “I am favored of the morhedrel, chosen of Sorvakia, lord-warrior of the Deepingdelve.”

“Well, Buk’lokik,” Baden replied without emotion, “go f*&k yourself.”

Baden charged.

He was beneath and inside the reach of the warbar before Buk’lokik could register his surprise.  Borbidon’s axe sung and spat as it cut, again and again, into that unprotected, rotund belly.  Baden stood beneath the cascade, triumphant, eyes white, mouth agape.

The warbar slammed onto his shoulder.  He heard his bones crack.  He cared not.  Again and again and yet again he swung.  For each three of his blows, the great brute landed one upon him.  A lesser dwarf would have been pulp, but Baden was no lesser dwarf.  He was fighting for home and hearth and all those things that mattered to him.  This was the fight of which he had dreamed.

He would not die, because he could not die.  He was immortal.

Buk’lokik stumbled backward, great, black fingers pressing upon a horrendous gash crossing its navel.  The cave troll’s eyes were wide, his mouth panting like that of a frightened hound.  It tried to escape the fury embodied within Baden, but the tunnel was too tight, the ceiling too low.

The cave troll fell.  The warbar rolled, clattering, from its fingers.  Baden climbed atop his chest.  From behind him he heard Tamil cry – an anguished, horrible sound.  But Baden paid it no heed.  His enemy was beneath him.

“That axe…” Buk’lokik whispered, mouth filling with his lifeblood.

Baden nodded.  “This axe.”

With one, savage stroke, he cut the abomination from the crown of its head to the quivering jowls beneath its jaw.

“This is my home.”

***

John ran through the forest, terrified at the prospect of leaving the road.  But such could not be helped.  He knew he should be tired, near exhausted, but he was not.  And – as thick as the growth was – no thorns or branches scoured his face or scratched his arms.  His flight was smooth, unhindered by tree or hillock.

Finally, after an eternity, he stopped.

John opened his mouth to suck in air, but found he did not need to do so.  He sat upon a stump, raising hands that should – by all rights – have been shaking.  They were smooth.  Untouched by gore.

A cowled figure approached.

John reached for his rapier, but it was gone.  As was his crossbow.  He stood, eyes guarded.  “Who…who are you?”

John’s voice echoed oddly in the forest, where no echo should exist.  The figure glided forward from the boles and boughs.  It stopped but paces from John.

The southlander was quickly becoming frightened.  “Speak, or by the gods I will kill you where you stand.”

“With what?” The voice was that of a man barely past childhood.  Soft, holding no menace.

“Are you a gammhedrel, then?”  John stepped forward, crouching, and attempted to pierce the blackness beneath the figure’s hood.  “A wood elf?  A fey?  I…I did not mean to leave the road, but…”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I do.”

“Then…” John, for once, was at a loss for words.  “Then will you help me?  I have two companions – no, two friends, lying back there.  Dear, dear friends.  I would see them saved, if this cursed world would allow such.”

“They are beyond you.”

John sat.  Tears welled in his eyes.  “Then they are dead.”

“They do not share your fate.”

John ignored him.  He no longer cared. The figure could produce a dagger and slit his throat; John would not so much as raise an objection.

“Look upon me, John of Pell.”

John did.

The figure reached upward and pulled back his cowl.  He was a boy.  A man.  Somewhere in between both.  His face, like his voice, was familiar.

“How do I know you?”

“You killed me.”

Then John knew.  “You are the singer, from Basilica.  From Arens.  The one we sacrificed.”

“I am.”

“But you are dead.”

“I know.”

John was quiet for a long, long moment.  The bard stood, tried to smile, but failed.  He went to wipe the tears from his cheeks but found there were none.  He smoothed his tunic, ran his hands along his clean breeches.

“Tell me, my colleague – is there music where we now go?”

“Oh, yes,” the man-boy breathed, eyes wide and voice filled with wonder.  “Ever and always.  Wondrous.  Beautiful.  Finer than has ever been heard upon the face of this world.”

John nodded.  “I have a great desire…”  The bard licked his lips, face upraised.  “I have a great desire to sing.”


----------



## Destan

Hi everyone,

Contrary to its title, the previous update marks the end of this thread.  I thank each and every single one of you for reading, for posting, for joining the Olgotha Brothers in their quest.

I hope to get around to starting another thread on these boards.  The campaign, as recorded hereupon, is still in its infancy.  There is still many stories to write - there always will be.

I apologize to those readers who had favorite characters apparently die in this last update.  This, I think, is the largest difference between a novel and a campaign.  Sometimes things just don't make "sense".

Writing this story hour has proven better than even my most grandiose hopes.  I had never thought it would become the living thing that it has.

That, friends, can be attributed to you.  Without your posts of encouragement, your questions, and your criticisms - I'd never have stuck with this thing so long.

I hope you find the world interesting enough to, perhaps, grab a copy of the forthcoming supplement.  It details the world, such as it is, in a much larger scale.

Which we just might see, regardless, when the Brothers of Olgotha learn of their true destiny, and first feel the horror of the creature known as Loroth.

Until then -

Shen tu fundin!

Destan


----------



## Talix

So... everybody dies except for Baden?  The End?

Now, don't get me wrong - this was fabulous storytelling, and I nearly wept for every one of the characters... but yikes.    

What comes next?  Anything?  [EDIT] Nevermind, I guess that answers that question.  Well, it's been fun while it lasted!  Thanks for sharing it with us.   [/EDIT]


----------



## gerg_861

If you perhaps told us the name of the forthcoming supplement it would be much easier to buy...


----------



## WizarDru

Well.........*DAMN*.

That was amazing.  I can't wait for what you do next.


----------



## Old One

*Wa-wa-what?*

Holy crap on a stick     !

~ Old One


----------



## Old One

*Oh Yeah...*

Never split the party     !

~ Old One


----------



## frostrune

*Farewell?*



> Never split the party    !
> 
> ~ Old One




Yeah we learned that lesson the hard way.  It was BAD.  REAL BAD.  But we get a lot smarter and better from here.  Baden's fight was very ugly.  As were all of them.  Sometimes it just comes down to luck.

I hope Destan doesn't mind me ruining his cliff hanger but Baden isn't the only one who survives.  The original Brothers of Olgotha now number three.  May Vath, Amelyssan, and John rest in peace.

Thanks for reading.

Baden Dost


----------



## Look_a_Unicorn

Destan-
the Brothers of Olgotha, and your portrayal of their exploits have provided me with near orgasmic literary pleasure, and for that you have my most heartfelt thanks. You can be sure I'll leap upon your next next story hour with glee when and if it appears.


----------



## handforged

wow, wow, and more wow.

That was totally amazing.  Each and every part was absolutely wonderful.  I cannot wait to see what happens next and I mean that completely. I CANNOT wait.  And I would love to know the title of the supplement.

~hf


----------



## pogre

Welcome to the club


----------



## LightPhoenix

It seems right though, who died and who lived.  I don't really know why, but I read that, and it just feels like it was their time.

I'm looking forward to the second chapter, so to speak.


----------



## Pyske

frostrune said:
			
		

> I hope Destan doesn't mind me ruining his cliff hanger but Baden isn't the only one who survives.




I don't think you're giving too much away, there.  It does say it pretty directly in the story.



> John sat. Tears welled in his eyes. “Then they are dead.”
> 
> “They do not share your fate.”




Well done, Destan.  I look forward to seeing what you do next.

 . . . . . . . -- Eric


----------



## Celtavian

*re*

Nicely ended Destan. That's how most adventurer's lives would end, somewhere lonely doing something foolish or brave. It should be interesting to see what replacement characters join the fray.


----------



## Darklone

Ohhh. Well, Old One was faster. Now where is that supplement?


----------



## The Forsaken One

Goosebumps.


----------



## Kestrel

Very cool Destan.  I'm really looking forward to the next chapter.

I love the idea of a campaign continuing on even though the first party was wiped out.  Someone else in the world taking up the mantle and carrying the story on.  (I know that not all of them died)


----------



## Lela

Old One said:
			
		

> Holy crap on a stick     !
> 
> ~ Old One



 Hay, that's _my_ line!


----------



## grodog

Wowza, now *that's* an ending I wasn't expecting!  

Excellent work, Destan, and I hope we get to read more about the survivors sooner vs. later


----------



## Horacio

WOW!!!


----------



## Mahtave

I too am in awe of this last update.  I will patiently wait to see what happens from here!  

Destan - please let us know the title of your supplement!


----------



## Lela

So, did all those deaths happen at relitively the same time or were they split up?  I know Baden was doing PbeM but how were you handling the split with the other characters?

Or did you already answer that?


Does anyone think that Amelyssan may have broken the prophacy about Vath by granting him her lifeforce and dying in his place?  Admittedly, she probably would have died anyway but there wasn't a prophacy about her.


----------



## Capellan

I know it can be hard to tell with these elves, but I am pretty sure Amelyssan is a guy.    

Though since Vath died, anyway, the point seems fairly moot ...


----------



## Nasma

Destan,
had you actually planned for the cricket/ ankheg scenario from when Vath's player first learnt of the prophecy?  If so... wow.
This story hour has now been going for just under eight months, yet in that time it has been the most entertaining of any that I have read.  Thank you for writing it, and allowing us to read something better that many published books, for free.  It is strange to think that the characters haven't even met Loroth yet, if this is just the beginning of the campaign, then I can only imagine what the rest of it would be like.


----------



## Lela

Capellan said:
			
		

> I know it can be hard to tell with these elves, but I am pretty sure Amelyssan is a guy.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Though since Vath died, anyway, the point seems fairly moot ...



 Yeah, both my bads. I keep screwing up on Amelyssan's gender. Really, it's because the only elves I've ever played with were female.

 It might have been fun if the ring had worked though. Think, Vath with a small piece of Amelyssan's soul. That could have been odd.


----------



## thebitdnd

Nasma said:
			
		

> It is strange to think that the characters haven't even met Loroth yet, if this is just the beginning of the campaign, then I can only imagine what the rest of it would be like.




Heh,

It's been almost three years since the events in this thread have taken place and we STILL haven't come face to face with Loroth yet. Well, I should say, we _have_ met him, we just didn't _know_ we met him. Destan is pretty sneaky in that way. Our current top priority as a group is to ferret out who exactly Loroth is. We're getting tired of him knowing our next move before we make it.


----------



## robberbaron

Noooooooooooooo! It can't be over!

Then again, bloody good story, Destan. I kneel before your art, unworthy.

Looking forward to your next project.


----------



## dpdx

I have to say that that's the closest I've ever come to shedding tears over a Story Hour. Still, I've got to admire the honesty it takes for a DM to let the dice fall where they may, even if it results in the death of a PC.


----------



## DrZombie

Bugger this. You sure you aren't George Martin in disguise? I feel like the end of his last novel. All the main characters are dead or missing. Very good story, one to remember. Will you post a link in this thread when you start your next one?


----------



## DrZombie

D... D...D.... Double post


----------



## The Axe

*Or, better yet...*



			
				Lela said:
			
		

> ... It might have been fun if the ring had worked though. Think, Vath with a small piece of Amelyssan's soul. That could have been odd.




Or, better yet, Vath with Amelyssan as a 'spirit child' (like Baden's)...


----------



## handforged

Destan said:
			
		

> Vath felt life swirl and explode within the very core of his being.  The smell of horadrel, the smell of Amelyssan, was in his nostrils.
> 
> His eyes snapped open, his mouth cried a shout of rage, his muscles bunched once more.




The ring did work.  Amelyssan gave Vath the rest of his life force (hit points) just before he died, allowing Vath to kill the Anhkeg.

~hf


----------



## Lela

handforged said:
			
		

> The ring did work.  Amelyssan gave Vath the rest of his life force (hit points) just before he died, allowing Vath to kill the Anhkeg.
> 
> ~hf



 If only it worked _better_ though.


----------



## Sidereal Knight

Destan -

I just wanted to give you my thanks for a very enjoyable read.  I look forward to whatever comes next!

SK


----------



## MooseHB

*Yes we do*



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> On a somewhat related note - _do_ new readers come along when story hours are this far advanced?
> 
> D



I started reading this thread about two weeks back.  Don't ruin the end for me, I am about halfway through.


----------



## Destan

gerg_861 said:
			
		

> If you perhaps told us the name of the forthcoming supplement it would be much easier to buy...




No kidding.  Had to laugh when I read this post.  Truth is - I'm not quite sure what it's gonna be called.  _The Valus_, probably.  Not too terribly creative, huh?



			
				Lela said:
			
		

> So, did all those deaths happen at relitively the same time or were they split up? I know Baden was doing PbeM but how were you handling the split with the other characters?




Hmm...they happened within the same week in the game world, and they all happened in between the same two group sessions in the real world.  I did a couple of tabletop sessions with Baden.  John, Raylin, and Kellus were all together for a single, short tabletop session.  Vath and Amelyssan died in our only WebRPG session thus far in this campaign.

For those who don't know, this group gets together about 2-3 times a year.  Each time is a Thursday-Sunday marathon.  We have one coming up the second weekend in March.  Sometimes, when the game lends itself to such, we do in-character posts or emailing and, occassionally, solo adventures.  Helps pass the time.

As Joshua Randall first said, and many of you have echoed: _Never split the party._  We know that...now. 



			
				Nasma said:
			
		

> had you actually planned for the cricket/ ankheg scenario from when Vath's player first learnt of the prophecy? If so... wow.




No.  I wish I could be that good at predicting my PC's actions.  Heck, I never know what they're gonna do from combat round to combat round.  The prophecy Nasma is referring to is when Ilmater spoke to Vath and said he would be killed by a burrowing creature.  When I wrote that update, of course, I knew how Vath would eventually buy the farm.  A little bit o' artistic license, if you will.



> This story hour has now been going for just under eight months...




That long, eh? Whew.



> ...yet in that time it has been the most entertaining of any that I have read. Thank you for writing it, and allowing us to read something better that many published books, for free.




Actually, it's free to most people, but I charge WizarDru and Old One a minimal reading fee.



> It is strange to think that the characters haven't even met Loroth yet, if this is just the beginning of the campaign, then I can only imagine what the rest of it would be like.




Yah, it all goes downhill from here.   When I first envisioned the campaign theme, I wanted some behind-the-scenes uber bad guy.  Loroth has always been out there, waiting, planning, working his little evil machinations and what not.  The PC's are pretty ding-dang-dong advanced from where they are currently in this story hour, but they're still far from being able to go head to horns with the Big Guy.



			
				dpdx said:
			
		

> I have to say that that's the closest I've ever come to shedding tears over a Story Hour. Still, I've got to admire the honesty it takes for a DM to let the dice fall where they may, even if it results in the death of a PC.




Well, on WebRPG the die rolls were in the open, so Vath and Amelyssan were goners whether I wanted to be nice or not.  And with John's death, it was just...obvious.  I couldn't let him live and not have it appear as a complete cop-out to all involved.  I _do_ like to let the dice fall where they may, something ol' Pogre can probably attest to from his own DMing.  I'm of the mind that the moment players feel that the DM will cut them breaks is the moment they lose a bit of the fun.  I'm sure that's not the same for all groups, but I'm pretty certain that's true for the Olgotha Brothers.



			
				DrZombie said:
			
		

> Bugger this. You sure you aren't George Martin in disguise?




If only I could dare to dream...actually, you might remember me as the short, fat, bald red-robed DM from the 80's D&D cartoons.  Or maybe not.



> Will you post a link in this thread when you start your next one?




If we fire up another thread, you bet I'll include this link.  I'd plan on starting Thread #2 right from the get-go, without any background or preamble, so the link will be needed if we can snare some unsuspecting new readers into this little tale of death and depression.

Oh, look!  Here comes one now...



			
				MooseHB said:
			
		

> I started reading this thread about two weeks back. Don't ruin the end for me, I am about halfway through.




_Pssst_ - everyone dies in the end. 

Thanks to the folks quoted above and all you other little D&D addicts for posting and reading.

Now, I'm off to drum up some CR42 monsters for our upcoming March session!  Where is Blackdirge when you need him...

Take care,
D


----------



## Lela

Destan said:
			
		

> Now, I'm off to drum up some CR42 monsters for our upcoming March session!  Where is Blackdirge when you need him...
> 
> Take care,
> D



 Don't forget the Jolly Giant.  His stuff's already a bit higher CR wise anway.  Just mix in some Vile Darkness and you're there.


----------



## WizarDru

Destan said:
			
		

> Actually, it's free to most people, but I charge WizarDru and Old One a minimal reading fee.



Well, yeah...but we get these swell membership cards. 




			
				Destan said:
			
		

> Well, on WebRPG the die rolls were in the open, so Vath and Amelyssan were goners whether I wanted to be nice or not. And with John's death, it was just...obvious. I couldn't let him live and not have it appear as a complete cop-out to all involved. I _do_ like to let the dice fall where they may, something ol' Pogre can probably attest to from his own DMing. I'm of the mind that the moment players feel that the DM will cut them breaks is the moment they lose a bit of the fun. I'm sure that's not the same for all groups, but I'm pretty certain that's true for the Olgotha Brothers.



The Meepites feel the same way.  The only time I've ever pitched underhand, as it were, was during "Heart of Nightfang Spire", and they could tell that I was holding back.  It's part of the reason we didn't play the module to fruition.  There is a certain inherent contract between players and DM, for our group at least, that no challenge is worth its salt if there's no actual danger or risk of death.

The idea that death has no drawbacks in D&D is, to me, silly.  To all but the highest-level players, death is a dramatic and unpleasant experience, at best.  Death becomes more of an inconvienence than a crisis at 20th level, and sometimes it has a high price.  As it should be.



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> Now, I'm off to drum up some CR42 monsters for our upcoming March session! Where is Blackdirge when you need him...



I've got a slightly used Advanced Hlaf-Fiendish Elder Xorn I can let you have, cheap.


----------



## Len

WizarDru said:
			
		

> I've got a slightly used Advanced Hlaf-Fiendish Elder Xorn I can let you have, cheap.



Oh, so _that's_ why most of the monsters ran away at the end of the fight. You're hoping to hawk them second-hand to other RBDMs!


----------



## Old One

*Hey!*



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> Actually, it's free to most people, but I charge WizarDru and Old One a minimal reading fee.
> 
> Take care,
> 
> D




Har!

~ Old One


----------



## grodog

OK Destan, we know you're gaming this weekend:  any juicy details to share?


----------



## Destan

grodog said:
			
		

> OK Destan, we know you're gaming this weekend:  any juicy details to share?




Senor Doggy,

I must admit - it felt dang good to be rolling dice again.

As frostrune mentioned over in the Rogues Gallery, it was a fatal session for two PC's.  One always must look before they leap when using teleport, eh?  Especially if the whole party can't make it on the same trip.

The weekend was filled with bad beer, bad food, and bad die rolls.  In short, it was pretty much perfect.

Until next!
D


----------



## WizarDru

Destan said:
			
		

> As frostrune mentioned over in the Rogues Gallery, it was a fatal session for two PC's. One always must look before they leap when using teleport, eh? Especially if the whole party can't make it on the same trip.



Ahhh, the classics.  Teleport Mathematics is always comedy gold.  

_"How many can you bring with you?"_

Under 3.5, at least you don't have to ask those unpleasant personal questions about character weight.


----------



## Destan

Remember the end of the _Ferris Bueller_ movie?  The credits are rolling and suddenly there's Ferris, taking a shower, asking you why you're still watching?  He says, "It's over.  Go home!" or something like that? It's sorta the same thing here - this thread is dead, Ned.

If you've reached this spot for the first time, thanks for reading.  Truly.

Please, head on over here - *Sins of Our Fathers II* - to continue the tale.  

Thanks!
D


----------



## Lela

Wooooohooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


----------



## Dolza

*Wow! an Easter Egg for the dedicated!*

Destan, 
  found this after reading through the first post or two of the current story.  I love the themes and mature nature of this story.  The characters are great and what few side affects i've read, like the children's souls in their bodies, are awesome!  The choices you're characters have to make and seeing some of them agonize of them make me rub my dm hands with glee!  

I'll catch up to the modern day story soon i swear!  work has started back for me, i'm a school teacher, so my post reading rate has to drop dramatically.  fortunately, i've just started dming again so i'll get to....err...borrow some of your wonderful ideas and themes for my own game.  and although my players are around 9th level, i'd bet i can adapt it without too much trouble.  

Thanks for the treat and the great entertainment with your story hour and keep up the great work!

thanks
dolza

wared@cfbisd.edu


----------



## Trigo

*Reading - the old fashioned way*



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> *I'm placing this little 'Easter egg' here. *




Ooh ooh. Me please.
I only got the tip of about this thread a month or two ago and I have to say it's brilliant! Thanks very much for sharing your game with us.
Personally, despite the Word document compilations, I enjoy slogging through the message board version to see the reactions and discussions of the readers and the author's responses (which are generous and frequent - thanks for that too). A lurker's paradise!
All the best. 
Mike

P.S. Right, back to page 10.


----------



## Azgulor

Holy crap!  I don't know how it took me this long to find this gem, but this story hour was great!

Azgulor


----------

