[4e] Bad Company

Loup Du Noir · #1 07-13-2008, 08:09 AM

Prologue
The grey light of dawn hung over the orchard like a funerary shroud. His mother crouched amongst the leaves, peering into the dirt. She had never been at home here, far from her beloved forests. Even though father had let the trees and plants here go wild, she faded a little each day, a flower denied the sun.

He stepped onto the weed strewn gravel path, the white chips crunching under his bare feet like unseasonable snow. The cold bite on the soles of his feet made him hiss.

His mother stood and turned in one fluid motion, hissing like a hunting cat. She plucked at her belt then, seeing it was only her child son, opened her arms hesitantly. Behind her he caught a glimpse of something dark. Something terrible.
But something was wrong with her. Her mouth. Her face. Rotten, broken teeth peeked from gums riddled with corruption. Her eyes were the blank milky orbs of the dead.

She had died, years ago. Father too. An Orc raid. This should have woken him from this persistent nightmare, yet he remained where he was. The spectre of his mother regarded him for a moment, then beckoned him forward. He did not move, but the world about him did, tilting, dizzying. He nearly stumbled but caught himself as the apparition reached out to him. She amended the movement, instead pointing down the sickeningly high precipice the orchard had collapsed into.

There. There was the darkness.. A shattered keep lay like the broken bones of a man. Where its pelvis would be, shadows twisted and knotted. He felt a tug on his being, and the earth he stood on faded and crumbled beneath him. As he watched the ravenous vacuum spin wider, a gore-slicked fist emerged, clawing at the bone-strewn ground. He was transfixed as the hand pulled at the dying earth, dragging it down as more of the bloody limb emerged. Thick forearm. Horned elbow. The powerful swell of the shoulder.

The ash cold grip of the ghost wrenched him away. Spinning, he looked up to the stars dim into the dark. Only the North Star, Bahamut’s star, burned bright in that deathly shroud. Behind him the braying laugh of a goat, the sound of a thousand voices rising in pain split the vision asunder.

-

Karrim awoke in his monk’s cot. Of the five other beds in the hall, four were occupied by sleeping initiates, Afred’s gentle snoring the only sound he could hear over his own beating heart and ragged breath. He rose quietly, pulling on his tunic and walking softly to the weathered, fire-scarred door of the dormitory. It was a moonless night, so he plucked up candle to light his way. The tiny globe against the intruding night steadied his nerve some, and he quickened his pace.

The sound of clashing arms and curses wound its way to him from the courtyard of the abbey. Fear gripped him, but he steeled himself. With a breath, he extinguished the candle and stepped silently to peer into the open through an archway. He could just make out two figures, both massive creatures, sparring back and forth on the cobbles, exchanging sword thrusts and shield blows. He sighed, recognition piercing his fear soaked senses. The two dragonborn were Bleachbone and his mentor Balasar. As he watched, Balasar lunged forward, leading with his shield. Bleachbone, who was larger by far, squared his shoulders and met the charge shield to shield.

“You fight like a human whelp!” cried the older Dragonborn, though Karrim noticed it was his feet that were sliding back. In response to his elder’s barb, Bleachbone whipped his shield aside and lashed out with his training blade only to see it deflected by Balasar’s bulwark. Bleachbone then brought his own shield around, punching his mentor backwards. The pair broke apart, circling, snarling and hissing.

“Karrim!” Bleachbone dropped his guard, earning a quick thump to the flank for his inattentiveness. He bared his sharp teeth at Balasar, who had already limped across the yard, blunted sword and shield removed. The younger Dragonborn shook his head, rattling his scaled crests. “Karrim, why are you awake at this hour? Not come to join in the sparring, have you?”

“No Bleachb-“

“He has a name, Karrim. An honourable name. An old name.” Balasar, now divested of his accoutrements, looked the half-elf up and down. “He asks a good question. Why are you skulking around in the dark of night?”

“I had a… My sleep was troubled,” he felt foolish speaking of his fears to that tired, scarred old face, like a child to be clutching a candle under the moonless sky. He bit into his lip, a trickle of pain dulling the shame.

“Was it the dreams again, Karrim?” Bleachbone laid one of his massive hands on the half elf’s shoulder. “I know how they weigh upon your mind.” Bleachbone was a foundling, an egg brought to the abbey, and understood some of Karrim’s pain as an orphan. Yet he also did not, for he had no memories of mother or father to haunt him.

“Yes. Mostly. This dream was…. There was more.” Karrim relayed the vision, the vortex, the emerging arm, that hideous laughter.

“You have touched the Platinum Dragon. And not for the first time.” Balasar’s snout curled in an angry snarl. “You should have told the Abbess, or me, of these visions before now. By Bahamut’s grace we may still have time.”

-

Hours had passed, and Karrim had not been allowed to sleep. The Abbess Isher had been woken, and he taken before her in the chapel. As she asked him about the vision, she had painted the stone slabs about him with holy waters, ignited blessed candles of silver wax and burned sacred incenses, all to invoke the eye of the Platinum.

“You recognise what I am doing, Karrim?” she asked. He nodded. His life since coming to the abbey had been haunted by this. His father must have undergone the same rite. The initiation into the greater mysteries. Only a handful in every generation were so blessed. “In a moment I will invoke the presence of our God. If you are worthy of His grace, you will be transformed, imbued with his might.” The Abess smiled. “I am certain our Lord sent you this vision so that you might be made ready to face this evil vanquish it in His name.” Her expression became impassive. “Karrim, are you prepared to place yourself before the eye of the Platinum Dragon?”

“Yes.”

She smiled at him once again and let the candle fall from her hand. Karrim was engulfed in a pillar of argent light, piercing through his flesh, illuminating his soul. The agony was intense, but he held on to consciousness, as a man adrift must cling to debris. Before him, the radiance danced and shimmered, phantoms wings and visions of knights in the periphery. As he watched, the brilliance defined into two eyes of deeper silver, watching him. There was mercy in that steady gaze, and kindness, but no shred of humanity that Karrim recognised dwelt there.

He could hold that regard no more. He was undone.

Spoiler: Introduction

Loup Du Noir · #2 07-16-2008, 06:49 AM

Bleachbone laid about himself, warding away the pressing kobolds with heavy swings of his pick. Balasar had often boasted of the strength of dragonborn steel, but Bleachbone found his human-forged mail coat held up to the task well enough. A painful jab to the calf focused his mind on the present. He could feel blood from the shallow cut roll down the ivory scales of his leg. The feral kobolds took that opportunity to surge forward, and he sheltered behind his shield. No sign of Ingrid.

One of the kobolds suddenly collapsed under a blast of flickering silver light and the dragonborn warrior took his opportunity, ducking through the gap, spears glancing off his shield. He spun on his good leg and blasted the bandits with a breath of freezing vapours. Most of them dropped dead from the cold, but one held up its own shield, made from worked dragonscale, and endured the blow. Rendered sluggish by the frost, it did not have the speed to react to a sudden assault from the returned Ingrid, who splattered its brains with her heavy hammer.

“We shouldn’t have split apart like that,” muttered Bleachbone, straightening out his wounded leg. Karrim, clad in ancient chain of his order, strode forward, a prayer to the Platinum Dragon on his lips, but the dragonborn waved him off. “Only a scratch, anyway.” He looked from the half-elf to the dwarf and back again. They were all exerted from the battle, but no major hurts. He nodded, stretched his back and waved at the road.

A handful of days had passed since Karrim’s vision and ordination. The half-elf had been granted gifts to aid him on his quest; a tarnished suit of chainmail, battered mace, and a silver pendant of the faith. In a better age, it might have been the gleaming mail and coif of his father, and a shining blade blessed by the mightiest of angels. His green eyes, an elf’s eyes Bleachbone had been told, shone with that same old time passion, however. Bleachbone had volunteered to leave the abbey with his friend. There was nothing in the dusty old place for him anyway. Balasar was unable to improve his skills at battle, and unwilling to tutor him in the ways of his Order, so the young Dragonborn had allowed himself to be inspired by his friend’s quest. Karrim’s conviction was contagious. “The evil must be stopped,” he had said as they approached the ragged towers of Fallcrest, “we must stop it, Bleachbone.”

They hadn’t gone to Fallcrest in search of wickedness – though there was plenty there even if one was not looking – but for Bleachbone’s own gear. Leaving the abbey of his own accord, he had been provided only a stout staff and the clothes on his back. The dragonborn had his own means, however. Since he had passed his first decade, he had gone into the city to perform odd tasks, and learn what he could from the soldiery, first observing, then training beside them. He had earned in games of chance, strength and skill coin and prizes and set himself up a small set of war gear in preparation for a life away from the abbey.

This he had entrusted to Ingrid, a dwarf of the city, friend and sometime sparring partner. She worked as a caravan guard between Fallcrest and Hammerfast, and Bleachbone had been entrusted with a key to her home, a rebuilt cottage in the waste grounds of the city. He had been surprised to find her at home, and even moreso that she wished to accompany the pair on their quest. She had been waiting for a Halfling with a map, but he had not showed up. So she donned her plate and iron mask, hefted her great mallet and set off with them.

Karrim led them, following a path mapped out to him during his communion with Bahamut. That foul kobolds predated the roads gave their quest more weight. Evil visions and bad dreams could be rather similar, but flesh and blood monsters brooked little doubt. For his part, Bleachbone was glad that the degenerates were the worst of their troubles at this point. The whole of Nentir Vale was the territory of Orcs, and woe betide the unready traveller who encountered even a small band of that savage race.

The broken, dirty King’s road wound on. It was liked a shattered grin stretching before and after them, the few broken stones left behind by those useless to scavengers prying up the legacy of an empire long dead when Nerath was young. Karrim pointed ahead, his chocolate tan skin standing out in stark relief against the dull grey clouds, the yellowed grasses and washed out horizon. The faint line of stone walls was just perceptible against the sky.

“Winterhaven,” grated Ingrid from behind her grinning iron mask, marching ahead of Karrim as the he stopped and stared unfocusedly. Bleachbone waited beside him.

“It is close to here,” he said. Looking up at Bleachbone doubt creased his face for the first time, “or the time is close at hand… It is difficult to tell.” Bleachbone gave as reassuring grin as he could muster, and patted Karrim on the shoulder, gently prodding him on. Two more hours, the sun swinging low in the sky, and they had reached the wall, passing a few farms – half inhabited, half derelict – as they marched on.

It was a matter of survival that even the smallest settlements boasted walls to hold off the long claws of the things in the dark. Winterhaven was lucky enough to benefit from a combination of Nerathian stonework and small size. It was too well defended to bother with for a small raiding band, and had not the riches for a larger force. If Winterhaven were ever swept from the map, it would be an incidental thing, part of a greater scheme.

Two guards watched from the wall, torches in hand. They sheltered from the encroaching night in thick jackets, leaning on their spear poles like sticks. Likely, a pair of crossbows were leant against the wall, ready in case of trouble. Bleachbone drew their sceptical looks, but Karrim and Ingrid did the talking, and in short order one of the guards hurried down and opened a door in the large, metal bound gate. The first fat drops of rain had started to fall from the threatening sky at this point, and the guard advised them to seek shelter in the local Inn, Wrafton’s.

In short order they found themselves ensconced in the welcoming, if cramped, Inn. Two old men bickered at a round table, a circle of dwarves let out thick smoke from dark pipes, farmers and traders rubbed shoulders and shared news, in the corner an elf woman dozed and through it all servers carried cups and platters, all lit by the warm glow of the fire in the hearth where a stout man worked at his books. Thanks to coin found on the kobold bandits, they were able to purchase good meat pies and warm beds for the night. Ingrid and Bleachbone each accepted a cup of the local beer – cool and nutty – while Karrim contented himself with water. Before they had managed to seat themselves, they were accosted by the two local elders interested in a theological debate with Bleachbone and Karrim. Ingrid took this opportunity to slip away and touch base with the dwarves.

Eilian ‘the Old’ and Valthrun ‘the Prescient’ had been engaged in a debate since spying Bleachbone come through the door about the Platinum Order.

“You see,” Valthrun puffed out eagerly, “I have a theory that the modern day Platinum Order is an adoption of Dragonborn symbolism by a now defunct Order following the Thunder Son. Who or what he may be I can only conjecture but nonetheless, the documentation I have very strongly hints at this.”

“Documentation that, I would like it to be known, you refuse to share with your fellows,” Eilian’s wrinkled nose flared and he let out a beery belch. “You see, Master Templar and Master Serpent-man,” Bleachbone bristled at this unintended slur, but chose to ignore it, “my colleague ignores the very human foundations of the Platinum Order. Of course there are worshippers predating that noble band, and other knightly orders that have fallen by the wayside. As it stands, all the scholarly work done shows the Platinum Knights arose with Nerath, a thoroughly human endeavour.”

“What you miss, my most esteemed Eilian, is that no Order springs from nothing.” Valthrun looked up at Bleachbone. “The Serpent-folk have long revered Bahamut, have they not… Bleachbone, wasn’t it?”

“The Dragonborn have revered Bahamut as our creator and guide since the days of Arkhosia,” agreed Bleachbone, “my tutor has some pottery dating from those glorious days inscribed with the words…” he paused, pondering the best approximations in the common tongue “’Virtue my shield, valour my sword, honour my guide.’”

“That’s all well and good, and no-one is contesting the proud heritage of the snake-people,” blustered Eilian, turning now to Karrim, “but to put all human inspiration as some sort of influence of imported ideals is a bit much, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I… that is I can see… both viewpoints have their merits.” The two old men harrumphed irritably but Ingrid chose this moment to interpose herself in the conversation.

“I’ve found the Lord of this place,” she pointed to a stocky, middle-aged man sitting quietly in the corner going through a ledger. “He’d be the man to talk to about your vision. Name of Padraig” Valthrun perked up at this, but the trio had already departed his table to speak with the Lord.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Lord Padraig murmured as they stood about him, not raising his eyes, “but I’m a little busy at the moment. If you could visit my manor on the morrow, we might discuss your business.” He looked up at them. “You don’t seem the sort of merchant to pass through Winterhaven. Perhaps I have misjudged?”

“My name is Bleachbone; this is Ingrid of Fallcrest, and Templar Karrim of Fallcrest Abbey. We have been sent here on a mission to fight an infestation of wickedness.” Bleachbone was rather pleased with his first introduction of their company. “We have been led to believe there might be some evil taking root hereabouts. A cult maybe?”

“A cult in Winterhaven? That’s… I really think you’ve been misinformed my good fellows,” the Lord nearly barked a laugh, but stifled himself. Ingrid raised an eyebrow at Bleachbone questioningly. Seeing this, and thinking he had caused offence, Padraig spoke up. “I’m certain you’ve got the best of intentions, but there’s no skulduggery about this place. I’d know of it! Winterhaven’s problems are purely of the kobold kind. Little thieves have been causing no end of trouble, making off with sheep and cows. They’ll only get more bold, and then a child will be snatched.” Padraig had become quite red in the face, his beard – which was slightly in need of a trim – wagging about as he talked.

“We had a run in with some kobolds on the road. They were well armed, well co-ordinated but we managed to deal with them.”

“Bloody good. Bloody good.” Padraig took a refreshing gulp of his cup, reappraised the three. “You seem solid sorts. I’ve no idea of the business that sent you here, but I could use strong souls like yours. I can’t get the folk here to listen when I tell them the kobolds are trouble. If nothing is done, it’ll end in a siege, and the cretins could just tunnel under us.” He took another breath to steady himself. “I think I’ve narrowed down where the vicious fiends are holed up. If you could look into it for me, I’d certainly make it worth you while.” He leaned forward, tapped a finger on the ledger. “A hundred crowns pique your interest?”

Bleachbone agreed but kept Ingrid’s expression in mind. She didn’t trust the Lord one bit.

-

Their next encounter with kobolds was far more vicious. They once again found themselves ambushed on the road, this time in a much more ideal setting for the kobolds, with plentiful outcroppings of rock and low-lying brush to hide in. The creatures were led by a cackling, skull helmed priest flanked by a pair of shield toting guardians, and supported by a mass of tiny savages and sling wielders. Bleachbone found himself separated and surrounded early on, and would have been beaten down were it not for timely intervention on his behalf by Karrim. The half elf and the wyrmpriest struggled in a contest of wills, Karrim meeting the mad beast’s acidic onslaughts with righteous fire. Ingrid once more charged into the slingers, bowling them aside but getting bogged down in the process. In the end they prevailed, but they were tired and sorely beaten in the attempt, all of them having pushed themselves beyond endurance. They voted as one to set up camp off of the road, only moving so far as to be away from a lonely stand of headstones placed there long ago.

Spoiler: On the Road

Mr Adventurer · #3 07-16-2008, 07:42 AM

Loup Du Noir · #4 07-20-2008, 04:24 AM

“I heard something… there, danger!” Esme could not see so well as her elf companion, Nerrain, in the starlit dark. Her eyes were tired, old… a campfire, and a struggle around it. The guttural bark of Orcs. Nerrain had already set off at a sprint, his loose black hair flying, arrow knocked on his bow. Plucking her weathered, much worn oak wand from her belt she strode forward at a much warier pace.

A white scaled dragonborn and a hammer-wielding dwarf were engaged in brutal melee with twice their number of Orcs. Beside the camp fire a body was slumped, a jagged axe protruding from the back of the neck. A shiver ran up and down Esme’s spine. Her father had raised her on a steady diet of stories of the depredations of the Orcs across Nentir, where his Circle had been broken. Uncertain of herself, she pulled up strands of magic to fire at one of the hairy green brutes, but the jolt was not strong enough.

The chaotic battle swept around her. The two warriors were pulled apart as the Orcs battered them this way and that. Only Nerrain kept his head, sprinting about the road and scree, placing arrow after arrow in rapid succession. She tried to summon up her greatest magic, but a sudden, savage blow to the head robbed consciousness from her.

-

“Esme, Esme, wake up,” a gentle hand upon her shoulder. Nerrain. She smiled, wincing as the cut on her head stretched. The Orcs! She looked around to see arrow flecked bodies. Brushing aside Nerrain, she pulled herself up, coughing a little. The dwarf stood to one side, occasionally glancing over at her Dragonborn comrade. The great creature was hunched over their third member, one hand clenched around the bloodied hand-axe, the other lain on his friend’s breast. Esme looked away.

“Our thanks, strangers,” the dwarf knelt down, unbuckling her face plate to reveal a clean shaven head, “We’d have been finished if you hadn’t lent a hand when you did.” She glanced back towards her ally. “He’s taking this bad. The boy and he were friends since… well, I suppose since Bleachy hatched. Came out of bloody nowhere.”

“The Orcs?”

“Them’s the ones. Just had a scuffle with a pack of kobolds too. Took the fight out of us.” The dwarf sighed, stood and extended her hand. “As I said, our thanks. Nerrain’s already introduced you pair. I am Ingrid, the big fellow calls his self Bleachbone, the boy is – was Karrim.”

Bleachbone had now scooped up his dead friend, carrying him up the path to the little gravesite. He set the body down with incredible tenderness for someone so massive, thought Esme, and started to attack the earth with his pick, the savage strokes sending earth flying. Nerrain took a step forward to lend a hand, but Ingrid shook her head. “It’s always hard to lose someone on the road, especially like that. Best to let him see to things his own way.” The elf looked uncertainly down at Ingrid, shrugged and settled himself on his haunches.

“You mentioned being attacked by Kobolds,” Nerrain’s voice broke the silence, his speech as soft as the starlight. “We were sent from Fallcrest to root some out of a manor not too far from here. We did not realise they had grown so bold.”

“Aye, second time we’ve had a run in with the little rats. Bolder by the day, it’d seem. We’ve got a map to their nest, were going to have a go at clearing them out for Padraig over in Winterhaven. Not sure we’ll be going on now.”

“We will. We must.” Bleachbone spoke loud and clear. Esme wondered at his straight back, firm poise. Her father, having lost so much in life, had been a broken, bent man, worn down by his worries. The Dragonborn was grieved, that was certain, but he seemed to have taken that hurt, added it to his soul as steel, not rot. “Karrim was sent on a mission for our Abbey. I will follow it to the end.” He looked at the newcomers. “Strangers, we would welcome your aid, and would split any reward we might claim evenly with you.”

“We were sent to clear a manor house…” began Nerrain.

“But if we have an opportunity to get at the root of the Kobolds, we would be glad to help.”

“Let’s move on then. I am as rested as I am likely to be here.” Nerrain cleared up the fire, while Ingrid and Bleachbone moved the Orc corpses into the ditches by the road. Then the four of them moved off as one. Bleachbone almost looked back, but stopped himself, squaring shoulders and marching on. Esme glanced over at where Karrim had been buried. Something glittered there, a fallen star.

-

“Please, please, stay in the trees.” The clanking duo of dwarf and dragonborn either did not hear or – more likely – ignored his plea. Instead, they tramped onward into a clearing. It was like travelling with a herd of wild avalanches. If he had some cloth, he might stop his ears with it. Esme, at least, had the good sense to follow Nerrain’s tread, and her travelling attire – while not the light fabric of his people – at least including minimal jangling, fiddly bits of iron. She was breathing heavily, but the armour of their new compatriots covered her wheezes.

He’d taken the lead after having a quick look at Bleachbone’s map. For some ludicrous reason, it had a crude path jotted on it. Oh yes, there was a hunter’s trail through these parts, he’d seen it as they passed. But it was such a roundabout way. And obvious to anything with one eye and half a brain. Far better to flit quick and unseen through the woods to reach the Kobold lair. Of course, his companions – new and old – bumbled through the wood like a gaggle of drunken bugbears on a sight seeing tour.

“We’ve been spotted,” bellowed Bleachbone as a piercing shriek ripped through the chill air. The heavily armoured duo readied weapons and rushed forward, met by a swarm of screeching, gurgling, filth smeared reptiles. Nerrain sighed and lifted his bow to fire.

Esme had other ideas. With a single word of power, she called forth a simmering sphere of flame amongst the onrushing kobolds and, in an instant, the tremendous heat withered them all. Nerrain blinked to clear his eyes of the after-image, and by the time he could see again Bleachbone and Ingrid had vanished into the far line of trees. The panicked sound of battle filtered through the leaves, carried by the slosh of disturbed waters. Esme offered a weak, tired smile and then strode forward, guiding the ball of fire like a dog on a leash.

A sound. Amidst the screams of battle. Under the rushing chuckle of a waterfall. Feet slapped on stone. The throaty bellow of a goblin horn. His eyes crawled up the stark cliff-face, picking out shadowed nooks and bolt holes. Goblins? A shiver ran up Nerrain’s spine, but he suppressed it. As the sounds of conflict died, he could more clearly make out the tramp of feet coming from within the cave complexes.

He span aside at the last moment as a javelin flew at where his head had been. From within the dark recesses of the cave poured a teeming throng of kobolds. Nerrain jogged backwards, firing arrow after arrow into the mass. At their rear he caught sight of a grimacing, freakishly over-muscled goblin gripping two axes. At the same time, it saw him and gurgled a painful sounding war-cry, spit and blood flying from a mouth filled with jagged shards of metal. It surged forward, past the swarming kobolds, to engage Nerrain, who promptly dropped back and shot the brute in the foot.

The sun seemed to drop from the sky as Esme, wand still gripped firm, stepped out from the trees, returned with her magical fire to lay waste to the savage foe. Nerrain spared her a smile as he leaped atop a rotten log, feathering two kobolds as he did. Bleachbone and Ingrid, slowed by their heavy armour, charged up from the waterfall to engage the big goblin. For all the goblin’s fierce mien and savage acumen, the combination of pick and hammer battered down his defences.

“Kalarel and Lord Orcus, prepare my way!” the creature spat its dying gasp to the empty air. The four looked from one to the other. The big Dragonborn shrugged.
“We shouldn’t split up like that,” exhaled Bleachbone. Nerrain thought to reply, but did not.

Spoiler: Loss and Victory

Spoiler: Bleachbone, Dragonborn Warlord

Spoiler: Esme, Human Wizard

Spoiler: Nerrain, Elf Ranger

Loup Du Noir · #5 07-24-2008, 04:55 AM

The slain goblin, his body pushed down the slope into the river, had carried a key and a short message. Bleachbone and Esme turned their attention to the note. The other pair took it upon themselves to turn up the lock the key was intended for. The kobold caverns were well lit, and surprisingly airy. Gnawed bits of bone littered the floor, but the movement of the waterfall crashing over the edge of the cliff helped to move the air and overcome the worst of the lizard and rotten meat stink. It didn’t take Nerrain long to find an iron chest, too heavy for him to move alone. Flourishing the key at the dwarf with a half smile, he flicked open the lock, ignoring Ingrid’s grimace of anticipation. The glow of light reflecting off of the gold illuminated Nerrain’s face almost as much as his broad grin. He sighed, running a hand over the coins and the thick linked chain.

“Such riches would keep each of us in wine and comfort for a good while,” he shook his head, “I suppose it’s best we tell Bleachbone and arrange who carries what so we can give it back to whoever it belongs to.” The tall elf stepped back.

“Hmm?” Bleachbone and Esme had followed them into the caves. The Dragonborn’s eyes grew round at the riches. “It’s ours. The Lord was more interested in getting rid of kobolds than getting back coin.” He stepped up, lifting the chainmail in two massive hands. “This is nice work… Probably dwarf, I suppose. Here, Ingrid. You’d best have it.” Bleachbone proffered the armour to her.

“Nah, looks too big for me. All yours Bleachy,” she grinned cheekily “asides, I used to wear that before getting used to proper armour. Kid’s stuff, that.” They all let out a good natured chuckle. Bleachbone ducked around a corner to try on the new mail. Nerrain looked to Esme.

“What about the note you found? The prospect of treasure was too enticing to hang around.”

“The note?” Esme, who had been peering at the chest full of coins, whipped her head up snappishly. “Oh, well, seems this mystery goes a bit further than some kobolds. It says:

“My spy in Winterhaven suggests we keep an eye out for visitors in the area. It probably does not matter: in just a few more days, I’ll completely open the rift. Then Winterhaven’s people will serve as food for all those Lord Orcus sends to do my bidding.”

“The Lord Orcus again. Do either of you know of him?”

“Maybe it’s a codename for Padraig. I don’t trust him.”

“Seems a bit far-fetched, Ingrid,” Bleachbone returned from the warrens, his new chain glittering in the torch-light. “I know you didn’t trust him but, well, you don’t trust anyone so free with gold.”

“And quite rightly so! Bloody confident, giving away all this coin.”

“Excuse me, but I think I have some inkling of this Lord Orcus. I’m no expert on the matter and obviously I’d like to check with some proper scholarly resources before stating anything, but if I recall from my younger years, the Lord Orcus is a demon of some standing. A Prince or some such title.”

“Well, now we know. That’s…” Nerrain began.

“Incredibly bad.” Finished Bleachbone. “We’re done here. We should return to Winterhaven, inform Padraig of the end of the kobold threat, and this new one.” Bleachbone pulled his pack open, stuffing coins into it. “We can divvy this up properly later. Everyone just grab some now.”

“We should be careful of what we tell the Lord. That note mentions a spy, after all. Might be him.”

“Ingrid!”

“Just saying,” muttered the dwarf.

-

Following Bleachbone’s order, Nerrain had guided the group across the wilds back to Winterhaven, avoiding the King’s Road. After the rush of combat had faded, and the lustre of gold hidden in their bags, the heavy sky and cold winter air had insinuated itself into their minds. None of them had slept, and their thoughts seemed to come alive with fears and regrets. Reaching the town wall, they found Winterhaven to be burdened under a similar malaise. Bleachbone was certain even more of the farms had been abandoned, though only a day had passed. The clouded sky took on the aspect of a grim robe, occluding the face of some terrible spectre looming over them all.

The guards, after a drawn out questioning let them through the gates, and the four agreed to meet again at Wrafton’s. Esme wanted to see if the local sage had any information on Orcus cultists. Ingrid and Nerrain promised to make arrangements for room and board at the Inn. Bleachbone was going to speak with Padraig. They should all meet once they were done. He also had a private errand he wished to attend to.

Padraig laboured under the same malaise as the other inhabitants of Winterhaven. A brief discussion of payment – and Padraig’s staunch refusal to retain it for the people of the town – gave way to strained silence. Bleachbone accepted the lord’s thanks and was about to leave, when he recalled the dying goblin’s words.

“Lord Padraig, when we first spoke,” the Dragonborn turned to see Padraig staring vacantly out the window, his eyes scanning the mournful clouds that hung low, threatening rain but never shedding so much as a tear. “we mentioned there might be some cultist threat to the town.” Padraig nodded slowly. “We’ve found proof.” He handed over the letter.

As Padraig read, a struggle seemed to play across his face. Finally, he exhaled heavily through flared nostrils and rose slowly from his creaking chair. He took a few steps, stroked his beard and fixed his eyes on Bleachbone.

“It seems I owe you an apology.” He looked at the note again. “If you need anything – anything at all – you have it.”

“Thank you, Lord Padraig. At the moment, we need information. Cultists tend to congregate in similar places, old haunts of their kind and the like.”

“I’m afraid I can’t be of much help there, but… Valthrun, the sage. Even if he does not know, something in that tower of his may have answers.”

“One of my group has gone to speak with him already.”

“Ah, splendid. The young cleric?”

“No, Karrim… he is no longer with us.”

“My condolences.” Padraig stopped. “If there is any further aid I can offer…”

“I will come to see you, Lord.” Bleachbone bowed and departed. He set a brisk pace for the local temple. Dedicated to Avandra, it enjoyed a small shrine to Bahamut. He would need a messenger. The Abbess had to be informed of her champion’s death.

-

Esme reclined in the comfortably overstuffed armchair Valthrun had offered her. The rest was welcome after staggering up three dusty flights of stone steps. She had passed rooms filled with rolls of parchment, heavy looking crates, grime crusted tomes and degraded relics. She would have liked to have tarried to investigate the contents of the tower but upon introducing herself and her association with Bleachbone, Valthrun had hurried upwards.

The study they had retreated to was as cluttered as the others, stacks of papers and books crisscrossed by narrow paths revealing dusty carpet. Three desks and at least half a dozen bookcases were creakingly loaded, with only a single table corner clear, room enough for a cramped workspace. Valthrun had cleared off two chairs and sat her down there.

Her host returned from rummaging through the stacks, a clay bottle and two slightly grimy mugs in hand. He thunked them down, causing an alarming tremor in the books, and quickly poured two fingers width of the amber spirit. Valthrun raised his own and Esme did likewise. The scent of cinnamon flooded her nose as she took a sip.

“It’s good to enjoy a drink up here. The dust dries everything out.” He waved a hand vaguely. “So, Blechbone and his friends found something amongst the wretched?” Esme held up a finger before rummaging around in her book satchel. The totem; hard cool and slightly in her hand. It had made its way to the bottom of the bag but she retrieved after pulling her spellbook free. She noted Valthrun hungrily eyeing the battered tome. She handed him the amulet claimed from a slain wyrmpriest. They had thought it a mere trinket, no more than a few silvers from a collector of such curios. After discovering the letter, she had taken the time to examine everything recovered more carefully, as Valthrun did now. The smoky obsidian was of an abnormal shape, hinting at a five pointed star when give a casual appraisal, the symbol of primitive kobolds worshipping Tiamat. Multiple nicks and grooves had been knocked into the glistening surface. But two curling lines had been intently carved into the underside of the stone, rubbed with some white element to give emphasis.

“Orcus,” hissed the old sage. He gulped down his cup, poured himself another. He offered Esme the bottle, but she declined. Setting it aside, he then turned the symbol over and over in his hands. “Orcus. The Prince of Undeath. Moving in the shadows. This would explain much… the atmosphere in Winterhaven. He must have his face pressed against his window into our world. The wind tainted with the foetid air from his lungs.”

“Valthrun.”

“Of course. You need information.” He retuned the idol, sat back in his own chair. “Esme, you are an educated woman. Do you know of Shadowfell Keep?”

“Indeed. The first emperor of Nerath –“

“The Shadow Emperor.”

“Quite. He had it built to guard Nentir should the Wazlad Orcs invade.”

“Hmm. Revisionist twoddle I am afraid. By the time he ascended the throne, the Orcs of Wazlad had quite lost the will to fight. Their greatest warleaders, Sun and Winter” Valthrun paused at a raised eyebrow, “Not relevant, of course. Suffice to say, the Shadow Emperor was not concerned with the Wazlad threat when that keep was commissioned. His eyes were turned to threats from outside the middle world. Beneath the keep was a rift opened by cultists, that led to a bloody temple of Orcus in the Shadowfell.”

“Hence the rather portentous name of the Keep. I did wonder.”

“Hmm? Oh no, that name came about because the last days of the Shadow Emperor’s reign passed in that place. The usual histories are accurate enough on that point, at least. But I am wandering again. What is important is a cult seems to have settled or sprung up, and they are as likely as not trying to open the rift.” He wheezed a sigh. “You must stop it. I will help you however I can.”

“Good. I will need a map, and any further information you can provide.”

-

“… So in the end this place was brought to ruin by a corrupted Platinum knight, driven mad by whispers through the rift,” Esme explained as they picked their way through the star-lit ruins. “From what I can gather, the Platinum Order has quite a history, here in Nentir.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Bleachbone murmured softly, walking carefully through scattered torso size stones.

“Hush now,” whispered Nerrain sharply. He pointed at three points in swift succession. “These stones have been disturbed, and recently. A path which we should follow. Quietly.” The elf winced as Ingrid clanged forward on tiptoe, Bleachbone an even louder accompaniment.

A weathered trapdoor, stained by rain and bleached by sun, was set amongst grass strewn slabs. Dwarf and Dragonborn set their muscle to opening it, only to nearly fall on their backs as the creaking portal came up with little effort. The two stifled a guffaw at an icy glare from Nerrain. From the hole torch light crept, licking at their feet and faces. Ingrid and Bleachbone took the lead, followed by Esme. Nerrain, still cautious, slid down the ladder quietly, turning his head this way and that. He had heard… something.

A flitting shadow in the lit chamber ahead. The brutish lines of a goblin. He cried a warning to Bleachbone but too late, as the chamber floor slid away beneath the Dragonborn’s feet, and he let out a pained cry, answering by screeches and hisses. From the corridors and rooms erupted hooting and whooping, the hunting calls of goblins and then they came. Pouring out of the shadows, wicked knives clasped in taloned hands. The firelight played across ghoulish fanged mouths. Sweat drenched Nerrain, but he fought the urge to flee as he knocked two arrows to his bow, taking careful aim.

Spoiler: The Keep on the Shadowfell

Loup Du Noir · #6 08-09-2008, 10:08 AM

The heavy crack of steel striking wood echoed through the thinning trees, followed by a cackle, which was stopped abruptly to be replaced by a deep booming laugh. Or at least, that was Sparkle’s intention. The athletic tiefling wrenched her axe from the tree with a grunt. The momentum set her spinning for a moment, but she held out a hand to steady herself, coming to rest on the tree she had just mercilessly attacked. A few more practice swings like that and she could probably fell an ogre in one good chop! She grinned at the starry night. Rearranging her midnight hair into its short tail, she strode on, occasionally swinging her axe at menacing undergrowth. Well won from a bunch of no good bandits, she thought, still smiling.

Her cheerful march was brought to an abrupt, tumbling halt as she tripped over a boulder. Clattering and clanking in her mismatched armour, Sparkle pushed herself up, tucked her knees in and leapt to her feet in a star jump, looking around in case of prying eyes. No one had seen her. She gave the rock a retributive kick, wincing and clutching her toes after she did so.

It took Sparkle a moment, hopping and grumbling, but she realised that she was not the only one making a lot of noise. The clash of weapons, steel ringing on steel, and muted shouts. How strange. Now she noticed it, this entire place was quite strange. The boulder looked like a bit of an old building, like someone had thrown refuse bits of Hammerfast all this way. With a thud, she sat down on her rock, patting it in a conciliatory gesture.

No! She sprang to her feet. There was a fight on, and she must help. She sprinted around the rubble, pushing aside some of it, but no joy until she found a hole in the ground. Well, by found, it was more fell down.

It wasn’t a painful fall and, after everything stopped spinning she got to her feet and charged in the direction of battle, her boots slamming on the old, old stone.

“Don’t worry!” she shouted “I’m here to save you!”

-

Nerrain fired an arrow off down the broad stone passageway, but it was too late. The surviving goblin dashed around the turn as the elf’s arrow ricocheted off of the worn walls. Bleachbone raised his hand to halt Nerrain and Ingrid from pursuing, shaking off the filth that caked it. From the pit to his left the seething mass of rodents he had narrowly escaped screeched and hissed.

“No knowing what’s deeper in here,” he explained, sucking in a great lungful of air, “Better to get our wind back.” The flickering torchlight cast deep shadows, etching the tiredness on their faces. They were all panting and huffing, Esme worst of all. The goblins had tried to lure them into the pit and, when that failed, led them on a merry chase, firing missiles and fleeing in a situation that might have been comical. The Dragonborn helped Ingrid bind a shallow gash caused by one of the goblin’s spears, keeping an eye on Esme. She was too old to be crawling around in caverns like this. Nerrain, impatient and more than a little fearful, was keeping watch down the passage the goblin had fled.

The ringing crash of metal echoed down from the steps leading to the surface. They had been surrounded. Bleachbone and Ingrid swept up their weapons and surged to fill the breach. Nerrain span on his heel, arrows and bow trembling ever so slightly. Esme could only roll her head in the direction of the disturbance.

A heavy blur crashed past him, coming to a stop just at the lip of the pit. It was a young woman, encased in mismatched armour and holding a massive axe in a tight, casually weaving grip. Small, curled horns sprouted from a determined, crimson skinned face framed in glossy deep maroon hair, while a thick tail flicked back and forth as she turned from left to right.

“Hey, I’m here to save you…” The tiefling warrior looked around them, behind them and her face creased in frown. “Oh, looks like there’s no need.” She shrugged, and dropped her guard, and nearly her axe, adopting a casual slouch. The sound of her axe head clanging against the floor made Nerrain jump. Ingrid chuckled, and the scowling elf turned his attention to the rats in the pit, dropping crumbs of cheese on them.

“We appreciate the gesture, nonetheless.” Bleachbone extended his hand. “This is Ingrid and Esme. The rodent fixated elf is Nerrain. My name is Bleachbone. Might I ask what brings you here? It seems a bit strange for someone to be wandering this far.”

“Cor, don’t you talk posh?” She gripped him at the wrist, clenching it firmly in the dwarven fashion. “My name’s Sparkle, but you should call me Spark.” She thought for a second, rocking back on her heels. “I came because I heard a fight. Thought someone might need saving, like when I got my axe. Looks like you’re alright though.” She looked at Esme. “’Cept for you, old lady. You look like death.”

“Well, Spark, we are here to investigate an Orcus cult,” Bleachbone spoke quickly, hopeful to ward off an argument. The Tiefling looked back at him, her expression blank. “We were fighting goblins, but one of them escaped and is likely getting friends.”

“Why didn’t you say. No point hanging around, let’s go!” Spark strode off, axe held out ahead of her. Bleachbone opened his mouth to speak, but she was already gone, thumping steadily down the corridor.

“Perhaps I should go ahead and check the lie of the land?” Suggested Nerrain, his voice a slightly affronted sigh. Bleachbone nodded and the elf rose to his feet, brushing crumbs from his breeches. The rats seemed to squeak a little more morosely as he departed. He shushed the Tiefling as he passed her. Spark poked her tongue out at the elf’s back and then crept, astonishingly stealthily given her noisy entrance, back to Bleachbone.

“Bit bossy, isn’t he?” Spark whispered.

“You don’t know the half of it, kid,” grumbled Ingrid. Together the four of them watched the elf quietly creep around the passage, placing his ear against the doors, peering through gaps and checking for anything useful or suspicious.

“I’m not a kid. I’m seventeen!” Nerrain turned gracefully and glared at her, and she mouthed ‘sorry’ back at him. When he turned and began to struggle with a door, Spark pulled a face before returning her attention to the other three.

“I’m seventeen. Just because you’re a dwarf and three hundred. Dwarves don’t age like tieflings or other people. And I grew up on the streets, so I’m well mature.” Ingrid looked at Bleachbone, jaw slightly agape. “How old are you Bleachbone?”

“I was hatched fifteen years ago.”

“Fifteen!” Spark clapped a hand over her mouth, but Nerrain had vanished into a side chamber. “You’re a baby!” She grinned and reached up to pat Bleachbone on the head. “Don’t worry, baby Bleachy. I’ll keep you safe.” Nerrain returned at that moment. “Hey morning glory, what’s the story?”

“The door on the left leads to a store room. The goblins have their rations there, at least some of them-“

“Awesome! Is there cake?”

“No. The door straight ahead is what we should focus our attention on. I heard several creatures breathing beyond, and it smelt strongly of iron, fire and old blood.”

“Any idea how many?”

“I’d guess at least four, probably more. Spread out, archers watching the door, maybe a few flanking to stick the first of us through.”

“That’s pretty impressive Nerrain.” The elf nodded in response. “Ok, Ingrid and Spark, lead the way. I’ll follow up and then Nerrain and Esme can cover us.”

Spark nodded, tapped Ingrid on the shoulder and then rushed down the corridor. With one swing of her foot the door sprang open and, with a chilling shriek, she charged into the chamber. Ingrid followed, yelling her own battle cry as she raised her hammer high. Bleachbone followed more cautiously, his shield raised as he marched forward, deflecting a bolt as he entered.

The chamber was damnably hot, no doubt from the fire pit set into the far wall. Blood-stained tables, a wrack, cages and an iron-maiden established its function. Several goblins capered about, already locked in melee with the tiefling and dwarf, or firing bolts at them. In front of the fire pit, a massive, hairy orange creature swept up a white-hot iron from the pit and lunged at him. It’s face was hidden by a leather mask and up and down its arms angry, livid scars and half-healed burns criss-crossed in random fashion.

Just in time, Bleachbone got up his shield and deflected the torturer’s rush, warding off the blazing iron from his face. He attempted to circle the brute, who had started to foam and dribble, barking and swearing in goblin, but it stepped sideways to block his path. Another clash of arms, and Bleachbone realised the monster was less interested in striking him than it was in pushing him backwards. Another exchange and then the Dragonborn risked a glance over his shoulder. The iron maiden, a goblin lurking by it as it fired arrows at Sparkle.
The moments inattentiveness nearly cost him, as the hobgoblin tried one more furious surge, lashing him painfully and filling the air with the stink of singed flesh. A timely blast of force from Esme set it off balance. Bleachbone, seizing the opening, exhaled a frigid gust, staunching the iron, and then followed up with a hard smash of the shield. Stunned, the torturer was quickly finished off by Ingrid’s hammering blows.

A panic gripped the two goblins not slain, and they rushed to escape. Esme, who had been sheltering in the doorway, was struck down by crossbow bolts, spiralling with blood as they ripped across her shoulder and leg. Nerrain reflexively put an arrow in each their backs as they attempted to flee. He whispered sharply in elven as they collapsed. Ingrid dropped her hammer and rushed over to the wizard.

“She’ll live through this,” she said, pulling off her leering helmet, “but it’s not right to be dragging her through places like this.” The dwarf warrior scooped Esme up in her arms while Spark tied bandages. “Maybe…”

“Take her to the abbey, Ingrid.” Bleachbone nodded at the dwarf. “She can heal there, maybe find something of interest.” Ingrid gently set the wizard down, letting Spark take over her care.

“You’ll be alright, Bleach? I don’t want to abandon you here.” Ingrid looked him up and down. He was exhausted, aching from cuts and wounds, his arms barely able to lift themselves, let alone the pick and shield he had been swinging. He snorted the smoky air of the place from his nostrils, shaking his head.

“I’ll be fine. Just need to rest. But we can’t keep Esme here. She’s killing herself just trying to keep up.”

“You’re right Bleach, of course you are.” Ingrid grabbed his arm, looked steadily into his eyes. “I’ll take her to your abbey, make sure she’s well kept. Then I’ll come back for you. I’ll not abandon you to this place.” Esme was awake now, and Ingrid went over to explain the plan.

Bleachbone leant his back against the wall, sliding down it. He was so tired. Nerrain was staring about, predatorily. Sparkle was… she was bent over nearly double in the fire pit! He tried to get to his feet, but he couldn’t. She was fine anyway, retrieving hot coals from a fire. He felt something crawling up his arm. It was all he could do to turn his head. A tiny field mouse.

“Student, the abbess has received your news. Return to the human town of Winterhaven. The Platinum requires a Champion, and I would speak to you.” The mouse spoke with Balasar’s voice. The message delivered, it fled.

-

So he was now alone, in the dark, because Bleachbone had got it into his head that he needed to rush back to Winterhaven, and Sparkle had joined him. The human and the dwarf had already left. Nerrain felt a combination of relief and disgust at the predicament. Relief, because now he wouldn’t have to listen to their noisy footsteps and continual chatter. Especially the Tiefling. She just wouldn’t shut up! Disgusted, though, because it was just bad form to leave a job half done. Once more, he had to step up and be counted where everyone else was found wanting. He could hear the last echoes of their footsteps receding down the passageways as they left.

Of course, he was no fool, to try and tackle this cult head-on, and alone. A little quiet reconnaissance was in order. Unstringing his bow and quietly loosening his longsword in its sheath, Nerrain set about exploring the tunnels. He had heard the quiet calls of a prisoner in the torture chambers, but the voice had been a goblin’s, so not worth bothering with. He had toyed with the idea of creeping in a slitting its throat, but exploration was more important. Starvation would take the creature anyway. He hesitated a moment longer, moving over to the slain torturer. He toed the creatures head, crouched down and pulled off its mask. Scars like melted wax hid the native ugliness of the brute. Its armour, dyed black leather with reinforced chest and an iron collar, was of exquisite quality. His hands shook, but he stripped the corpse all the same. The armour would need to be cleaned and adjusted, to remove the stink.

Through the double doors then. He eased them open just enough to allow him to slide through. Any more and the ancient wood and rusted hinges would act like an alarm bell. Only a few steps, hugging the left-hand wall. Shadows at the end of the corridor drew distorted, massive shapes. A heated argument in the cackling goblin language. He froze, fingering his sword hilt. Two voices. Could he manage them both? How likely was it that there were only two? He crouched, indecisive, and closed his eyes. It was muffled, but he could make out the shuffling feet of more of the creatures.

Back through the doors, he took a moment to breathe and wipe the sweat from his palms. Walking quickly, he returned to the entrance hall. The stench of the rats wafted up from the pit, making him wince. He slowly walked about the pit, the adjoining chambers, stepping over the mauled bodies of the dead goblins. Nothing of interest. It took him a moment, but he dragged all the corpses together and, one after the other, dropped them in the pit. He smiled down on the rats as they started to swarm over the bodies.

Through the eastern passageway there was a shallow stairway, but the air here was tainted with the musky stench of reptiles. Nerrain could hear their rumbling, throaty hisses, but they were not moving in his direction. He dropped low, nearly crawling. The passage continued onwards, and branched right, south. He turned around, running his hands over the wall. He pulled off one gauntlet, closed his eyes and carefully traced the outline of the door. Stepping back, he looked at the portal. Obvious, pitifully obvious. The keyhole was a giveaway, secluded in a deep crack. He tried pressing his thumb into it, but couldn’t open it. Not worth a try. Back then.

One more doorway. This one was newly fitted, the timber strong and well cared for. The goblins had barred this one from their side. A warning sign? It was heavy enough that Nerrain suspected two at once would normally have to move it, and he struggled with the weight. It slipped from his grip just as he cleared it from the bars. A crack like thunder rang across the chamber. The elf froze, listening intently. Nothing stirred, not so much as the whisper of footsteps reached his ears. He sighed, mopped his brow. The door was stuck, but a forceful shove and it swung open.

The corridors beyond were unlit and silent, even to Nerrain’s sharp ears. Unlike the filth strewn chambers the goblins had, these were clean except for a thick layer of undisturbed dust. The air was still and musty, a faint undertone of corrupted flesh, the smell of a tomb. Once again he crouched low, looking at the floor of the corridor. It had been disturbed, and recently. The step was light, light as his own. Curious, Nerrain moved deeper into the halls.

By this point, the darkness was near complete, and he had to guide himself by keeping a hand on the right wall. The further he walked, the more he had to strain his eyes to see at all. There was nothing for it, he would have to light a torch from his pack. Now he could see the walls were lined with carvings at the floor and ceiling, worn and scratched away. He halted to examine a strange, mysterious glyph painted on the floor. Three triangles, joined at the points, separated by a hand, a pair of arrows and a figure of eight. Uncertain of their purpose or meaning, and nervous in this deathly place, Nerrain dared not touch them. Exploring further, he found more of these sigils, and was forced to turn back by each.

Ahead the etchings spiralled around marking the entrance to a passageway. As with all the others, these had been defaced. He nearly followed the turn, but stopped. The stink of the grave was as palpable as a hand across his face. A flicker of movement, the gross and stooped form of a crypt dweller. Nerrain knew he could explore this place alone no more, and so he fled.

-

The corpses that had clawed their way from the soil were now swarming up the steps of the crypt. They were wrapped in tatters of cloth, clods of earth mingled with corrupted flesh, hanging heavy with the stink. Sparkle swung her heavy headed axe in wide arcs, smashing, splintering.

They had come to the gates of Winterhaven, only to find them closed and barred. From the walls, the lord or mayor or whoever, a big bald man with a dwarf’s beard had shouted down about troubles. She had been all for getting them to open the gates and let them rest, and Bleachy see his old man, but the stubborn Dragonborn had agreed to take a look.

In the graveyard, they’d glimpsed a phantom glow, a mist coiling like a mass of sickly worms. When they’d gone to take a closer look, the earth of the cemetery had churned like thick water, the corpses rising from the dead. A scabrous hound had leapt from the largest crypt, but it had been destroyed by one powerful swing from Bleachbone’s claw-headed pick.

From that point, it was hard fighting, the press of shambling corpses surging up the steps. Sparkle was going strong, in her element, giggling sharply to the rhythm of cracked bone and split flesh. Growing up in button-down Hammerfast had offered nothing so fun as this. Bleachbone stood at her side in a cautiously defensive stance. At the wall, Sparkle had been worried for him, all bound up in bandages. Now, though, there was only the fight.

The wan figure directing the horde, pale as a ghost, sprinted amongst the shattered headstones and fired an arrow at Sparkle’s head. Bleachbone, swinging at one of the undead, spun in place and raised his shield, deflecting the shot. The tiefling’s eyes blazed bright a moment, and she surged forward, slashing her axe wildly about. Anger gripped her, and she hacked forward, cutting a path to the woman and, with an angry shriek slammed her axe down. In Sparkle’s wake she had left broken bodies and shattered stones.

“I yield,” hissed the elf, dropping the splintered halves of her bow.

“Accepted,” grunted Bleachbone, slamming his shield into the side of her face, knocking her unconscious. Sparkle lifted her axe, ready to cleave the elf woman’s head from her shoulders. Bleachbone, exhausted as he was, placed his thick hand on her shoulder. “She yielded, Sparkle.”

“Fellows, evil approaches!” Nerrain shouted across the graveyard, his footsteps echoing eerily off of the cobbled path and stone crypts, bow in hand. “The forces of undeath are swarming up the King’s Road, led by some corpulent abomination that taints the earth with its tread.” As he reached them, he noticed the elf woman crumpled on the floor. “What happened here?” His narrowed his eyes at Sparkle, who still had her axe raised.

“Uh, she’s the baddy,” Sparkle blushed an even deeper crimson and dropped the axe. It clanged down perilously close to their captive’s head. The haft flipped down, thumping the elf on the shoulder. Sparkle shrugged.

“Nerrain, you said there were more undead?”

“LIVING! MAW HUNGERS!” The voice was like the screech of grinding metal. Sparkle could see yet more of the stinking ghouls pressed against the fence-posts of the yard. Bleachbone sighed tiredly and hurried off with Nerrain. Sparkle hesitated a moment to grab her axe, thumping the fallen elf with her thick tail as she turned.

When she reached the gate, Sparkle got a clear look at the master of the zombies, a corpulent, waxy-skinned creature with stubby arms and legs. Its head was set atop thick rolls of flab, baleful eyes peering out from above sewn shut lips. It didn’t lack for teeth, however, as its bloated belly had been slashed open and set with jagged shards of bone. It flexed and churned and Sparkle glimpsed half digested limbs glistening within.

With Nerrain’s help, the undead fell swiftly, his keen arrows knocking off heads and limbs, or transfixing them on the ragged trees that flanked the road to the graveyard. Sparkle decided she would race him, and charged into the heart of the fray. Nerrain was ahead by two, but the fat one convulsed and retched up four more monsters. Then it was more hacking and slashing, and the fence was messing up Nerrain’s aim. The mouth monster died easily. As scary as the mouth looked, it couldn’t bite with it, and its dirty paws were to short to swing hard. With the final blow, it slumped down, collapsing in on itself as rot overtook the flesh.

-

The candles burnt with a cool, silver flame, filling the air with a crisp scent Bleachbone had never known. There were nine of them, ringing him in a circle. Their light extended only so far into the church, but the altar of Bahamut was clearly illuminated, rendering the dragon’s head in flickering light and shadow. His wounds ached, but the pain was dim, far away. He had been in meditation since they had returned to Winterhaven, instructed by Balasar.

“Initiate, a quest set out by the Platinum requires a champion to carry out his will,” the old dragonborn’s voice cut through the shadows, echoing about the empty church. Balasar’s voice seemed to call the rest of him into being. The candlelight, faint as it was, shone from his gleaming plate armour, catching on the edge of his wickedly curved glaive. “Initiate, what is the first Duty Our god asks of us.”

“To protect the weak.”

“You speak truly. As our lord is the knight of the heavens, his light shining in the darkness, so must we be the shield against the lengthening night. Resolve is the shield that guards us, and our charges. What is the second Duty we are called to?”

“To uphold honour in all things.”

“As it was in ancient times, so it is today. In acting honourably, not only do we strengthen our people, but we give praise to our Lord through righteous action, to act as he does. Honour ever lights our steps, so we might never stumble in the darkness. Tell me initiate, what is the third Duty set before us?”

“To oppose evil wherever we find it and wherever it may dwell.”

“Though it may bring our own end, this we must do. As the Platinum Dragon makes vigil alone in the night, so to we will go into the shadow, to destroy the wicked even in their lairs and places of strength. Valour is the blade in your hand.
“Initiate, in the past I have judged you harshly, but in truth it is I who have failed to serve you. Having ventured into alone the world, you have set out upon your own destiny, proving that your strength and resolve are the equal of any of our Order. Rise now, Knight Rhogar, and look up. Rise, and behold the light of our Lord.”

Spoiler: Goblins, Graveyards and Knighthoods

Spoiler: Sparkle, Tiefling Fighter 2

Darth Invisus · #7 08-09-2008, 11:04 PM

Very well written AP, I'm having great fun reading it. I wish my games were this colorful. I'm starting KotS tomorrow so I hope you don't mind if I borrow some of the flavor.

Can't wait for the next installment!

Loup Du Noir · #8 08-10-2008, 01:02 AM

Glad you are enjoying it Invisus, and feel free to use stuff you like. To be totally honest, I embellish heavily when doing the write-up, and completely neglect the out of character elements. I also skim the fights as, exciting as they are to play, you can only type "he performed a perilous thrust with his wicked blade" so many times before it gets a bit much.

Loup Du Noir · #9 08-11-2008, 03:28 AM

Bleachbone had led them into the cellars of the keep the morning after his ordination, striding with a newfound purpose, with might. Nerrain even felt himself moved by the light of determination that shone from the dragonborn. Sparkle was her usual cheerful self, eager to get to the business of splitting evil skulls with her axe.

The goblins were ready for them.

A half dozen them were guarding the entrance hall with a slobbering, stinking reptile the size of a pit bull. It went straight for Bleachbone, who caught the beast on his shield while Sparkle alternated strokes between it and the screeching goblins furiously slashing at the pair with dirty knives.

Nerrain spotted a marksgoblin holding back, taking careful aim at Sparkle, and sent two arrows sailing gracefully into the meat of its shoulder and thigh. He noticed Bleachbone, bellowing, fling the broken guard drake down into the pit, where the swarm of rats immediately set upon it. Sparkle was off before it hit the ground, smashing aside goblins left and right in her rush to reach the shooter.
Spotted and now outnumber, the goblin scuttled off into the deeper shadows and the three of them gave chase, Nerrain pulling ahead. Yet every time he tried to take aim with his bow, the cur would duck around another corner. Nerrain got a clear shot as it pushed through a pair of doors. The arrow struck true, but with its dying breath, shrieked an alarm.

Nerrain froze, his sharp ears hearing the quiet ring of swords being drawn, guttural whispers and the clap of booted feet. His fellows pushed past, rushing into the chamber beyond to meet the oncoming goblins. He gritted his teeth and joined them, leaping atop a table, two arrows at his bowstring.

Time blurred. Goblins seemed to pour from all around, even from where they had come. He dodged back and forth, desperate to avoid their cruel blades as he fired arrow after arrow into the horde. But he was not quick enough, and time and again they cut at him. A monstrously fat goblin brandishing a club and crossbow waddled out from behind the thick drapes cloaking the walls. Though it looked comical, the vicious swing and resounding crack of Bleachbone’s leg was anything but. Nerrain watched Sparkle collapse after rushing forward to protect Bleachbone. Goblin spirits swarmed up from the dead, commanded by his armour to turn aside the knives of the goblins, but they swiftly collapsed away. A bolt caught in his leg. He heard Sparkle cough and gasp on the floor.

He pushed the pain away. Bleachbone was being forced to retreat, shouting at him but he couldn’t make out the words. He had to lure them away, pick them off one at a time. Like the orcs on the road. The dragonborn collapsed as a spear slid under his guard. He spun on his heel, sprinting for the door. Cover and a chance to regroup, then he could –

Nerrain crashed forward, collapsing as a javelin pierced him just below the shoulder. He couldn’t get up. His bow was just out of reach. If he could just reach it. If he could.

No.

-

She could just hear, on the edge, the coin. It span and span and span. The thrumming noise was gentle and rolling, but as it kept on it started to get annoying. She could feel it now, riding along the floor and up into her cheek bone, shaking her teeth. Would it shake them out? Picturing herself with a mouth with no teeth, only gums, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Sparkle, Sparkle, Sparkle. Always getting into messes.” Was the coin speaking? The voice was like the coin. Pleasantly warm now, a light sweat spread over her face. She would look. “No Sparkle, don’t open your eyes. You know what’s waiting, don’t you? You remember what happened?” Glowing yellow eyes, browned fangs, the chill of a jagged spear piercing her gut. She whimpered. “Yes, yes you do. But don’t worry Sparkle. It doesn’t have to end like that. Would you like that?” She nodded, feeling her cheek grind against the warm stone. Would that stop the coin spinning? “That’s it Sparkle. I’ll just take this away, and you can repay me some other time.” The spinning stopped. Now, the warmth grew to burning heat. Sparkle opened her eyes just a crack, and reached towards it, feeling the delicious fire burn into her skin.

-

Sparkle coughed out a mouthful of hay, spasmed and sat up, knocking her head against the bars in the process. She was in a cage. On wheels. From the look of the others in the cage, wasted and bedraggled men and women, a slave wagon. Three big orange goblins prowled up and down the road they had stopped on. They all looked pretty roughed up. Her armour had been taken. And her axe. Oh her axe! The spear! She grasped at her midriff, but there was nothing there, not even a scar. Her eyes flicked from side to side, but no-one had noticed her. Well, except for one old man crouched in the corner. There was Bleachbone, and there was Nerrain, their backs to her.

“Hey Bleachy, hey glory,” she crept over, quiet as a mouse, “what’s the story?”

“I was just telling Bleachbone.” They turned to face her and she swore Bleachbone narrowed his eyes at her for a moment, but Nerrain carried on. “We’ve been sold to this gang of hobgoblin slavers, Blood Reavers. That was two days ago.”

“Only three slavers? Bit ambitious, init?”

“Yes, I was getting to that. There were more, but yesterday they ran into a band of orcs, and most of them were killed. These three are all that’s left.”

“Lucky for us. So, how are we getting out?”

“I was going to try and raise a distraction so Nerrain could open the lock,” Bleachbone twitched his head at the heavy chain-lock. “We didn’t think you-“

“Yeah, well, I’m fine.” Sparkle nodded, her hair flopping over her eyes. “I’ll do your distraction, glory, just get the door open. Bleachy, you get over with him.” She was sure Bleachbone wanted to say something else, but she ignored his pointed look and he shuffled across the cage.

It wasn’t hard, really. Sparkle looked at the hobgoblin nearest her, really looked, and the next thing she knew, the woman was on fire. She felt a sharp tug at her gut, but ignored it. Behind her, Bleachbone yelled and she heard the door swing open. Far more interesting was the arrow that had just soared into the hand of the burning hobgoblin. She dropped her bow, drew a blade and rushed to the cover of the wagon.

From the dense line of trees along the muddy road burst a thickset warrior, face hidden by the shadows of a heavy brown hood. He fired another arrow and then drew two heavy swords that gleamed even in the dim sunlight.

“Spark! A little help?” bellowed Bleachbone as he grappled with the other hobgoblins. The dragonborn’s face was slicked with blood, his own and the slaver’s, and as Sparkle turned he slammed his head into the hobgoblin’s face. Nerrain was darting in and launching sharp punches and kicks at the other. Then the stranger was there to help, slashing back and forth.

She dove forward, shoving past Nerrain, and grabbed the burnt hobgoblin, tackling her to the floor. Somehow, she had a rock in her hand and it rose and fell, pounding the hobgoblin’s head like a drum. Everything narrowed to that red point of rage.

“Spark, Sparkle, you’ve… it’s over,” Bleachbone pulled her hands apart, prying the shard of rock from her grip. He looked shocked. Disgusted? Everyone was staring at her, even the beaten up slaves in the cage. She should lock them back up.

“Sorry Bleachy,” she grinned, running a blood soaked hand through her hair, “got carried away.” She hopped to her feet. “Hey, new boy, thanks for the help!” The cloaked stranger peered at her from the depths of his hood. “Chatty. What’s your name? I’m Spark.”

“Brian.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“It was my father’s,” Spark wasn’t sure if he was offended or just weary, “and his father’s before him. We Brian’s of Nentir have guarded these roads for generations.” Sparkle didn’t know what to say to that. Thankfully, Bleachbone stepped in.

“Well, Brian of Nentir, you have our thanks. I go by the name of Bleachbone, Sparkle has already introduced herself, and our elf friend is Nerrain of the Harkenwold.” Bleachbone extended his taloned hand, which Brian grasped firmly.
Sparkle didn’t really pay attention after that. Everyone was friends, and the armour the hobgoblin leader had been wearing was far more interesting than chatting about the way back to Winterhaven.

-

Strange appearances aside, Brian found this little group of former slaves good company. They seemed principled sorts, eager to escort the captives back to the nearest town, Winterhaven, which the trio seemed to know. The other prisoners were labourers and merchants, best away from the wilds.

The walled village laboured under a pall, and it’s lord was taken with sickness. Bleachbone confided in Brian that the entire area was subject to the attentions of some dire beast called Orcus. The woodsman might not have a city born’s education, but he trusted the dragonborn, and his fears. When the young warrior invited him to join their company in returning to a ruined keep infested with goblins and agents of this Orcus, he was only happy to accept. The elf, who seemed capable but perhaps a little arrogant, told them he would find herbs to alleviate the ailments of the lords and would meet them later, parting company with them on the road.

The tiefling needed watching. She was friendly and incredibly chatty, asking after his family and home, and sharing everything about her own life in Hammerfast, her father, and previous ‘adventures’. It would be easy enough to call her friend, but every time he allowed himself the notion, Brian could not help recalling her squatted over a dead hobgoblin, covered in blood and gore. He was no stranger to battle, and it was always a messy business, but the look that had transfixed Sparkle then was not one of rage, but glee. When they reached the cellars, and clashed with the goblins, he was reminded to be wary again. Sparkle had taken the flail from one of the slain hobgoblins and had very much taken to the weapon. As he and Bleachbone had fought back to back against a gang of goblins, Sparkle had rushed ahead, whooping as she eagerly leapt into the fray. The only thing that dulled her jollity was when she realised that the leader of this tribe had somehow escaped. She had insisted they look for him but, when they had investigated the section further, a cache of treasures had been turned up and the goblin leader was forgotten. Bags of gold, two fine suits of armour. What diverted the tiefling’s attention was a well made, broad headed axe, which she claimed with a shout and both hands.

“Way better than my old one.” She confided with a broad grin and a nod, swinging it from side to side casually. “Let’s find fatty. I want to test the edge.” Brian couldn’t suppress a shiver.

Spoiler: Death, devils and Brian

Spoiler: Brian of Nentir, Human Ranger 2

Loup Du Noir · #10 09-01-2008, 10:14 AM

Typically, of course, they had gone on ahead without him.

It took less time to look for herbs than Nerrain had thought. There had been none, which probably sped things up. All the local plantlife had been afflicted with blight, and the sweet flag he had found was blackened by mould. The humans of Winterhaven would just have to weather their illness without elf medicine.

The other tracker, Brian, must have been covering the trio's trail. A good attempt, thogh Nerrain could think of a few points where he could sharpen up. He took another path to the ruined keep, clambering over the uneven ground and tree roots as easily as if he strode a cobbled path. The red autumn leaves of the tall oaks carpetted the dark earth, their colour deepening in the twilight. The chill air misted his breath, and he fancied for but a moment he had stumbled into that other world, the place of his ancestors.

His keen ears picked up the sound of clumsy footsteps disturbing the fallen foliage, raising a sussurus like the chatter of a whole company. Nerrain pulled himself up into a tree, still leafy enough to provide some cover. He balanced on his haunches on the branch, resting one hand on his stolen longblade and waited. He still hadn't gotten used to the pull of the goblin bow.

The smell of the lizard reached him before he saw them, the fat goblin and a dog like reptile. It was the same goblin that had overcome them beneath the keep, clutching its heavy black goblin crossbow in two hands as it's gleaming goblin eyes peered out from fat cheeks and greasy forehead, looking ahead and behind, side to side. Nerrain felt his breath catch in his throat, and he pressed himself back, against the trunk.

They moved away, but Nerrain waited until the shush shush of their steps had faded beyond his hearing before he jumped down from the tree, the leaves softening the fall. He had considered dropping down on them, but there was little time and he had to regroup with the others. Besides, if the goblin was heading away from the keep, and it looked like the fat brute had been in a hurry, then it was probably just running away. Nerrain set off at a sprint, keeping his bow in hand now. If he saw any more goblins, they would earn an arrow in the neck.

Overhead, the moon hung low and heavy in the sky, her pale face offering some cold light, but mostly casting deep shadows. The elf flitted from one to another as he ran. Ahead of him the shattered stones of the keep rose like grim, broken giants. He paid the stony sentinels no heed as he slide down the ladder and sprinted along the steps. He found the three of them clustered about a shattered chest, gold spilling out on the floor from grimy sacks. They did not hear his approach, and were caught by surprise when he cleared his throat in introduction.

“Nerrain!” Sparkle had gotten her hands on a new axe, a wicked looking black bladed thing. It was nearly as tall as she was, and Nerrain was struck by how powerful the Tiefling must be to wave it about as casually as she did. “You're lucky, I thought you might be fatty gobbo chunks, and was going to chop you in half!”

“Spark's not wrong there. You're too stealthy by half,” Bleachbone grinned before scooping up some black armour laid out on the bed. He threw it underarm at the elf, who caught it deftly. “We managed to find some of our old stuff down here.” Nerrain nodded, and stepped away to replace his stinking goblin leathers with his older stinking goblin leathers.

“Did you see anything on your way here? The goblin leader managed to escape.” Brian spoke at last, having been sat cleaning and oiling his twin swords.

“Probably through that door there,” Nerrain nodded to the faint outline he saw on the southern wall. From the looks on their faces, they had not seen it before now. He shook his head and returned his attention to the buckles. So many of them. “And yes, I passed their leader on the way.”

“And dealt with him, I trust?” Brian's blades made a soft sound as he slid them back into his scabbards.

“It seemed pointless. He was in a hurry to leave, I saw no good reason to detain him.”

“He might be fetching allies.” The human shook his head, his rough cut hair flying into his face. He brushed it back with one hand, and turned to Bleachbone. “I'd best get on his trail, make sure he doesn't get the opportunity. I'll return here once I'm done.” He didn't wait for an answer, just set off.

“Bye Brian,” Sparkle waved after him. “So, Nerrain, you had a look around here before. Anything worth trying my axe on?”

As it happened, there was plenty. The goblins had all been killed or run off, so they headed into the uninhabited parts of the complex. Nerrain and Sparkle both lit sunrods to light the pitch darkness, illuminating the rough natural caves twisting ahead. The caverns were infested with rats, monstrous slimes and the strange lizard creatures Nerrain recognised as Kruthiks. Adventuring was deadly business. Never so deadly as it was than with Sparkle.

They had been sorely beaten, but she had insisted on charging ahead. He didn't know whether to be appalled or impressed when she leapt a gulf in her heavy armour as he was shouting a warning. That awoke some large creature which he had thought to be composed mostly of water. It released a shuddering, stinking blast of toxic air as it surfaced, and it was all Nerrain could do to stagger backwards from the fumes.

Despite being in the thick of things, Sparkle and Bleachbone seemed to fair better and rallied to lash out at the monster. They moved into position with practiced ease, Sparkle hacking with her axe and ducking back to blast the brute with fire, Bleachbone blasting with frost, invoking the majesty of the Platinum and creating opening's for the Tiefling's black blade. Staggering and coughing, Nerrain tried to get a few arrows in, but seemed to do little more than draw the slime's ire.

The monster extended glutinous tendrils onto the bank, trying to pull itself ashore. Sparkle lashed with her axe and then sprung a full ten feet over monster and water to land with a clang and another slam of her axe. Shoulder to shoulder she and Bleachbone stood, slashing and beating the slime as it struck out at them, covering them in acidic goo. Then, a sudden furious surge by the thing caught Sparkle and slammed her backwards into the cavern wall. She slid down, unconscious.

Enough was enough. Nerrain shouted a warcry, and rushed forward, firing one arrow after another into the quivering hulk, picking his shots with cold precision. Burning, wracked by a platinum glow, and pinned in multiple clusters, it shuddered and sank, but not before coating them all in sizzling puss.

“I hate oozes,” he muttered to himself as Bleachbone tended to Sparkle. And for their efforts? A mouldy wooden tube with a map and two letters, a scratched and dirty shield, and a potion. He would have felt like hitting something, but he was too tired.

Spoiler: In need of a handkerchief

This session we got to see the 4th edition combat in great, great detail. Once again, we played over the internet using the Gametable program, with the usual bugs. BB's player also had connection problems, but we soldiered on and prevailed. Brian's player was unable to make this session due to a prior commitment.

The two battles that weren't detailed in the text are against first off some rats and an ochre ooze, and then some Kruthiks. One of the things I really appreciate about the new edition's approach to encounter building is how easy I find it to modify them quickly. Because it is assumed that 1 monster = 1 PC, I can remove 2 monsters (or equal value of minions) and be confident the encounter will be of the intended difficulty for my group.

During the earlier encounters, the PCs used up all their daily powers, and most of their healing. By the time we reached the Blue Ooze, Bleachbone was down to 1 healing surge, and Sparkle and Nerrain down to 2. Despite this, they managed to beat a solo monster one level higher than their own through use of tactics, positioning and non-standard actions (based off of pg. 42 in the dmg).

The good thing about all the fights in this session was that they maintained a level of excitement and tension, with all the fights being close. Because of the milestone mechanic, the group felt inspired to risk continuing with the final encounter (using the APs gained) and everyone had a good time.

During August, I got a chance to play (as a Dwarf Cleric of Kord in an Overlord inspired game, and then a Human Paladin of Erathis in a victoriana investigative game) and something I came away with from playing was that for Defenders to feel cool and threatening, there must be opportunities for their Defender class abilities to come into play. Therefore, I played the opposition as aggressive and risk taking. It didn't hurt that Bleachbone was a nova of pain in this session, getting a run of 3 crits in one turn (breath weapon, guarding attack, AP wolf pack tactics), creating a situation where a monster would go for the most hurtful creature, and drawing a Combat Challenge from Sparkle.

It's early days yet still, but I encouraged my PCs to try and move outside the powers on their character sheet in the style of the swashbuckler example on pg. 42 of the dmg. This resulted in Sparkle's standing leap attack over the slime, and Nerrain's headlong rush and precise shooting - Athletics and Perception augmented attacks. This allowed Sparkle to use her passing attack twice on the Blue Slime, and Nerrain to Sneak Attack with his bow.

After this session, the group reached level 3.