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Rollplaying Part 2

Fallout art

When I first started this series (two posts constitutes a series, yes?) I mentioned how I hoped that Derek’s D&D campaign would provide material and inspiration for blog entries.

Here we are one month later and he still hasn’t run a single session. I think he hates me. That, and the rather copious amount of affectionate texts I found on his phone sent to a “Windy Dave” leave me with a vague sense of suspicion and jealousy. Who is this shady character? Has he found another group to roll with? Am I just part of the party that he keeps around out of tradition or obligation while satisfying his dungeon mastering with some other young, more robust and exciting group of individuals?

Or is he just the unending well of disappointment and shattered dreams? More investigation is required.

However, my sister has decided to stop hating me and informed me that she finally read some of my posts. Of particular interest was the first Rollplaying wherein I made some arguments about absolute rollplaying and the conflicts between two opposing ideologies at the game table. Or something. Sometimes even I get confused about what I write and seek solace in luminous distraction.

The Artist’s Studio by Horace Vernet (1820)

At any rate, the reason I began this discussion on the role vs roll dynamic in tabletop RPGs because of a few humorous observations I made when witnessing my sister tackle her first session. They were the same observations I made when I got the pleasure of witnessing Felicia with hers and other new players to the genre. I won’t draw much conclusion from the fact that they have been almost universally women since I don’t believe there’s any correlation between that fact and their behaviour beyond the brief moment I had to make an incredibly sexist remark.

But I didn’t and I wished to point that out. See Kait, see how I grow! I restrained myself!

Ahem.

The thing I find most fascinating with new players is the actions they take. I touched upon it briefly in my own concerns about player and character knowledge and how there’s often a conflict between the two. Whereas a veteran will sometimes know when they possess a deficiency themselves or possibly even when they hold more knowledge than their persona. In the first scenario, the player can ask the DM who can either provide that information or roll it off. In the latter, the unscrupulous player will refrain from acting on that information unless it assists with progressing the session the he may find some clever way to work around his character’s lack of insight in order to bring this information forward. Both results aren’t the most elegant but they provide a smooth enough response that keeps the play going.

Soldier Labourer by Horace Vernet (1820)

The new player, conversely, does not understand this dynamic. They are the most apt to fall into the erroneous belief that their knowledge is their persona’s and vice versa. When confronting a new challenge, they will often express exasperation or bewilderment even if it were common occurence for their persona. They are the most likely to fall for common traps or pitfalls or to follow the most predictable and straightforward path. This really isn’t surprising. As mentioned, the dynamic between roll and role is a complicated one especially at the tabletop. First and foremost these players are approaching a game and they react accordingly. If there is an obstacle in the way, they will often try to fight it. If there is a path to walk, they will follow it. Partly, this reaction could be fueled by the popularity and ubiquitousness of computer games. Being the most popular form of entertainment currently, it is quite likely that new players are familiar with their design. And many computer games pull inspiration from old table top mechanics and design. However, computers are programmed for a limited number of variables and responses. Their design typically follows a “go here and do what I tell you” route that is narrow in scope because of the complexity required for programming. This repetitiveness will instill in a player an automatic response that could be drawn upon in this new situation.

Much like classical conditioning, the player learns that when a quest giver says “go here and do this” the only way to progress is to follow. However, as I’ve said, the power of the tabletop game comes from the flexibility and unlimited possibilities provided by a combination of one’s imagination and the reactivity of the dungeon master. With a game, your only real choice in the situation is either to agree with the quest giver or to turn away from the quest altogether. Rare is it that you could solve the situation through clever means – be it robbing the quest giver, tricking them into a more favourable position, turning them in to the authorities or seeking assistance from their rivals. The list can go on and on.

Furthermore, when sitting down a new player to explain a new game what is it that is almost universally taught? The rules, of course. The player is given the character creation tools and walked through the often bewildering stats, perks, feats, skills, numbers and rules required to create their persona. Sure, there might be a few brief minutes to discuss the finer aspects of their personality but without fail the lion’s share of time is spent understanding the mechanics of the system. This reinforces the “gamey” aspect of the tabletop. I think this is the biggest problem that new players face. They get so consumed by this “system” and all the rules that govern it that they lose sight of what they’re playing. When asked what they want to do, without fail their first response is “I don’t know.” I don’t think this represents a lack of imagination or willingness from the player. I think this just represents his uncertainty of the rules. Most certainly she knows what she wants to do but she doesn’t know how to go about doing it. Does she need to roll? How does he communicate his distrust? Is it possible for her to even attack a basilisk?

The burden of knowledge I mentioned in my previous post is brought to a crippling extreme with the beginning player. They may not understand the finer points between a glaive and a halberd. They might not understand that a chimera can breath fire but a cockatrice can induce petrification. Between the world and the system they can’t separate mechanic knowledge from world knowledge and they’re just left in a confounding miasma unsure of how to extract themselves.

Angel of Death by Horace Vernet (1851)

To bring back the personal touch, I had my history in free-form roleplaying. Understanding the vast possibilities afforded to me in this shared game world wasn’t an issue. My background provided an avenue to come to grips with the “system” for interacting with an imagine world – mainly that there isn’t any. You are allowed to do what you wish to do – within reason. You are sharing a space with others and working together in your play even if in the world you’re on opposing sides. It is much like children playing house. It is the pure, distilled world of fantasy and imagination with just enough structure to prevent chaos from bringing the whole structure down. I was brought into D&D with half the “system” explained and arguably it was the hardest part. Anyone can learn mechanics. Knowing the bonuses a 17 strength provide in an open doors check is rote memorization that can be solved by timely referencing. But it is the strength of one’s creative faculties that provide that greatest advantages in the game and are the hardest to learn.

It comes as no surprise to me that those that often take rather quickly to D&D are those that come from an acting background. For how similar of a system is there than the one on the stage? You must work with a team in order to bring to life a production of various characters and events that, more often than not, carry their own motivations and goals. You must separate your own knowledge from your persona’s, abandoning the realization that you are just a person standing on a poorly lit and decorate stage in order to embrace the ideas and emotions of someone miles and years apart from you. You have to work with your director to understand the world your persona lives in to bring to life their thoughts and reactions to the events unfolding before them.

The stats, skills, powers and what not are just the operational rules that keep the production running. They’re knowing how to “cheat out” and what profile to maintain when delivering lines. They’re the knowledge of muting your motions and behaviour when occupying the background or learning to enunciate and project when delivering a monologue even if it is in supposed silence.

But I think anyone can be enticed into playing tabletop games. They are, after all, the natural flights of fantasy we have whenever engaging in a work of fiction. They’re the amusing “What if” thoughts that float through our head as we work through a favourite novel. They’re the imaginings that give rise to untold fan fictions spread across the Internet. Everyone likes to imagine themselves as the hero in their favourite story. And role-playing games are just the vessel that lets us explore that fantasy.

Rollplaying Part 1

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Once again, I get busy and my co-contributors demonstrate that I am the glue that holds this place together. Actually, that’s not accurate. I’m more the glue that keeps the wheels turning… except glue would have the opposite effect.

Let’s just say I’m the one that posts the most when he’s suppose to.

So yesterday was Thursday and meant to be our second day of Derek’s Ikan Light campaign. I was counting on these D&D sessions to give me plenty of material and ideas for blog posts. That was until Felicia got sick and the game was cancelled. Now, apparently, Derek is spending most of his day trying to extract his stomach out his mouth and my dreams of actually playing D&D have been only so much smoke and mirrors.

Well, God damn it all, I’ll write about it anyway!

In my brief experience with the genre, I’ve found that there are generally two types of players that join into tabletop RPGs. They go by many names but I’m going to affectionately term them roleplayers and rollplayers. I, myself, am the former. I got into RPGs way back in the day through play by post message boards and mIRC chat channels. These were free-form roleplaying communities where rules were light and the focus was more on a bunch of people interacting in a shared world. I have fond memories of this wild frontier. There was a game I played that was essentially Robin Hood. I say essentially because while the thread creator had the full intentions of making it about the classic woodland bandit, a bunch of us ended up taking the game wholly in another direction. Typically with free-form roleplaying, most groups or topics start as a sort of collaborative fanfiction. Generally, someone will begin with a call for fellows to join them in a popular world and the familiar characters will be doled out like a sloppy meal at a food kitchen to the first unwashed miscreants to get their hands on their childhood favourites.

Double Portrait of a Brother and Sister by Cornelius Ketel (1548-1616)

Even at a young age, while I enjoyed the practice of joining these self-indulgent fantasies, I had a penchant for creating my own characters even if the world was not my own. Presumably, having this in a developed world created the necessary “accepted rules” which each of us as creators would play by but that is neither here nor there. The point is that when I joined the Robin Hood thread, I chose not only to ignore joining Robin’s merry band of nitwits but threw my lot in with the Sheriff of Nottingham. Of course, it didn’t feel right playing the eponymous character (especially since the Robin player had already written him in a few of his posts) so I started to develop the deputy. Because every good sheriff needs a deputy. Only, I was all too prepared to have mine play the role of the villain.

My first post was a despicable introduction of abuse of power and megalomania. He terrorized Maid Marian, extorted peasants, berated and whipped subordinates and smeared the good name of the sheriff at every possible turn. The introduction of this character had a rather unexpected effect on the game. Suddenly, the focus was immediately redirected from the sheriff and King John to trying to deal with this abhorrent individual. The characters and events began to drift away from the classic tale and many of us began to fight out this grand struggle between minor and imagined characters that was far more compelling and gripping than the one between Robin and the sheriff. This struggle was made all the more difficult and gripping beneath the one universal rule of free-form roleplaying – you may never write a fellow player’s character’s actions or do irrevocable harm or damage to them without their permission. I couldn’t, say, just march a contingent of soldiers into Robin’s lair and murder him in cold blood. Likewise, none of his band were capable of just hunting my deputy down and slitting his throat alone and unloved by his fellows.

Portrait of Ferdinand Alvarez de Toledo by Willem Key (1515-1568)

Instead, the battleground played out between NPCs. I arrested and imprisoned loved ones and those closest to my enemies. They worked vigilantly to discredit my name with the sheriff and king as well as prepare the peasants to resist me whenever I showed up. I don’t remember how it ended but I think part of my final downfall came when a new player arrived to take the role of Maid Marian.

What’s important about this rambling tale, however, is that all of this was possible with only the barest of rules. Since every member of the group was focused on “playing their role” the entire crux of the game revolved around the interplay between player actions, decisions and goals. Nothing was scripted and there was no rewards for us other than developing a damn good yarn between all our meddling hands.

I’ve always approached RPGs with this sort of attitude. I spend a lot of time developing my character, understanding the world and imagining the desires and goals of the person I play. I don’t really care for the mechanical creation of a character. Stating, powers and abilities represent a tangled mess that interferes with the creation process. Instead of just creating a “despicable deputy” I’m forced to consider what skills he has four more ranks in than not, how many “agility points” he has for blocking damage, whether he has enough strength to lift his longsword or not and on and on it goes. And while these limitations can offer additional fleshing that you wouldn’t consider otherwise, more often than not it is almost entirely devoted to elements that don’t form a character but a mechanical automaton.

Which brings me to the rollplayer. My friend Jeremy is one of those other, alien players. They are most excited delving into the systems of the game, learning the intricacies of the combat and skill checks. They derive more pleasure from creating extensive leveling plans, stating out all the perks, feats, proficiencies, powers, spells, abilities and other goodies that they anticipate receiving. Their character isn’t the vengeful victim of the crimes committed by a rampaging deputy in his unswerving hunt for outlaws in the forest. Instead, they are playing the 4/5/1/3/6 Rogue/Shadow Dancer/Shapeshifter/Divine Matriarch/Gooblygook. They create killing machines meant to defeat whatever challenges will be thrown at them, delighting in the combination of powers delved from the obscurest supplement or magazine that can destroy even the god statelines themselves!

Soldiers of Fortune by Francisco Fernandi (1679-1740)

And don’t get me wrong, there isn’t any right or wrong way to play these games. They’re obviously designed for both styles. There are reams of comprehensive rules for managing combat and challenges between individuals. Whereas a duel between people from the Robin Hood adventure would essentially be a few days of colourful riposting and parrying, the conclusion of the combat will inevitably be a draw or well established before the two participants strike the first blow. The classic dungeon delve would fall completely apart in a free-form framework. And those challenges are the ones that rollplayers delight in the most.
Whereas, I am quite happy playing an entire session without throwing a single die. Obviously, not everyone is the same and it’s probably more accurate to say players fall on the spectrum of roll-role playing. And it is the duty of the DM to figure out the perfect balance for the players that she is running for. Sometimes, group dynamics make the games really difficult to balance if you have a collection of extremes. I’ll never truly enjoy combat in tabletop games. Likewise, some players will never enjoy social intrigue and politics. But if you can get a group together that share the same interests and have a DM that likes running and developing adventures in that style… well, then you will have a damn good evening that leaves your players eagerly anticipating each session and writing long, rambling complaints whenever they get canceled.

Burden Of Knowledge – Roleplaying In Fantasy

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Well, Derek continues to struggle without the conveniences of modern life and thus deprives me of material for my blog posts. Much like him, I had planned to spend a few days here and there giving my own impressions of his campaign as well as the development of my character. Dungeons and Dragons is a curious little game that can serve as practice for characterization and character growth and can teach tricks and techniques that are applicable to writing. In fact, both my sister and I have used previous role-playing sessions as the basis for shorts where we explore our character’s thoughts and feelings of the events that transpired in a little more depth.

Basically, a D&D session contains all the necessary components for writing a scene. It has multiple characters with different motivations, action, tension and resolutions. For the budding author, the great thing is that you don’t have to worry about the others. While playing, you just have your own character to deal with. And often times you will be just as surprised as your character by the decisions of the people that share your table and your party.

The Negotiator by Horace Vernet (1834)

But all role-playing has some weaknesses. The player must draw upon the skills of an actor if they wish to truly play their character. They must separate their own self from their persona. This is an incredibly tricky proposition, one that requires practice in order to succeed. Otherwise the player’s own knowledge, experience and bias will bleed into the game. This “meta” knowledge is generally considered to be undesirable, though it can often serve a positive function that I may address in a future post.

I don’t want to go into the whole issue of meta-gaming in this post. It’s just important to have a basic understanding as I address my primary concern for today. As followers will know, Derek has been very informative in describing the world of Ikan’s Light. This is more than just filler content that he can copy and paste for his daily submissions. It helps to give the players an understanding of the world and some of the cogs that make it turn. Unfortunately, from a player perspective, there is only so much he can cover whether that be due to brevity or mystery for the campaign’s storyline. This creates a gap for the reader in their understanding of the world. A gap that doesn’t exist for the actual actors within it.

This leads to what I’m tentatively calling “the burden of knowledge.” The formation of an individual’s personality is so reliant upon the experiences and information they have gained through their life that almost every study of an individual will necessitate the exploration of their childhood and known world long before whatever events drew them to prominence. When we look at Hitler, we don’t just discuss the Beer Hall Putsch and beyond. It’s fairly well known that Adolf Hitler originally had aspirations of being an artist until the fickle hand of fate would direct him down a path of infamy and people ponder how things would have been different if he’d succeeded.

Interior of the Nieuwie Kerk in Delft by Emanuel de Witte (1651)

Likewise, the characters in role-playing campaigns didn’t spring suddenly into being when they crossed the threshold into some musty tavern’s hall. Awhile ago I posted a short story about my character Kase van der Nevel. That was an attempt to try and understand the background of my character a little better, especially since I am trying to avoid the sort of stock characters I often fall into playing with these games. In that story, I covered an episode from Kase’s past but though it wasn’t told through his eyes, I spent time developing some of the individuals and interactions he would have during his youth. Though it may be the briefest glimpse into his history, I hoped that it would give a bit of insight into his character. In it, I established things like his relationship with his mother and community.

But in writing this short I came across a troublesome issue. I was stumbling around in a world of fog with just the faintest outlines of shapes to guide my path. Most of my description and references to history were vague or not intrusive. I was just a visitor to this world and I hadn’t the knowledge to properly know what life in Kase’s village would be like. I didn’t know its history beyond the few paragraphs provided for the Dalmistig province. It would be rude and unproductive to invent my own history for the area since Derek is the arbitrator for the world and any conflicts are resolved solely in his hands. I can’t know the history of Dalmistig beyond what Derek provided since I don’t know how much he’s developed and how integrated it is into his world.

I’m going to make a confession. Authors have no idea what they’re doing. There isn’t some grand codex that details how you go about making a story. There are lots of guides but those are merely suggestions by those that have come before us. At the end of the day, writing is a very personal craft and each individual has his own method that works for him. However, I have no doubt that there are many gaps in the history and community of the misty hills if only because it is physically impossible for Derek to have detailed and outlined every single aspect. I know there is room for mutual creation in this world. I just don’t know where that room is.

Interior of a Protestant Gothic Church by Emanuel de Witte (1668)

Unlike most collaborations, one side here has a very prominent advantage. I can’t know the depths of Derek’s knowledge or where the actual holes rest that are waiting for me to plant my own posts. All players work at a deficiency compared to the Dungeon Master. Which is to be expected. The DM puts in far more hours of preparation for the adventures and campaigns and their grasp of the world is expected to be more advanced so that they can dazzle players with exciting new locales and events as well as resolve any questions or problems that arise from the players’ end.

And this puts the player in a tight spot. They can’t just run off, making up what they need for their characters without running the risk of contradictions. They also don’t have insight into a lot of the true history and culture of the worlds they’re stepping into. How then are they expected to play their characters in way that is nature with this deficiency? A player is like a visitor arriving in Japan, trying to seamlessly fit in with their culture and ways with only a collection of books and t.v. shows to work off. In the end, they can’t hide their true origins.

For me this problem is an ever growing one. The more fantastic the world becomes, the less grasp I have on it. A game like Vampire the Masquerade has a built in mechanism to ease this burden of knowledge. The games take place on Earth with most players coming from the human populations which have all progressed along analogous lines to modern times. But in Ikan’s Light, the world is so vastly different that there is no prior knowledge I can rely upon for my understanding.

Now, what is the ramifications of all this rambling? Most people don’t take issue with it and role-playing games are certainly very popular despite of it. For me, it has a direct impact on character personality and decisions. Most players, I would hazard, play characters similar to them or their interests. These ‘stock’ characteristics are likely drawn upon through campaigns and across different worlds. I don’t need to know the minutia of Kase’s life if he thinks and acts like me. But the more drastic departure from my own demeanor, the less I’m able to rely upon my own experiences to direct his actions.

Embarkation of a Queen by Agostino Tasse (1615)

As I mentioned, my hope for Kase is to explore a personality far different from what I’m used to. I want to bring to life an individual that is shaped by tradition and has wholly committed himself to a belief that he has no capabilities of understanding. He is a faith based individual, throwing aside his own personal expectations and bowing before the commands of a higher power. Critical and independent consideration of conflicts and events are an alien method and I really want to examine that sort of blind faith people can put behind a cause.

It’ll be an interesting challenge, I think, and one I look forward to when it finally begins. And while I wished I was more prepared going into it, hopefully Derek won’t mind my own personal tendency for world building and filling in gaps of his world. At the end of the day, role-playing is all about challenging yourself through exploring a strange world in the shoes of another, striving not for your own needs and desires but someone else’s entirely as they struggle against the conflicts arrayed against them. Even if that person doesn’t even exist.

Ikan’s Light – The Creation of a Character

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So today marked a monumental moment in Derek’s Ikan’s Light campaign world.

Today is the day we made my character.

The following photos are pieces of the mural by Edwin Austin Abbey, faithfully photographed and restored by this website: http://www.thefriendsofenglishmagic.com/

I was planning on posting my process for making a character since some of it overlaps with the way I create characters for my story. Then Derek decided to do something different with character generation and take it from a computer role-playing perspective. Which is to say that he asked me a bunch of questions and kept the details hidden behind his DM’s screen.

Which isn’t completely fair, I suppose. I had an idea of what I wanted to be for this game before we started. I’ve played a few role-playing games prior and found that I usually made characters in the same vein. Generally speaking, I gravitated towards the handsome, dashing, daring and glib individuals who relied more on their smarts and guile to see them through trouble. Often, this led to characters with a focus on magic or the arcane and bonus points if it could be a non-standard system.

So, for Derek’s campaign I wanted to do something different. I wanted to go completely on the other end of the spectrum. Knowing he wanted to create a low-magic setting, I decided I wanted to be a paladin. Course, when making that decision, I wanted to do the paladin ideal justice which is to say that I wanted to make a character that would communicate the inherent hypocrisy of the class. Working under the auspices that magic didn’t really exist, I was fully prepared to make a fighter who was deluded into thinking he was a holy warrior.

But then plans change as is always the case. As more and more pieces of Derek’s world came to light, I grew increasingly interested in the struggles of the upstart rebellion in Steinessern. Here was a group that seemingly were cast in the villainous role. Not only were they upsetting the status quo but they were so successful and so brutal in their victories that they were seen as a major threat by all other nations. Being the natural contrarian, I wanted to explore what would drive someone to participate in such a bloody rebellion and the motivations for joining a group that from all other perspectives was nothing but evil.

I still wanted to play a paladin, however, but now I had my god. My character would be wholly devoted to the cause of the rebellion, holding truth to the tenants of this false faith and leading the vanguard against the enemies who held power and tyranny for so long.

What initially drew me to the paladin ideal is that whole abandonment of the self for a greater cause. So often were my past characters balancing questionable morals with self-gain and personal interest. They rarely held to any morality beyond what they deemed was correct and often they scoffed at established laws and structures. They put so much faith in their own reasoning that to prescribe to someone else’s wasn’t just lazy but almost an intellectual sin.

So, in crafting this new character, I had to consider what would drive someone to complete devotion. Practically every complex belief structure has inherent contradictions and flaws yet people still are drawn into believing them whole-heartedly. And I didn’t want this to be some lazy faith either. Here is a man who is joining a movement that, probably by all accounts stands little chance of success, but is prepared to give his body and soul towards.

This, of course, left me with the age old question: why?

For most of my character creations, I start right at the roots. I look not at my character but at those that made him. What is the relationship with his family and how did that mould him into the person that he is today? Oftentimes, the core conflict driving my characters arises from these relationships. For this one, I felt that there was no stronger motivation than that of blood. No other cause would drive a man from his faith to a new revolutionary ideal. He may be wrong, but it is the wronging of his kin that would make him willing to sacrifice himself.

It was when Derek wrote about his Reclaimers that I got my justification.

To recap: the Reclaimers are an arm of the Ikan church tasked with investigating and searching for lost or hidden magical artifacts. Due to the church’s fear and control of magic items, their punishments for harbouring or possessing such devices can be quite strict. In the Reclaimer’s arsenal of solutions for dealing with magic artifacts and their keepers is alerting the Adjudicators. From what I can gather, these are very similar to Inquisitors save for one special exception. As this is a world fueled on magic, they are able to use spells in order to drain a victim of their intelligence instead of outright executing them.

This struck me as an incredibly harsh and brutal method of dealing with people. There are truly some fates worth than death, and reducing a loved one to little more than a quibbling, drooling idiot seems like such a fate. Imagine a loved brought under such justice. Well, it’s the sort of thing that could push someone to extremes. It could motivate them to raise arms against such horrible practices and seek out vengeance against oppressors far too willing to invoke such cruelty on the innocent.

I just had to create an innocent first.

Pulling on the histories, I devised that my character’s mother possessed a magical artifact. What it actually did was, inevitably, irrelevant. In my mind, it was some rather potent item capable of warding off hostile undead from an area. Such a trinket would have been incredibly useful during the scourge, when settlements were struggling to find ways to keep their dead from dragging the living with them back into the graves. In that dark past, this trinket was crafted and served much like a ward to repel these creatures and see this settlement’s continuation from one generation to the next. In order to insure the ward was kept intact, each daughter of the line was entrusted with the artifact.

By the time the Ikan Beacon was light, the need for such an item was gone. However, the thing with traditions is often they persistent long after they are necessary. In my mind, the families continued to pass this trinket down, keeping it hidden from the Reclaimers as long as they could, probably under the belief that this item was incredibly important to the well-being of the community.

However, all things must come to an end. My character’s mother was finally caught with the device. And, perhaps through a combination of rebellion and the power of the artifact itself, the Reclaimers felt that she had to be made an example of. She was turned over to the Adjudicators and consequently stripped of all her intelligence.

I can scarcely begin to imagine the horror my character would have faced, coming home to find his mother lying upon the floor. Likely, she would be incapable of speech. Certainly, she wouldn’t be able to take care of herself. The horror of that first discovery would be utterly heart wrenching for a son. Such fury would have only one outlet: revenge. And for my character, there by chance existed an opportunity. The Cult of the Wurm were the sole voice that spoke out against the church and its practices. The rest of their tenants were irrelevant. If they would see an end to the abuse of the Ikan church, then my character would join them.

That’s the basics of it and is what I approached the character generation session with. Derek proceeded to ask me a series of questions to work out the finer details. First was locating the actual site of this tragedy. Given my race (human), and the elements involved, he decided that Weelderige was the most likely place for this to occur. I had no grand visions of my character’s upbringing so an isolated farming community seemed the most likely. A community known for its lush produce farmed from the soil fertilized with the dead from the great undead wars was even better. Here would be a land steeped in traditions of blood and sacrifice. A fitting location to put my revenge focused paladin.

As a bonus, I get an excuse to hate Derek’s disgusting roshome. Not that I really needed their history of cattle wrangling to dislike the critters though.

Next was to determine my role in the community. I figure rebellion is a young man’s game, so I wouldn’t hold and prominent or settled position. Apprenticeship seemed like a decent start and I gravitated towards blacksmithing. This would explain my apparent physical prowess while also leaving me rather ill-prepared for waging a war against the church. I’m looking for a character strengthened by his will and faith – not some history steeped in secretive training and mysterious masters.

We skimmed some of the details, hopping right to the rebellion. Derek mentioned some positions in the Wurm’s forces that I didn’t understand but after learning my penchant for choosing hardiness over aptitude, he decided I was initially recruited into the Reapers. These delightful beasties were apparently thrown at the more monstrous elements of the opposing Grand River forces. They were tasked with bringing down magical golems and fearsome drakes. A rather terrifying position, I can only imagine but for a man who has little to lose, I felt my character would take such risks with glee. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he fully expected to die in some beast’s teeth – revenge unfulfilled but his duty served.

Apparently, however, the universe had other plans. My character survived, often against great odds, and his leaders took this as a sign of glorious Nidhoggr’s blessing. They took him aside and trained him in the deeper tenants of the faith, promoting him to be one of the first paladin’s in the army.

At this point, Derek had me take the very generic online alignment quiz. I, personally, think alignments are silly but I obliged anyway.

https://www.wizards.com/default.asp?x=dnd/dnd/20001222b

I ended with Chaotic Good. Which makes a certain amount of sense from the right point of view.

Thus, Kees van der Nevel was born. He’s a big, physically powerful and handsome young man who may not be the most agile of individuals but he has a resounding constitution and almost unearthly ability to take a beating. Through sheer stubbornness and willpower, he seems to shake off the mightiest blows. And, perhaps it was the fact he’s apt to take a hit or maybe it was the isolated upbringing but he isn’t the wisest or smartest man to walk beneath the Green Mountain. But his unending devotion and commitment to the rebellion saw him rise through the ranks, surviving one of the harshest and deadliest divisions of the army.

Trusting in the sense and will of his lord, Nidhoggr, Kees demonstrates a remarkable ability to sense the faltering allegiance of his fellows. Rumour has it, feeling his closest friend’s wavering devotion to both the rebellion and Nidhoggr, Kees sacrificed his comrade to his glorious lord. The young man makes a fearsome sight, striding boldly into the thick of battle dressed in the scales of one of the fearsome Dracfearann mounts. The armour, salvaged from the field of battle and forged through the training he’d received before leaving his village is a grim reminder of the foes Kees has faced without flinching or remorse.

But despite his brutal reputation, he still manages to tend to the armies beasts and mounts with relative skill. Though he may not be the most glib of the Wurm’s agents, he seems to channel a natural connection with the animals and companions, tending to them as if they were comrades in arms, even if his ability to ride isn’t that great. Of course, his smithing skills aren’t just useful in crafting but the proper breakdown and salvaging of items after a battle has been won. Sadly, these skills come at a price and he’s not the most knowledgeable in applying poultices and salves to his fallen comrades or even engaging in a duel of wits when it comes to haggling for supplies from reticent merchants hoping to profit off the conflict.

However, no other member of the Wurm’s forces is as pure in his intentions of bringing about the end of the Ikan faith. For he truly believes the three tenants of the Wurm’s faith, and can be found reciting them each night in a quiet prayer to the one route he hopes to find the salvation of his family:

Oh, great Wurm! See to the end of the monarchy’s oppression for the magocracy is but a false tyrant seeking to further the grip of the throne and the democratic republic is naught but an illusion cast before the gullible masses

Oh, great Wurm! The world has been poisoned from the root, and only by cutting down the rotten tree can a new one truly grow.

Oh, great Wurm! Only once the lost world is purged of the reminders of its failure will it become the cradle of enlightenment and salvation.

May the forces of the weak, cowardly and cruel be not but the blood and soil for a better tomorrow. Let fall their bodies so we may reap a stronger harvest from their bones and their souls. There is no way but the way of the Wurm’s.

Edit: From Derek

Kase van der Nevel(Human, Male)
Paladin, Soldier of the Wurm Army, blacksmith

ABILITIES

Strength: You are strong than all but the strongest, able to wrestle even drakes if you get advantage.

Dexterity: You are average. You can dodge the occasional blow, but you can’t rely on it.

Constitution:You are hardy and stout. You can weather more punishment than most, and are very resistant to illness.

Intelligence: You’re slightly less intelligence than most people. You’re not a dimwit, and you’re literate, but most people would beat you in a battle of wits.

Wisdom:You have average wisdom, with common sense and the ability to perceive your surroundings on par with your peers.

Charisma: You have a stunning, commanding presence capable of calling people under your banner.

FEATURES

AURA OF PROTECTION: When a nearby ally faces danger, you can use your reaction to improve their odds of survival.

CHANNEL NIDHOGGR’S DIVINITY:[2] times per day.

When you channel Nidhoggr, you allow yourself to temporarily become a conduit for Nidhoggr’s will. While you’re letting his majesty flow through you, you can choose one of three effects:

Smite Heathens: After hitting any creature, you can channel divinity to call down Nidhoggr’s wrath and ask him to burn the enemy.

Dreadful Vision: After hitting any creature, you can channel divinity to reveal a vision to your enemies, showing them the death of Ika at the hand of the great Nidhoggr. You can force this vision on as many nearby targets as you wish. Those creatures who fail to shake off the visions are frightened of you for a minute.

Rebuke Undead: As an action, you can use channel divinity to rebuke an undead creature. You choose a creature at medium range, and attempt to charm it. If you’re successful, the undead creature falls under your command for an hour. The undead creature must be weak, though as you become a more powerful paladin you can control more powerful undead.

DIVINE SENSE: As an action, you can allow Nidhoggr to enter you and give you divine sight. For one turn, you know the exact location of any supernatural creature or object nearby, and such creatures cannot hide from you.

DIVINE GRACE: Whenever you face a dangerous effect such as possession, catching on fire, etc, your connection with Nidhoggr guarantees a greater chance at avoiding the danger.

DURABLE: Whenever you’re healed (with magic or mundane), it is more effective.

GUILD CONNECTIONS: You’re an apprentice in the Blacksmith Guild, and can get support from local guilds (barring cultural or racial prejudice).

SKILLS

These skills come naturally from your character’s abilities. Green skills he’s best at, blue skills are good and black skills are fair.

Bluff
Break an Object
Climb
Gather Rumours
Intimidate
Jump
Perform
Sense Motive
Blacksmithing
Swim

Cry of the Glasya Part 2 (Vacay Post 4)

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We continue with our second part of The Cry of the Glasya.

More Ars Goetia seals.

Keirn slammed the portal behind him. The wood groaned beneath the force pummeling from the other side. He could feel it bending and warping as he braced it with his back. Visions of broken fingers tearing through and ripping him into the accursed hallways filled his mind and he could feel more sweat running down his back. But these drops weren’t from the heat.

“It’s not going to hold!”

He felt the wood cracking beneath his fingers.

“You better have a damn good plan! And if you don’t do something miraculous with those bones…”

Keirn cut off mid sentence as he craned his neck to see Derrek standing placidly in the middle of the guard’s quarters. The sorcerer growled in annoyance. Of course, the bloody bard couldn’t hear him with the damn wax.

The door banged again with the force of the bodies smashing upon the other side. It was a stroke of luck that Keirn was able to snatch the key for the lock before the frenzied guard fell, disappearing beneath stampeding feet. Complete madness was not something the young sorcerer was accustomed to. He wasted no time with remorse over looting the still twitching and groaning bodies of those who succumbed to the horde while fleeing the massacre.

Like a torrential river people scrambled after them. It was all Keirn could do to dislodge ornamental suits of armour and other decorations to impede their pursuit before he found the quarters and tossed Derrek inside.

And if he didn’t do something about the door then the crazed court would soon reach him again.

Keirn motioned madly for one of the large chests at the foot of the bunks. Then he remembered the bard had blinded himself as well.

By the gods, Derrek was impossible to deal with sometimes.

Twist against the door, Keirn stretched with aching fingers towards the container. It was just out of reach. He unhooked his scabbard, trying to slip it through one of the handles so he could pull the chest towards him.

A great surge of force pounded against the door, knocking Keirn to the ground. Freed of its impediment, the portal began to open inward as fingers snaked along its edges. Keirn kicked as hard as he could, slamming the wood on the poor bastards’ hands. He kept kicking until they retreated then he stretched as best he could and slipped the scabbard through the handle. Grasping the weapon on either side, he inched the container towards him, the metal scraping across the floor as he twisted his feet, trying to keep the only entrance into the room shut.

Once he got his fingers around the chest, Keirn pushed it up against the door and stepped back to admire his work.

Still the persistent men on the other side banged against it, but it looked like it would hold for a time. Frustrated, Keirn stomped towards his friend before grabbing him roughly by his earlobe.

“CLEAR THE WAX!”

Derrek wrenched his ear free but obediently began to dig out the plug. Keirn flopped down on a bunk himself and began to work on his own wax clogged ears.

As he dug the offending substance out, he could begin to hear the monstrous banging against the door clearer. Through the wood were the howls from the assailants outside. They didn’t even seem to be speaking, just making deafening noise as they attempted to bash their way into the room.

“So where’s the bag?” Derrek asked.

Keirn frowned at the small pile of scrapped wax sticking to his shirt. He then briefly surveyed the quarters.

“It was somewhere in here. I don’t know, have you checked under the beds?”

“Going to be tough with these glasses on, boss.”

“Then take them off!”

Derrek merely shook his head. But once it became clear that Keirn wasn’t moving from his perch, he dropped to his hands and began to search blindly beneath the bunks.

“By Helja’s frozen tits, what is going on out there anyway?” Keirn asked.

“Precisely,” Derrek said.

“Precisely what?”

“The hells,” the bard said matter-of-factly.

Keirn glared.

“Wait, you knew this was going to happen?”

“I told you I heard this one before.”

“Are you saying Songsinger brought that… thing… here?!”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Keirn could feel his blood begin to boil.

“I think it would be best if you started from the beginning.”

“I hate to give unwarranted credit, but it was a masterfully done piece…”

“Obviously.”

“I mean, who would have thought of hiding the binding ritual in the lyrics of an aria? But it wasn’t even that straight forward. They only placed it partially within the song. It wasn’t until the concluding stanza that the summon would be complete.”

“So… she summoned that thing with her song?”

“Of course. The first hint was the lyrics were off tune from the music. A real minstrel would have noticed that!” he shouted to the wall. Keirn could only assume that was directed at the cursed singer still presumably locked in the audience chamber. After a moment of no response, Derrek cleared his throat. “Course, the salt seal beneath the step was also a dead give away.”

“What seal? I didn’t see any seal!”

“It was obviously dissolved with water,” Derrek said, standing and brushing his hands. “Why do you think she wasn’t moving? The problem was figuring out who was being bound.”

“But how did she conjure a person here? That’s impossible. Even an archmage couldn’t do that.”

“Didn’t I say it was a binding ritual? I thought I said it was a binding.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I thought you attend the Academy?”

“We’re not going to start this again,” Keirn growled.

“Not my fault you can’t remember your studies.”

“So who… or what… did she bind here?”

“A demon. I couldn’t tell which at first but then it became clear from the hanging tapestries.”

“The tapestries?”

“Stags of course. The Duke is an avid hunter, we passed through his dog kennel when we were shown the grounds. Also, the crimson backgrounds are an obvious indicator. It’s the demon of bloodshed.”

“Then what’s the business with the wax?”

“The demon can incite fury in those that can hear it. And can charm those that look upon it.”

“And the nudity?”

“It was going to get warm.”

“Alright, let me get this straight,” Keirn said slowly, standing to his feet. “The four of us were hired on to protect the Duke from a sinister plot on his life. You convinced us that it was nothing but paranoia and superstition and that this would be the easiest gold we could ever make. You then spent the entire time touring this keep looking for evidence of not only an assassination but a demon… binding of which you recognized the moment the guest bard started singing but felt it more prudent to strip naked than to stop?!”

“Can I be frank for a moment.”

“Oh,” Keirn growled, “you better.”

“I couldn’t stop her, it would have ruined me.”

“Ruined you?”

“The aria. It’s… well… her singing was too… and with that accompaniment…”

“You. Were. JEALOUS?!”

“Maybe not jealous, oratorios really aren’t me field of purview…”

“YOU NEARLY KILLED US TO DISCREDIT A RIVAL?!?!”

Keirn stood to his feet. Fury burned in his eyes as he took one murderous step forward, his twitching fingers outstretched for the other man’s throat.

“Now Keirn, what you’re feeling is just the influence of the demon.”

“I thought you were blind!”

“The charcoal is starting to rub off.”

“Get over here!”

Keirn lunged for the bard, chasing after the man as he bounded across the room. He duck and wove through the bunks, putting as much mattress and pillow between himself and the murderous sorcerer.

“I can explain.”

“I think you’ve explained enough!”

“See, minstrelsy is a difficult business. We have to keep each other in check, you know. Otherwise if someone gets too much prestige and fame then they will just dominate the courts. It’ll stifle creativity as the lords and dukes will vie for the same material to be replicated over and over. Homogeneity suffocates the muse!”

“So all these people are going to die because you can’t let some tart take a position at a court you’d never entertain at in the first place?”

“Lychee is not just any bard.”

“Oh, I heard.”

“She is a demoness in maiden’s clothes.”

Keirn paused.

“Seriously?”

Derrek thought for moment.

“Naw, figuratively.”

“Well, apparently she’s some sort of devious assassin. How do we stop her?”

“Considering the Duke is currently being digested by twelve different stomachs, I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Twelve?”

“They have more than one.”

Keirn wasn’t going to debate the point.

“Alright, so how do we get rid of this demon?”

“That’s where we need the swine legs.”

Keirn sighed, standing on his toes and peering over the top of the bunks.

“Try the bed on the end.”

Derrek hurried to the bunk, clambering up the side and kneeling over the small pile of worn leather packs. He began to rifle through them, the sounds of clanking pots, tin, pieces of metal and only the gods knew what else shook from the bags as he searched for his prize. Keirn only hoped that he didn’t start emptying them or else he’d never hear the end of it from his sister and her “perfect” packing.

Assuming, of course, she was still alive. But Keirn pushed that thought quickly from his mind. She was still out there. He knew it. They just had to get these bones and then…

Something. He didn’t know what but they would come up with something. It was the only thought he could entertain. The alternatives were too unthinkable.

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 3 >

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D&D Rocks Part 4

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< Return to D&D Rocks Part 3

The caravan master turned to the shadows. As Jeremiah followed with the torch, a side passage previously overlooked was revealed as the thick shadows peeled back from the flame. The master squeezed through, turning sideways to fit into the narrow way. The company pressed after the disguised man. Andri struggled to get himself through and grumbled noisily the entire time as he was half pulled through the confining slit.

The tunnel wound and bent, splitting off in numerous snaking detours that their guide seemed to know by heart. It was hard to not feel lost and directionless in the unfamiliar gloom. Keirn kept feeling more and more on edge as they progressed, worried that he had made a big mistake.

At last, a soft crackle of flame and a widening hole deposited the group into a large cavern. Braziers burned along the walls, illuminating various larger openings that hinted at an underground network stretching only the Gods knew where. At the sound of their arrival, the sound of metal scratching metal pierced the air. Two men appeared, wrapped in bright colourful rags. In the shimmering light, the party could see the reflection of the fire dancing along the sharp blades.

But the caravan master merely raised his hands. Reluctantly, the weapons lowered. As the groups eyes adjusted to the bright lighting, they found a great mob of tribals gathered upon the slick rocks, clutching their children and attempting to keep a low murmur amongst them.

The armed men came forward, grasping Andri forcibly by the arms and pulling him away. Keirn raised his sword, but they merely cut his bindings and reclaimed his axe.

“I really don’t like this,” Keirn muttered.

At the sound of his voice echoing off the walls, there was a loud rustle and the group turned to see the enormous roc stirring in the shadows. The beast was even more terrifying up close. Easily over twenty feet tall with rich brown feathers the size of Keirn’s arm. Its yellow eyes seemed to narrow at the sight of him, but a muzzle had been fitted over its beak keeping it from making a simple chirp. A makeshift pen had been erected and thick straw was strewn beneath the creature as if to make a bed for it to rest on. The bird ignored it, towering over all gathered beneath its gaze.

Keirn felt a nervous knot in his throat.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jeremiah asked. “Where are the people we were sworn to protect?”

“They are here,” the caravan master said.

“Where? Bring them to us!”

“They are right in front of you.”

The master waved his arm at the group of tribals watching the party carefully. A small babe began to cry, quickly silenced with the finger of his mother which it began to suckle gleefully.

The party stepped forward, looking at the nomads carefully beneath their layers of cloths. Keirn approached one slight looking tribal who regarded him curiously. As he drew but a foot away, the man reached up, peeling back the bandages to reveal Corran’s ridiculous grin.

“Great disguises eh!” he beamed. “They look like the real deal!”

“I… don’t understand,” Jeremiah said.

“I understand,” Derrek said, “but I don’t comprehend.”

“I lost my packs for this?” Kait pouted.

“Well, that’s that. Shall we kill them then, Erthis?” Andri asked.

“What?! You promised us!” Keirn accused.

Erthis, the caravan master, raised his hands for peace once more.

“I’m sorry for the… confusion. I could not know who you worked for. But it seems clear to me that you are unfortunate bystanders, caught in a bit of duplicity that was not meant for you.

“And no, we will not be killing them.”

Andri looked disappointed.

“Perhaps an explanation?” Jeremiah asked.

“These people you see before you, they are slaves in all but name. They are the serfs working for the vile Lord Daermoor, a man whose cruelty knows no bounds.”

“That’s the lord of the town we set out from,” Kait said.

“One and the same. If you had noticed, the people are a worn lot. Lord Daermoor levies harsh taxes upon those who rent his land. Inevitably, they are unable to make the payments so Lord Daermoor extorts their services. He presses their children into his militia, claims much of the crops and products and passes the debt from father to child even as he carries the parents away to serve time in his prison for missing payments.”

“Why rent land if he is so terrible?” Jeremiah asked.

“Sounds rather standard,” Derrek muttered.

“Many of them grew up there, and those that arrived from abroad to work for the lord were already dragged in by loans for land or tools. He uses his militia not for protection but to enforce his tyrannical rule. Many of the people here have lost loved ones to his insatiable prison or watched as his men made examples of them.”

“That’s terrible,” Kait said.

“There was little left to these people,” Erthis explained. “Lord Daermoor would hardly allow his people to just up and leave. So, I ran this caravan, promising to deliver supplies to his furthest holds. I ran my route along his border, through these plains, in the hopes that I would be able to ‘lose’ my passengers to unfortunate bandit raids.”

“And that’s where the Rakstas came in,” Keirn said. “You worked a deal with them to perpetrate the crimes to hide your own involvement.”

“Yes, precisely,” Erthis confirmed. “Except Lord Daermoor began to grow suspicious. So he hired thugs and assigned members of his own militia to escort and keep us ‘safe.’”

“And so the fake attack became a real one.”

“I have worked a deal with a neighbouring realm,” Erthis continued. “They promised to shelter these people and allow them to seek asylum. However, they couldn’t directly interfere. I’m afraid I had to rely on those that I had already rescued to stage the dramatic attack. The Rakstas provided the rocs as legitimacy but the nomads refused to put too many of their number in danger. The archers were the few wronged that were brave and skilled enough to risk the attack in order to save others.”

“So once you separated them from the caravan, they disguise themselves as nomads and just make the rest of the trip across the plains unmolested?” Keirn asked.

“More or less. These series of caves will get them quite far from here that they shouldn’t raise any suspicion.”

“And for the rocs,” Derrek said, “you gave them access to the supplies that were originally heading to Daermoor’s holdings. The pots and the pans?”

“Yes. It cuts into my profits, but freeing Daermoor’s people is far more valuable than a few more coins in my pocket.”

“Called it!” Derrek smiled.

“So…” Keirn said slowly, weighing the entire situation, “what you are saying… is that we won’t be getting paid.”

“I’m afraid Lord Daermoor was the one that hired the mercenaries. I have little need for the armed protection. I am sorry for putting you in danger but I couldn’t know where your loyalties lay.”

“Do you think Daermoor would still pay us?” Keirn asked.

Jeremiah elbowed him harshly in the ribs.

“We would be more than happy to assist you with the last leg of the journey.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” Erthis clapped.

“We would?”

“Of course,” Jeremiah glared. “First, we gave our word we would see these people to safety. It just happens to be in a different direction than we had anticipated. Second, even if it weren’t stipulated in our contract, it is the correct thing to do and we aren’t the type of company to turn on backs on those in need.”

“We aren’t?”

“We’re doing this.”

“And yet another job done without being paid,” Keirn grumbled.

“I suppose there is just one last, pressing question,” Derrek interrupted.

“I would be happy to answer anything else you may wish to know,” Erthis smiled.

“When do I get to ride that?”

Derrek pointed towards the roc. The massive bird ruffled its feathers.

“More pressing, I have a real question,” Keirn said.

“What’s that?”

“Why hire Andri?”

“That man?” Erthis asked, turning to the monstrous, glaring brute as some of the disguised travelers began addressing his abrasions. “Though we have the Rakstas assistance, that doesn’t mean all the dangers of the wilds are dealt with. He seemed like a capable, honourable man who was willing to assist with the final voyage over the plains.”

“Capable?”

“Sir,” a masked Rakstas said, approaching the caravan master, “we are all ready. We should probably be heading out now.”

“I’m hope you won’t be offended, but I don’t think we have enough materials to disguise you four,” Erthis said.

“Will we not have enough time to go back?” Kait whispered. “My things are still with the remains of the caravan and… well, I would like to recover what we could. I could probably fashion some suitable clothes too.”

Erthis turned to the waiting man, but the tribal merely shook his head.

“Young lady, I give you my word that when we are on the other side, I will go through my stores and restore what I can. I’m afraid I can’t offer much else.”

“That is more than generous,” Jeremiah said. “We are prepared when you are.”

“Then let’s get these packs and get going!” Erthis called.

A sudden commotion caused them to stop in their tracks before they even began. They turned towards the narrow entrance where two armoured men emerged, grappling with the tribal guards standing nearby. The struggle was brief, the untrained disguised travelers falling before the mercenaries.

“I don’t think anyone will be going anywhere.”

More men spilled from the crag, followed by the breastplated vixen Siara. Her fingers held gently her marvelous sword as she looked about the stunned faces arrayed before her.

“You!” Erthis cried.

“Very clever, this ruse of yours. But I’m afraid I must return all of you in the name of my Lord. And you, my friends, are to be commemorated for assisting me in uncovering this treasonous plot.”

“I knew we should have killed them!” Andri called as Siara smiled at Keirn and his friends.

“It is not what she says!” Jeremiah cried, drawing his greatsword into his hands.

“But maybe we should hear her out,” Keirn said quickly.

“Your attack was well laid,” Siara continued. “The chaos certainly threw the ranks of my men into disarray. Had it been able to proceed, I am certain that your birds and archers would have kept us besieged long after you had fled. That is, of course, had they not been chased off by these heroic gentlemen. Then, of course, they had the good graces to lead me straight to you.”

“That isn’t how it is!” Jeremiah argued. “You must believe us! She’s twisting our actions to mislead you!”

“What are you doing?!” Keirn hissed, waving for Jeremiah to lower his weapon.

Siara smiled.

“Come now, Erthis, surely you don’t mean to draw this out further. My men are all capable fighters while it is clear now that your allies are little more than poor peasants and farmers. Don’t make me kill what abled bodies still remain.”

“Capable?” Derrek asked.

“I shall not allow you to continue this tyranny against these innocent people!” Erthis cried. “It is a pity you were not slain in the ambush.”

“Perhaps if your archers were trained, they could have taken more than they wounded through sheer volume alone. But I suppose the only remaining card is you four. What say you? Will you turn against your rightful employer to stand by this man and his unlawful smugglers?”

“We would rather die than help you!” Jeremiah cried.

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Keirn said.

“You have to be kidding!” Kait said, drawing an arrow to her bow.

Keirn stepped between the two groups, holding his hands up for some civility.

“Let’s think about this. We were contracted to deliver these people to their proper destination, were we not? Furthermore, it has been made quite clear that said contract was made to Lord Daermoor and not kindly Erthis. Do you really want to present ourselves as people who would turn on our word?”

“We didn’t know what we agreed to,” Jeremiah said. “Don’t play some fool adjudicator in this. You know what is right!”

Keirn took a step back from Jeremiah’s wide swing, but quickly composed himself.

“Let’s think about this logically. These mercenaries are well… well here. And there are a lot of them. Do you really think you could take them all? The three of you? Any combat will surely turn for the worst against these people that you are so inclined to protect.”

“Then death shall be the ultimate price for freedom,” Jeremiah said, dropping solidly in his stance. “I will not support what is so clearly wrong.”

Keirn retreated a little further from the large blade brandished before him, shaking his head.

“Well that’s a little black and white,” Keirn said. “What about you Derrek? Kait? Who will you side with?”

“She won’t let me ride the bird,” Derrek said simply, clasping his lute in his hands. His fingers poised over the strings.

Each betrayal seemed to drive the young man further and further from them.

“Sister?”

Kait looked between the earnest men between her and the woman standing smugly at the entrance surrounded by her gruesome guard. She seemed to watch the anarchy splitting the group with a great deal of amusement. No doubt this final betrayal was far more rewarding to that raven haired woman than had they actually agreed to assist her. It was clear she had no plans to pay them or reward them for their part in this.

Kait held her bow notched before her. She looked sternly at her brother.

“I would think carefully about how you decide to play this.”

Keirn dropped his head in defeat. However, he was sure to catch her eye as he did, directing his kin’s eyes with his own to the shuffling mass that was now behind him. He hadn’t been retreating to Siara’s side but towards the great pen.

“I suppose there’s nothing else left,” Keirn said resolutely, drawing his sword from its sheath. “I’ll just have to do what I know best.”

He turned to Siara.

“Milady, you wished to know whether we stood with you or not?”

“It is clear where your company stands. What say you? Will you join them in their misguided righteousness?”

“I’m afraid I was never particularly good with morally questionable dilemmas,” Keirn confessed, taking a slow breath and tilting his head awkwardly towards the exit. “You see, I inevitably take the cowardly route. Why face a challenge head on when you can simply cut…”

He spun, slicing with his sword against the muzzle restraining the roc’s great beak.

“And RUN!”

He struck the creature hard with the flat of his blade. The slap startled the animal which gave a piercing cry before lashing madly out with talon and beak against the perceived assault. Its wings ruffled, filling the great cavern as it instinctively attempted to become airborne. Great feathers fell about their heads as the animal fluttered in its confusion.

Keirn ducked beneath its flailing appendages, attempting to run towards the caravan master and the exit from the caves. With the enraged bird in tow, the rest of the caravaners needed no further encouragement. They stumbled to their feet, fleeing before the massive beast.

Siara cried out for them to be stopped and the mercenaries ran forward. But their charge towards the bird caused it to lash out at the threat. Its massive beak broke through shield and cracked metal. A single peck tore flesh from bone, dropping one mercenary and causing the others to re-evaluate their devotion to the cause.

Keirn hurried to one of the burning torches, snatching it from its holder and lobbing it with all his might at the great creature. A few Rakstas ran to intervene against further antagonizing the animal but the torch had already been loosed.

It rolled brightly through the air like a great wheel of fire before striking the feathered breast of the beast. This startled the animal even further, driving it almost mad with rage and fear.

“What are you doing?!” Jeremiah cried as Keirn reached for a second torch.

“Enlisting someone to cover our retreat. Unless you really want to fight toe to toe with the expertly trained swordswoman!”

He motioned towards Siara who held her blade before her in a stance that even the four adventurers could tell meant business. She hesitated for but a moment, judging her skill against the monstrous beak and the rewards she would gain if she succeeded.

Keirn didn’t wait any longer before someone could raise valid complaints against his method. He tossed more torches at the bird until its screech cracked the cavern air and caused him to cover his ears.

The bird turned towards Keirn with murderous intent.

“Can we get out now?!” Kait cried. “I don’t think I have the heart to hit it with an arrow.”

“I know!” Keirn cried. The bird stomped towards him with more speed than a creature borne for flight should possess. He turned, letting his actions finish the debate.

He ran faster than he ever had in his entire life.

The ground shook beneath the crashing fall of the bird’s talons. Wings flared and each beat stirred up a back draft that nearly lifted Keirn off his feet. But size was not as great an advantage in the caves, and Keirn wove his way around massive stalagmites, keeping to narrow corridors in his retreat that left much stone between him and the animal.

The terrified men and women before him scattered much like they had when the staged attack first occurred. Their coloured scarves were like flapping banners in the passages leading him along like a summer fair parade. Suddenly, the cavern floor began to slope upwards as a distant orb of bright light promised freedom and escape.

His legs burned and the air seemed to scratch at his throat as he willed his muscles to push him further and faster towards the expanding light. Shouts and screams echoed around him as the very cavern felt like it would collapse beneath the rampage of the monstrous animal. The orb quickly expanded into a massive slit in the very earth and with a final burst of strength, Keirn propelled himself from the cavern opening.

He landed on a gentle slope, immediately falling to his back and rolling painfully across the rocky terrain from the crag he’d emerged from. There was one last, terrifying cry amplified into a frightening shriek as the roc burst from the cave in a shower of broken stone and slate. With a few mighty beats of its wings, it was borne aloft into the long sought sky.

It didn’t even cast one last look back as it tore into the clouds, turning into nothing more than a small line disappearing towards the distant spires of the mountains.

Keirn came to a stop against a small pile of stones, looking up at the exhausted faces of the disguised caravaners.

“I told you he was a danger!” Andri shouted. “He’s a madman who nearly killed us all! He can not be trusted!”

A great axe almost materialize over Keirn, dangling like the blade of the headsman readying for the word to come crashing down. But Keirn’s body refused to register the threat, leaving him to stare up at the blade dumbly.

“Hold!” Erthis called, sucking in as much air as he could as he slowly made his way to the young man’s side. He stood over him and his face flushed a deep scarlet.

“You are possibly the most reckless, inscrutable and unpredictable man I have ever met!”

“Thank… you…” Keirn gasped.

“And you may have just saved all our lives with your impulsiveness.”

Erthis held out his hand, helping Keirn to his feet. Andri, once more, lowered his weapon with disappointment.

“But, from here on out, how about I handle the important decisions until we get across the border?”

“Agreed,” Keirn nodded.

Jeremiah made his way to Keirn’s side, resting his hand on the man’s sweaty shoulder.

“You had me going for a minute.”

“What, you think I would turn on my best friends?” Keirn cried.

Jeremiah stared at him for a second.

“Yes. In a heartbeat.”

A sharp slap struck his other shoulder as Kait rounded on him.

“Don’t you ever think of doing something so insane!” she cried. “And next time warn your sister when you’re going to pretend at some terrible betrayer!”

She added a few more slaps to emphasis her point. Keirn turned to Derrek for some support, but even he looked disappointedly back at him.

“Now I’ll never get to ride it,” he said.

The three of them started towards the group of nomads as they hurried down the hill from the cave. Keirn stood, gathering his breath and watching them go.

The great Andri stomped to his side, a greyish finger running gently along its curve.

“You think you’re so clever, but I’ll be watching you. If I see so much as a hint of duplicity…”

He let the threat hang in the air for a moment, his eyes glaring down at the young sorcerer. Then he hefted his axe over his shoulder and followed after his pay.

“A little thank you would be nice!” he called after them. “It’s not like I’ve ever left anyone behind before!”

And elsewhere, connected by a twisting series of caverns and tunnels and still crouched behind an overturn cart, Shanna poked her head out from beneath her cloak at the darkening sky as twilight began to set over the now abandoned ruins of the caravan.

“Keirn? Derrek? Guys? Gods curse them, they did it again, didn’t they! I should know better than to trust those louts!”

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D&D Rocks Part 3

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This is late and I blame Derek.

Rape of Ganymede by Rembrandt van Rijn (1635)

Keirn kept a tight grip on his sword. It was a good tool, as far as tools went. Sure, it wasn’t particularly helpful with matters of eating or sleeping but it served a much more important role in his life.

It was scary.

While the idea of an adventurer wasn’t completely laughable to most people, the fact of the matter was that your common man was more versed with hoe or purse than the business end of a blade. True masters of the craft were hired by kings and nobles, filling out the ranks of prestigious armies or filling a tutoring role behind think castle walls. For the average man, there were few opportunities to receive proper instruction in its use.

As it were, most wielders were self taught. The fundamentals were straight forward: pointy bits go into fleshy bits. But the grace and skill of true swordsmanship were far more difficult to master. Instead, Keirn found it more advantageous to fabricate an air of mastery than to develop the talent itself. So long as most people assumed you were trained, you rarely had need to draw the blade at all.

The light the steel ever saw was in use against beasts who had no mind to recognize the danger of the blade itself. But then, loud noises were just as effective in those situations.

But today was different. Keirn hadn’t faced a man astride an enormous bird of prey with a thirst for blood. If their positions were reversed, Keirn seriously doubted four scantily armed dimwits would really strike fear of death in their adversary’s heart.

He took to the rocks slowly, almost hoping that if he never reached their apex he wouldn’t have to face the danger beyond.

It was Kait that crested the top first. He waited for her cry of fear, for her to reach for her bow and come staggering back from an assault. He tightened his fingers around his weapon’s grip in anticipation.

But she did neither. She just stood there, peering off into the distance with one hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing.”

Impossible.

The men made quickly to her side, surveying the land before them.

The plains were an expanding sea of scrub brush and broken ridges. Grey rock burst from the ground like the blunted skeletal teeth of some enormous monster. Life clung to the soil deficient earth, wrestling tiny, hooked branches through the cracks in the earth. From this vantage point, the four of them could see for leagues in all direction.

And there was, quite literally, nothing.

There were no corpses, no feasting bird and no bloody savage hacking at the dying. It was as if all the people they had been travelling with were little more than illusions that had scattered into the dry wind and swept over those crumbling mounds.

“Are you sure this is where they went?” Kait asked.

“You’re the nature expert. Why not peruse the ground and sniff out their footprints.”

“Oh brother, one does not smell footprints,” she sighed, bending down to poke at the sticks and twigs scattered about.

Keirn turned to Derrek.

“This was the way they went right?” he whispered.

“‘Fear not when the people turn to nought but ghosts of memories, speeding upon the threads of ever changing winds.’”

“Probably not the most applicable,” Keirn sniffed at the quote. “Quentinon?”

“Burloque, but close,” Derrek grinned. “The People of the Sky and Sand.”

“Perhaps they sought shelter in those ravines?” Jeremiah said, pointing down into the rocky crags.

Like wicked scars, deep trenches ran through the earth as if it had been stretched and torn asunder. Their dark shadows cracked the rolling plains, the ground seeming to crumble into their depths.

“And the roc?”

“Followed maybe?” Jeremiah shrugged. “At the very least, the creature can’t be as fearsome if it’s bound to the earth by a ceiling.

“That’s only a marginal comfort,” Keirn sighed.

But his grip did relax.

“At the very least, we’re likely to run into the enemy before we find the survivors,” Jeremiah warned. “So we best be as prepared as possible.”

Kait stood, nodding as she pulled her bow from about her back. Keirn wondered what she thought she would do with her weapon since he could hardly remember her hitting a tree behind the chapel’s small teaching hall let alone an active combatant hoping to spill her innards. She wasn’t even practised against wild game, fearing she would do harm to the cute rabbits or peaceful deer that would serve better as dinner than wild decoration. But she held it with the practice of at least a few moons and would hopefully serve to startle any potential attackers when she inevitably missed with her arrow that had yet to be notched.

Descending into the crag proved trickier than their initial examination suggested. The ground was much looser than they thought, and any wrong step would send a cavalcade of stones tumbling down into the growing expanse below them. Jeremiah clanked ahead, his big arms flailing beneath the bent metal sheets encompassing them. The closer they got, the steeper the descent became. But their intrepid leader at least plotted out a route for them to follow, whether it was by tumbling a few feet and scrambling for handholds and indicating where the ground was too dry to travel or not.

But they eventually arrived at the yawning cavern entrance. It seemed quite large, a bit of a surprise given how insignificant the scar looked from the hilltop. It also appeared quite dark, a revelation that the group hadn’t really considered before clamouring down to it.

“We should be able to make some headway,” Jeremiah gauged, “before we run out of natural light. Assuming we go slow enough for our eyes to adjust.”

“Where do you think it leads?” Kait whispered.

“Underground,” Keirn muttered.

“It does appear to start levelling off more ahead,” Jeremiah encouraged. “Just watch your step!”

His suit clanked as he took one unsure step after the other into the darkness. When last sight failed them, they could still hear him rattling about. After a few moments he finally caught that they were still standing outside and not following close behind his fearless advance.

“What are you waiting for!” echoed his voice from the depths.

“Just waiting to see if you get ambushed,” Derrek called back. “But given your lack of screaming it appears safe enough.”

The bard trudged slowly after. Kait gave Keirn an expecting look before heading after her companions. Breathing one last reluctant sigh, Keirn entered the cavern. As they passed beneath the yawning opening, the air drew noticeably cooler. The brush around the entrance was hardier looking too. With the cold came the damp as the walls appeared slick with a moist sheen.

“Look at that!” Kait cried. “Footprints.”

Imbedded in the ground were numerous imprints of the feet that passed through earlier. Large, four talon prints had stamped out many of the tracks, leaving thick indents in the soft soil.

“That roc must have been quite eager to come down here,” Derrek said. “A bird does not willing give up its sky.”

“It looks like our escorts were quite hasty in their retreat too,” Jeremiah said, motioning further into the cavern. Scattered about the ground were various assortments of equipment. With well honed instincts, the group made their way over to scavenge through the discarded belongings.

“Seems mostly rudimentary tools,” Kait observed, holding up some iron shovels and dull utensils.

“Maybe the Rakstas came here for the extra pottery?” Derrek offered, indicating a few battered pots.

“These can’t belong to the caravaners,” Keirn said. “Many of these have begun to rust from the moisture.”

And none of them looked particularly valuable; old, yes, but nothing that would be worth carting back to civilization. Nevertheless, Keirn caught a glance of his sister pocketing some of the smaller needles and rope into her pockets.

“Success!” cried Jeremiah. The others turned to see his discovery. He held up a simple torch pointing to a few more abandoned upon the ground. “Looks like fortune still smiles upon us.”

“Great,” Keirn muttered. “More reason to keep pressing on.”

The others ignored him as they set about setting the torches alight. It was more difficult than they anticipated. The rags were damp, making them reluctant to catch a blaze. Furthermore, none of them had their equipment and instead they had to rely on some flint and tinder also abandoned in the cave.

“You know, I’m surprised we haven’t heard anything or seen a body,” Kait muttered as she brushed back her hair and passed the igniter to Jeremiah.

“You sound almost disappointed,” her brother teased.

“I know how much you were looking forward to looting them,” Kait shot back. “But even still, I can not imagine the entire caravan group managing to keep ahead of their pursuers given how difficult it would be to organize them. Surely someone would have sprained an ankle or gotten scared or tired.”

“Or they would hear the roc chasing them and be shouting orders or preparing to defend themselves,” Jeremiah added, giving up on the task and passing the tools to Derrek. The minstrel took one slow look at the torch, at the tools, blew gently on both then ignited a spark with his first clap.

“I’m still waiting for the mid act plot twist,” Derrek said, handing the fiercely burning torch back to Jeremiah. The large man stood, holding the flame before him to better gauge his direction into the deep while Keirn busied himself with collecting the others.

“While I’m inclined to think life imitates art,” Keirn said. “I really don’t know what twist you’re expecting. I think the only surprise that would get me would be if they managed to kill that roc.”

“Naw, that isn’t big enough,” Derrek said. “It has to be something more unexpected. Something the audience wouldn’t have any preparation for.”

“Quiet!” Jeremiah hissed. “Someone is coming.”

The others looked passed him and deeper into the cave. Sure enough, a bright orange glow was quickly growing in the darkness. They could hear heavy steps of iron clad feet. There was a sharp scraping sound of metal rubbing threateningly over the exposed rock.

“Put out the torch!” Kait cried.

“That will be unnecessary!” boom a voice that reverberated about them.

“Wait… doesn’t that sound like-“

A great beast of a man materialized from the dark. Though only his head and shoulders were properly illuminated by the fire in his hand, the others could easily fill in the shadow details. He was a towering man, with unruly light hair unkempt over harsh boney features. Small eyes glittered beneath a pair of smudge spectacles stretched over a broad face. His skin was light and greyish but bulk clung to his great frame, filling the cavern. And held in one massive hand was a monstrous twin edged axe.

“Andrie?!” Kait, Jeremiah and Keirn cried.

“That would work,” Derrek nodded to himself.

The broad man grinned: a toothy and slightly unsettling gesture that revealed a pair of canines slightly larger than most.

“Keirn Fadden. Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

“What’s your play in this?” Keirn muttered.

“I am here to stop you, my adversary,” Andrie replied, tossing his torch aside and hefting his mighty weapon into his hands.

“I’ve already told you,” Keirn sighed, “I’m not your nemesis. Second, what have you done with the refugees?”

“Oh, they have been taken care of,” Andrie replied. “Much like you will be shortly.”

“Please, we don’t need to fight about this!” Kait cried.

“There can be nothing but a fight between me and my sworn enemy,” Andrie said. “The fates forever drive us together so that our blades may clash until the destined day when my axe will feast on his flesh.”

“Look, I’m not going to take back those comments,” Keirn said. “And I am not your forsworn or whatever the hell your barbaric culture calls people you have a grudge against.”

“Do not think your attempts to demean my great people will unbalance me this time!” Andrie cried. “I shall not fall for your devilish tricks again.”

“What tricks?!” Keirn said. “You only lost because you’re a terrible swordsman!”

“I really don’t think that’s the best approach if you’re trying to be diplomatic,” Derrek observed.

“There shall be no diplomacy today! Ready your weapon fiend, don’t make me cut down these bystanders just so I can get to you!”

“Who, us?” Jeremiah asked. He quickly stepped to the side, freeing space between his friend and the threatening man. “Don’t hold back on our account.”

Derrek and Kait quickly made way for the conflict as well.

“Traitors,” Keirn muttered. “Weren’t you three the ones gung-ho to kill the bird?”

“I will not allow you to harm my allies,” Andrie said, swinging his axe into a battle stance. “Prepare your soul, foul one, for tonight you sup at the honoured table of combat. And your heart is the main course!”

“Really? That’s your battle cry?” Keirn asked.

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

The great man charged towards Keirn, his axe lifted menacingly over his head. In the half shadows and wavering light of the cave, he even struck a rather formidable appearance as he came stomping over the rocks. The ground shook noticeably beneath the young man’s boots, sending reverberations echoing along his bones.

Fortunately, however, Keirn had faced the man before and knew that, despite his lack of proper training, he was still far better prepared than his so-called ‘rival.’

Not that the axe nor the strength behind it wasn’t dangerous. However, his enemy lacked two important skills. Firstly, he held his weapon all wrong. It was quite heavy, with a large amount of weight focused in the head to give more momentum in its swings. By leaving it retracted for the full length of his charge, he left himself slightly off balance as he struggled to keep it at such an awkward angle.

Second, Andrie was a man who had proven that his martial skills weren’t his only deficiencies. While he professed a refined upbringing, he showed a startling lack of insight. Keirn didn’t even hold his sword as he was still clutching the small pile of torches in his hands. He simply shrugged, tossing the blunt pile quickly in front as the big man came lumbering forward. The torches clattered upon the slick floor, rolling underfoot.

Andrie cried as his boot fell upon one of the torches. His heel dug in, spinning the stick in the opposite direction. Suddenly, his momentum shifted, adding to the weight of the great axe dangling behind him. He flailed his arms in a desperate attempt to regain his balance, his feet kicking wildly beneath him to find some purchase.

Instead, they slipped over the moist, smooth stone. With a great crash, the man fell ass over head backwards, his axe slipping from his grip and clattering against the stones and into the shadows.

Keirn walked boldly forward, jamming his heel into the man’s rib and producing another groan of pain. He then slid his sword from its sheath and pressed it lovingly against his neck.

“Now that that’s done, how about we see about meeting with that ally of yours?”

Andrie bared his prodigious teeth, but Keirn just pushed his blade tighter against his throat.

“Do you really want to argue with sword?”

“Shall we take this with us?” Derrek asked, attempting to pick the axe up. However, the weapon was heavier than he anticipated, and he only managed to clank the blade uselessly against the stone floor as he struggled to lift the handle. The bard groaned and grabbed for his back.

“You dare touch my honoured weapon?!” Andrie growled.

Keirn dug his heel further into the man’s chest to silence him.

“Might as well, since he’ll probably just add that to our long list of travesties if we leave it behind.”

“Your list,” his sister quickly corrected.

“Right, of course. Thanks for the back up, team.”

“We wouldn’t dare break the sacred principles of a forsworn duel,” Kait teased, assisting Derrek with the ridiculous axe. Between the two of them, they managed to get it airborne.

“Shall we?” Keirn said, smiling down at Andrie.

“They dirty it with their hands,” he grumbled.

“I promise they’ll wash afterwards,” Keirn said. “Up you get!”

The oaf grunted as he was kicked to his feet. Jeremiah was quick to take the rope Kait had procured earlier and lashed it around the man’s thick wrists. Andrie struggled, but only enough to communicate his displeasure. His eyes remained narrowed on Keirn’s slender sword still pointing his way.

Their procession continued as it had, only this time Andrie was kept carefully within Keirn’s sword reach.

“You’re mistaken if you think I’m going to help you,” Andrie grumbled.

“Please, can we cut with the tough routine,” Keirn sighed. “You don’t perform it well.”

“But you do have a really good outfit for it,” Derrek said encouragingly.

“Oh? You think so?”

“I’m a big fan of the rabble look. Quite the disconnected set like you scavenged the remains of a terrific battlefield.”

“You never said that about mine,” Jeremiah grumbled.

“Yours is like ordered chaos. Too much effort was made to create something that would be fairly pleasing to the eye given what was at hand. Kind of like someone rummaging through another’s trash and saving the best pieces.

“But this, this here is almost a masterpiece. Look at how he utilizes the butt of a buckler as a kneecap. Rubbish bits of leather, torn and frayed hold the discordant pieces together as if the very ravages of time were clawing at the chinks of his very persona. It delivers a better cohesive package that helps solidify his image of a hired thug.”

“Why thank yo- Hey!” Andrie objected. “I am no thug!”

“I wouldn’t get too worked up,” Keirn said. “All his compliments are pretty backhands. All things considered, that was overall a positive portrayal. Certainly not how I would describe it.”

“And how would he describe you, bane of my ancestors?”

“Flunked student.”

“Peace,” Jeremiah called. “We have a dilemma.”

The passage broke into two equally dark and foreboding tunnels continuing into the gloom. However, both looked equally used and the brief moment of silence revealed no telling signs down either.

“Well, which is it,” Keirn probed with the tip of his blade.

“I warned you before, I would not lend assistance,” Andrie replied.

“Are your murderous allies truly worth dying over?” Keirn asked.

“I will not be swayed from my honour by your slanderous tongue.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Keirn said. “Speaking of which, what are you doing way out here? Don’t you have some port you should be plundering?”

“I am not some common raider.”

“But your people are, aren’t they? Isn’t their whole claim to fame centred on their endless razing and pillaging of coastal settlements?”

“I would not expect you, of simple mind and simple understanding, to comprehend even the smallest fraction of our traditions.”

“Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but it certainly looks to me like you’re just some common mercenary.”

“I am sure you would know what a mercenary is.”

“Actually, we have worked with quite a few,” Kait agreed.

“And for someone who professes a higher moral standard, you seem to be quite willing to sell it for the slightest hint of gold,” Keirn said. “But I may not be the moral expert of our group. What say you, Jeremiah?”

“Don’t bring me into your ridiculous taunts,” the dark man replied. “But… it does seem pretty questionable what you are doing; selling your sworn blade to the service of murderers.”

“That’s precious coming from you lot!” Andrie shouted. “What price is high enough for you to sell your swords? I suspect it is not very much. Perhaps a warm meal and a bed but judging by your meagre size maybe it was just the bed.”

“Look, we just want to help,” Kait pleaded. “There could be some people still alive…”

“Oh, they’re alive alright,” Andrie warned. “But I suspect the same won’t be said for you four much longer.”

“Can I just start stabbing him?” Keirn sighed.

“My soul is ready,” Andrie cried, drawing erect.

He was mighty tall.

“It’s left,” Derrek announced.

“What?!”

All four of them turned to the minstrel who was leaning nonchalantly against the heavy axe now that Kait had dropped it for a brief respite.

“How can you be so sure?” Keirn asked.

“He’s been eyeing that passage ever since we stopped here,” Derrek explained. “Clearly, he is expecting some sort of assistance to arrive.”

“That seems like quite a leap,” Jeremiah said.

“Well, he also looked extremely worried when I made that announcement, as if my suspicions were correct,” Derrek shrugged. “Furthermore, while the ground has become too hard to hold decent imprints, you can still see some scratches from the talons of the roc which clearly doesn’t frequent this area.”

“How did you not notice that?” Keirn accused his sister.

“That’s just conjecture!” Andrie cried. “This man is clearly mad!”

“Yeah, but he’s our mad man,” Keirn said. “Let’s get going.”

“Fine! It’s too the right!”

“Do you think this is his attempt at subterfuge?” Kait wondered.

“The passage to the left is heavily trapped,” Andrie warned. “Walking down it would assure your deaths!”

“He does seem like he’s trying too hard,” Keirn agreed.

“Weren’t you prepared to lay down your life for these people?” Jeremiah asked.

“They’re not my people. They’re just a job,” Andrie retorted.

“Well, let’s just be safe and have Andrie take the lead,” Keirn said, prodding with his sword towards the left tunnel.

“Please, you’re making a mistake!”

“What is the meaning of this?”

The party turned to the shadows, where a large man emerged wrapped in the distinct garb of the Rakstas tribals. The others drew their weapons, but there was something peculiar about his voice that stayed their weapons.

“Careful, come any closer and we’ll be forced to hurt him,” Keirn warned.

“Please,” the man said, raising his hands peacefully. “There has been enough blood today.”

“That’s quaint coming from you!” Jeremiah cried. “How many of the caravaners did you mercilessly slaughter before you felt the quota had been filled?”

“It’s not like that at all.”

The man reached up towards his face, causing the party to raise their weapons in warning. But the man ignored the bow, swords and lute pointed dangerously at his chest and simply pulled at the scarves until he had fully undressed his head.

“The caravan master?!” Kait cried.

“I think that would make a better surprise,” Keirn whispered to Derrek. The minstrel nodded his head in agreement.

“Please, we can not tarry here. Follow me and try and keep quiet.”

“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” Keirn demanded.

“You don’t,” the caravan master said. He then reconsidered his reply. “But I will give you my word that no harm will be dealt to you. But please, do hurry!”

The four weighed their options, turning to each other for a decision. Finally, Keirn lowered his blade.

“Fine, but we’re keeping this one tied up.”

“Very well, but make haste!”

Continue to D&D Rocks Part 4 >

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D&D Rocks Part 2

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Prometheus Bond by Peter Paul Rubens (1610-1611)

I suppose I should put my own little advisory on my posts much like my colleague. While his Ika campaign is a world created for the Dungeons and Dragons tabletop game, my D&D stories are not actually set in any particular setting. They’re more a tag for the tales told in Fantasyland where my little band of misguided adventurers explore life and have silly stories under the pretense of numerous genre tropes. In fact, I’ve gone to great lengths to not reveal what D&D even stands for in this situation. I’ve always imagined it to be Dazed and Distraught or something to that effect.

Granted, sometimes I pull inspiration from Dungeons and Dragons adventures. This particular story lacks the deep personal turmoil found in others because it was based on one such game that, in respect to all those involved, shall remain anonymous. It did have giant birds in it though.

***

The caravan was a mess. Wagons lay cracked and broken like empty husks after a feast. Most were reduced to splinters scattered across the weed covered road. Their contents were scattered about the hills, leaving a hazardous pile of goods for the survivors to stumble through. Amongst the junk came the slow groans of the guards still clutching to the last moments of life. Those that had survived relatively unscathed picked amongst the carnage, shifting broken planks and sorting through iron pots for those haunted voices.

The three men surveyed the damage from their rocky outcrop. The archers had already disappeared into the steppe, seeming to vanish in the thin shadows of the stony landscape even though it appeared little more than a scraggly sea of thin grass and low-lying shrubs. Carefully, they made their way back to the survivors, exhaustion beginning to set as their adrenaline passed.

“I want a full count of those left standing. And bring the wounded to the fourth wagon. There’s enough cloth to set up a makeshift tent. We’ll see yet who can be pulled from the Tarnished Halls and Helja’s dues.”

Siara stood amongst the guards, a beacon of order and authority in the devastation of the skirmish. Her breastplate gleamed in the hanging sun, her sword resting elegantly upon her hip. Before her stern gaze, the men bent to her commands. Orders were swiftly filled and a sense of proper calm had been restored. While they hurried to fulfill her commands, the woman herself bent over the wreckage of a cart, sifting through the scattered remains. Upon hearing their approach, she stood with an imposing expression.

“You three, report!”

Derrek, Keirn and Jeremiah looked to each other unsure exactly what happened in all the chaos despite being in the thick of it.

“They’ve fled?” Keirn offered uselessly. He kind of wished he sounded more confident when he said it.

“Did you get confirmation of their direction, numbers, leaders?”

The men looked blankly at each other.

“They went that way.” Jeremiah pointed off into the distance.

Siara’s piercing black eyes rolled over each man slowly. Keirn felt like they were three misbehaving children brought before a disappointed mother. The silence was long and uncomfortable and they shifted nervously beneath that commanding glare.

At last she sighed, looking towards the sky as if she couldn’t even trust their report that the birds were gone.

“So we have nothing. No idea of who they were or what they were after. There have been heavy casualties amongst the guards and all of the non-combatants have disappeared.”

“Well, I am pretty certain that they were the tribe of-“

“Disappeared?” Keirn interrupted. “Surely someone returned now that the fighting is over.”

Siara raised a curious brow to Derrek but addressed Keirn.

“I would have that so. The call to withdraw from our enemy seemed clear enough to me that the attack was over. I doubt anyone couldn’t hear it but so far no one has returned.”

“We saw them head that way,” Derrek said, pointing over the ridge. Siara scanned the hills as if she expected to see all the men and women huddled amongst the grass choked rocks.

“We also saw one of those large birds chase after them,” Keirn said, shaking his head. “The fools should have stayed near us so we could protect them. I can’t see most of those people surviving against that monster. Not without some knowledge of combat.”

“But why assault the caravan?” Jeremiah asked.

Siara’s eyes narrowed in thought. She looked as if she was about to share some revelation but the call of a nearby guard took her attention. She turned from them, clearly finished with her interrogation.

However, Keirn was reluctant to leave. He shifted nervously upon his feet, his mind trying to come up with some excuse for him to linger in Siara’s presence.

“Oh Siara, I was just wondering if… well…”

“Yes?”

Her reply was short and quick. Keirn turned to his friends for some support but, as typical, they had nothing to help.

“Well… errr… have you seen my sister?”

It really wasn’t what he was looking for but the words were gone and he couldn’t reclaim them.

“I’m not some mewling wet-nurse,” Siara replied. “Why don’t you search for survivors and see they get some aid. Perhaps you’ll find your sister amongst their number.”

And that was that. Keirn watched her pick through the wreck, her long black hair tumbling gently over her immaculate armour encasing her slender figure. Derrek snapped his fingers before Keirn’s face to get his attention.

“You have the heart and wit of a courtesan. I’m in such awe of your skills I would delight in apprenticing beneath you.”

“Shut up,” the young man grumbled knowing too well that his friend caught his longing looks. “Let’s just see if we can’t find something.”

“You know what I don’t understand?” Jeremiah asked. “Why would the tribals attack the caravan in the first place? What were they after?”

“Probably the valuables,” Keirn said. “It’s not like bandits have complex moral objectives.”

“There’s only so many uses for cast iron pans and chamber pots. Unless… do you think they want to build a great tribunal mudtower in order to unite all the scatter tribes beneath a single, ambitious warlord?”

“What?”

Derrek blinked at his companions’ confusion. “Well, the principal culture structure of the Rakstas tribes are the mud fortresses they scatter over their territory. They occupy these during the mating season when the great herds gather. There’s little building material over the steppes but they discovered a unique architectural form that uses the local mudclay to fashion semi-permeable homes. When these dry beneath the sun, they become tough as wood. Once the great herds move on, they leave these buildings behind for the next tribe much like the tenant crab passing off its shell for another.”

Keirn eyed Derrek suspiciously.

“Sometimes I think you fabricate this nonsense to fool us.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“But why this caravan,” Jeremiah asserted. “I thought these routes were relatively safe.”

“Obviously not, else why would they hire us?” Keirn said.

“Do you think there’s something valuable in these wagons?” Jeremiah hypothesized. “Maybe that’s what she’s looking for.”

“Well, she spent quite a bit of time with the Caravan Master,” Derrek said. “She probably already knew about the pots.”

“What pots?”

Derrek stepped to an overturned wagon, lifting up the collapsed canvas to reveal a great pile of cast iron skillets, pans, vessels and other cooking ware.

“We must be transporting far more than that.”

“Not really, most of the cargo is earthenware.”

“What about that orb?”

“Found it in a bag hidden in a cauldron,” Derrek shrugged. “But there wasn’t much else in it. Just some rusted tools and spooled thread. And an old boot.”

“Well that doesn’t make any sense,” Jeremiah said. “Why would they need so much security for something so valueless?”

“Because the kingdoms don’t want a towering mudpillar!” Derrek exclaimed.

“Why do we bring you along?”

Suddenly, a great horn blast ran down the beleaguered line. It was a warning call. Men scrambled for their weapons, abandoning their search and duties as they hurried for cover. Keirn pressed against the shattered remains of the wagon, his hand reaching for his weapon as he tried to think what could possibly be descending up them now.

“Someone approaches!”

Curious but wary, the three young men emerged from their cover and made towards the front of the caravan. A lone figure moved towards them from down the road. Arrows were notched but something in the stranger’s gait gave pause to Keirn. Then, a familiar voice rose on the winds.

“My baaaaaaaaags!!!”

With unmatched speed, the figure hurried towards the caravan. Bows were raised but Keirn called for them to lower their weapons.

Cresting the hill came a red-faced Kait. Sweat beaded her brow as she looked horrified at the scene of carnage before her.

“What happened?!”

Keirn blinked at his sister, his mind momentarily blank. When last he spoke, his voice burst forward in a trembling denouncement.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED! WHY DID YOU WANDER OFF?!”

Kait started at her brother’s outburst.

“I thought I would take a quick jog ahead to see what was before us. What did I miss?”

“How did you- Didn’t you know- See you- Birds!”

It was an incoherent stammering but managed to communicate the young man’s fluster.

Jeremiah quickly stepped to Kait’s side, brushing Keirn aside.

“We were assaulted while you were… away. You were fortunate to miss the battle. It was very… devastating.”

“Has anyone checked on my packs? Are my things okay?”

“Your things?!” Keirn cried. “I’ve been worried sick that you’re lying dead in some ditch and your first thought is your collection of yarn?!”

“It’s a very nice collection,” Kait muttered.

“Did you happen to see some men, women or children wrapped in cloth while you were scouting?” Jeremiah asked.

“I saw some people in the hills but assumed they were nomads,” Kait shrugged. “I didn’t really pay much attention to them and they seemed content with their own business. You don’t think they were behind it, do you?”

“I don’t think-“

“Aha!”

“-we know for certain,” Keirn said. “They chased off most of the caravan and tried to kill all of us.”

“Many of the travellers fled when the fight broke out,” Jeremiah said.

“We saw a roc fly after them… I don’t think there will be much to find.”

“What do you mean?” Kait asked.

“Well…” Keirn said, “when a hungry beast sees some unarmed, defenceless humans…”

“Are you saying there were rocs in the skirmish?”

“Yes, rocs. They’re really large birds like…” Keirn tried to hold his arms out to indicate their length but quickly realized the futility of that display. “They’re really big.”

Kait frowned.

“I’m know what a roc, or ruhk as it’s properly called, looks like. They’re a rare species of Stephanoaetus Gigantorus that can live upwards of sixty years if given enough food to support their diet. Famously gentle creatures with a caring temperament. But there isn’t any known species that would be out this far in the plains. They favour cliff environs or coastal regions. The closest would be the distant Ashencleft Mountains. But we’re well out of their hunting territory.”

“Well, they were here,” Keirn said. “And they aren’t friendly.”

“A pity that I missed them.”

“The bigger pity is that we won’t be getting paid,” Keirn moaned.

“Why do you say that?” Jeremiah asked.

“Look at our escort, Jeremiah!” Keirn cried, waving his hand at the wrecked wagons.

“But surely if we find the survivors the caravan master would honour the agreement.”

“Why don’t you discuss it with him,” Keirn said. “I’m pretty sure I saw him running off with the group about to be turned into bird feed.”

“Why would the caravan master run off?” Kait wondered.

“Probably because he has no spine.”

“But wouldn’t he want to protect his investment?” she continued. “I mean, none of the guards fled and you managed to repel the attack as well. Why spend so much money putting together the caravan and hiring so many guards if you’re just going to abandon it at the first sign of trouble?”

“It’s not like the Rakstas tribe is particularly bloodthirsty,” Derrek added. “At the very least, a reasonable response would be to bargain with the attackers if he felt he would lose any fight for his possessions.”

“Well, clearly he didn’t think we would win the fight or that the savages were worth negotiating with!” Keirn exclaimed. “Or is anyone else not remembering that they attacked us without warning and had three HUGE FREAKISH BIRDS?!”

“Three to attack, two to the back,” Derrek hummed.

Keirn took a slow breath.

“I don’t even care to figure out what that’s supposed to mean.”

But Jeremiah’s eyes lit up.

“That’s right! There were three of the birds, but only two retreated. The one that went over the hill never returned!”

“Well… maybe it flew off in another direction!” Keirn protested.

“Really. A bird that large and you think it just sneaked away?”

“Maybe it’s… maybe it’s still chowing down on all the fools that ran off,” Keirn grumbled.

“Then the caravan master could still be alive!” Kait exclaimed.

“So what? You want to go rescue him?”

“Isn’t that what we were hired to do?”

“No,” Keirn said slowly, “we were hired to protect the caravan. And that is sitting right here and is already demolished.”

“But you were just arguing that we wouldn’t get paid because the people ran off,” Jeremiah countered. “Which is the caravan? The people it was transporting or the pots and bedpans?”

Keirn frowned. He had no aspirations to run headlong into a large monster. When facing the archers he had little choice and a hunch they were cowards. But animals were different. And this one was almost ten times their size.

“Fine! You want to go find the violent man-eating bird and kill it, then so be it. But don’t expect me to be the one to run my sword through its heart when none of you have the guts to put down the miserable creature!”

“Oh! I do love a good hike!” Kait exclaimed, hurrying up the rocks.

“Hopefully she’ll forget about her bags,” Keirn grumbled to Derrek as he unwrapped his sword from his side and stepped over the ruined wagon. “Otherwise, we’ll never hear the end of how she’ll never be able to finish her socks or some such.”

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D&D Rocks Part 1

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As promised, this is the start of another rip roaring adventure with our misguided band of heroes. This one is a little older but I make no apologies.

Le Magasin pictoresque, 1895

Of all the dangers inherent in travelling, there was only one that was truly insidious. It wasn’t the concern of dwindling rations or starvation. While deadly, dehydration wasn’t the worst either. Worn, calloused feet ranked mighty low and while wearing upon the nerves, the constant threat of an ambush or attack wasn’t nearly as bad.

No, the greatest horror of a long journey was the dreaful cheery companion. For what could contend with an immeasurable journey beside a person stupidly optimistic for everything that they passed. There was no cure for the companion that delighted in the first tree seen in fifty leagues, who made predictable jokes of dieting with the dwindling rations each night or that considered the sore callouses as ‘love bumps from the road.’ No torture could amount to the pain inflicted by this one individual. It was the surest way to murder.

His name was Corran and for the last three days he had the wicked delusions of a skilled singer.

“Oh that barren road! That long and dusty road! It leads us far and wide together. Born of the wandering of our soul. Oh that barren road. That barren road! Take me down and along forever!”

It was the gravely low tones and the piercing high notes with nary moderation between that drove like thin picks into the ear. That sort of howling left a man awake for hours at night. It dulled him to civility and pleasantness. It was the sort of noise that bore down to the core, drowning all rational thought until nothing but a white, pounding rage clouded the mind.

And with the long, fatiguing monotony of a never changing background, it was the sort of sound that became impossible to ignore.

The weariness of the journey worn down the inhibitions and lulled the parts of the mind that kept darker impulses in check.

“Give me your hand, we’ll cross this land. Where we headed only the road knows. You’ll walk for awhile, I’ll cross it for life. There’s only one way this road goes. Oh that barren road!”

There was a familiar stirring in the dark recesses. A slumbering force slowly awoke to the growing dire call. It was like a feral impulse, building in momentum with each passing moment.

“Oh, I left my home. For that barren road, oh that barren road! Don’t know if I’ll return. For I have my way and I won’t stray along that lonesome road.”

“Pretty catchy don’t you think?”

Gods. It was spreading.

“Insanity?” Keirn asked. “I hear it is quite contagious. I think it would be a good show of mercy to contain it before it gets out of hand.”

“Well good morning to you, Sir Sunshine! Did we wake on the wrong side of the bedroll this morn?”

The urge to brutally maim rose within.

“We’ve listened to this crow wail his damnable song for more days than naught. I don’t think it unreasonable to ask for a short reprieve at least for one hour.”

“Oh, do you think he takes requests? Excuse me, Corran! Corran, sir! Do you happen to know the one about the bard at the bulwark!”

“I hate everyone.”

Mercifully, the insufferable howling ended as the singer paused to consider the request. But the silence was short lived as he heard the pound of feet by his side and an age old voice at his elbow.

“Enjoying yourself this morning?”

“I don’t know which would be better: slitting his throat or mine.”

Kait laughed, tossing her drab, muddy hair over her shoulder.

“I knew this was going to be an issue when we ran out of milk two days back. Don’t worry, we’ll get you some breakfast oats the moment we pass through another town. Seems to be all these hamlets have between the borders.”

“I’m not grumpy because I haven’t had breakfast!”

“The boy doth protest!” Kait cried. “You know you’re never pleasant if you don’t get your morning meal.”

“You make me sound like a petulant child.”

“If the cloth fits!” Kait smiled. She gave the lead horse a soft slap and hurried alongside the hastened wagon.

Keirn sighed. She was having far too much fun.

He supposed he couldn’t blame her. Normally, he would be satisfied with their arrangement as well. It was a menial contract but gave decent amount pay while covering rations. It worked for them as they were looking to make the trip anyway and getting paid at their destination for it was a bonus. All that was asked of them was to trudge alongside the caravan as another faceless guard in the batch. They were a show of force to scare off bandits or marauders or whatever patrolled these steppes. A rather obvious ploy given the rag tag collection of the guard. They were all clearly mercenaries of fortune with very little unity or discipline. Not that Keirn and his band were much different. Far too often young men and women with little prospects took to worn swords and bows to patrol the realms for some income unavailable back at home. But Keirn thought his band was decent enough.

First, he had Jeremiah the stoic who trudged in his makeshift armour patched together through the collection of scraps from their fallen foes and sewn together by whatever Kait could get her hands on. He clanked like a forlorn peddler, forever his wares banging upon his back.

Then there was Derrek. The self-stylized minstrel was known for his bizarre breadth of knowledge and questionable musical proficiencies. He had talent, for sure, that would shame Corran should the man decide to flex his entertainment muscle. But he had given to the study of a most concerning type of sound. His outward soft appearance and stylish dress hide a paradoxical pursuit of the chaotic and unpleasant sound of noise.

Finally, Kait – Keirn’s own sister – kept them all together. While she may seem like much, she brought a peace of mind to him that neither of the others could. A slew of seemingly mundane skills held much value on the road and these required constant materials to perform. Darned socks and decent meals didn’t materialize from thin air and she seemed to collect every little odd and end she crossed with the belief it would come in use at some later date.

But today she was not burdened with her pile of packs. They had been stowed in one of the wagons and for probably the first time ever she seemed brighter than the day. Being unsaddled had given her life to her feet and she chased up and down the lengths of the caravan, only her bow and quiver slung over her back. She was like a faithful hound suddenly loosed from its leash and there wasn’t a hill she wouldn’t speed over.

Course, this sudden revitalization didn’t help Keirn’s mood as he trudged solemnly in line with the other guards. These lonesome souls weren’t apt for much conversation. Most of them were quiet and suspicious men who kept one hand on their weapon and one eye on everyone around them. They seemed on edge as if they expected an axe to fall any moment.

Though there were a few contrary souls amongst the bunch.

Damnable Corran perched upon the driver’s seat of a large wagon filled to the brim with cargo. At his side was a young woman named Shanna who Keirn and company had crossed paths with before. She was a petite thing, somewhat round in comely places with a face that spoke of a quiet hamlet upbringing not unlike their own. However, despite their previous exchanges she didn’t seem to bitter over past actions and was pleasantly engaged with Corran in negotiating a melody they both knew.

Most intriguing, however, was raven haired Siara. She kept mainly to herself and the caravan master, riding in his head wagon beneath the privacy of the cloth canvas. Keirn couldn’t help but be curious about her, nor unable to ignore the interested looks from the other guards. She was a remarkable figure – tall and strong in the soft dress of a foreigner. But she held herself in a manner that bespoke of great skill and training in the martial skills that kept most interactions to curious looks. There was no question of her capabilities or whether she belonged at the head of the group.

The ornate long sword at her side with the faint tarnish of combat also helped. When most the mercenaries considered the wrong side of a dungeon cell experience in the field, there was not a habit of provoking those that had actually seen real combat.

But she spent all her time at the caravan master’s side. Keirn couldn’t shake the feeling that the journey wouldn’t be quite so onerous if this strange woman had elected to travel with him instead.

Them! All of them. That’s what he meant.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

“Nothing,” Keirn said, shaking his head.

“Pity,” Derrek sighed, fiddling with a glass bauble. “I was hoping to give this a try.”

“What is it?”

“An orb of Mallenaeus.”

“A what?”

“An orb of Mallenaeus,” the man repeated, staring at his golden haired reflection in its polished surface. “Supposedly these were crafted by the famed wizard which bears its namesake. Which would make more sense then naming it after a rival, after all. They say the man was paranoid, but that’s drawing fish with a net for those that dabble too deeply in the arcane. I hear he gave to wearing steeple hats believing their conical form trapped his inner thoughts and prevented them from drifting off to be captured by others in the aetheric winds.”

“He wore a pointed hat?”

“Yes. To save his thoughts. And he made balls.”

“Because he was a wizard?”

“Precisely.”

“Where did you get that anyway? And why would it read thoughts?”

“To answer your second question – Mallenaeus had to be certain that his fashion sense was not in vain. He crafted these orbs so that, when rubbed over the heads of others, they would collect their thoughts and allow him to read them within. Thus, he could confirm if anyone was in actuality stealing his own perturbations. Course, such a device had obvious value beyond fueling a madman’s paranoia and his workshop was apparently ransacked and torched with him inside for his trinkets instead of his ideas. As to your first, I found it in the back of one of the wagons.”

“You what?! You can’t just take the merchandise that we’ve been hired to protec-“

Derrek quickly rolled to the tips of his toes, stretching his arm to rub the orb madly over Keirn’s scalp. The young man shouted in protest, swiping at his friend’s groping hands but Derrek retreated the orb quickly to safety.

He hunched over, peering intently into its glassy interior.

“Hm, empty. Is your mind always this devoid of thought?”

“Give me that,” Keirn snapped, lunging for the item.

“I mean, I always have a thousand thoughts snapping for attention in mine but thus is the curse of an artistic soul.”

“You can’t take this,” Keirn said.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s our duty to protect it! I’m not going to have this docked from our pay so you can pretend it’s a lost artifact. Especially when its value is obviously questionable.”

Keirn walked to the back of the wagon and threw the orb carelessly amongst the rest of the cargo.

“Kait was right, you really are grumpy when you don’t get your cereal. Like an ornery mule.”

“Is that what you all have been doing with your time? Talking about me?”

“Drab topic, I know! But had there been something more interesting of note-”

Derrek was cut short by the too familiar whiz of an airborne arrow. The minstrel paused in sudden contemplation at the unannounced appearance of the foreign object, watching with impassivity as it struck the neck of a guard ten paces in front of him between the ridges of his armour.

There was a distinct deathly gurgle as the mercenary toppled over in a heap of useless metal and dull flesh.

Derrek turned curiously to the sky, Keirn following his gaze to see a disjointed dark line piercing the heavenly veil. The line broke as it curved towards the caravan, falling in small dark streaks like the long fingers of a dark storm.

There was too little time for Keirn’s mind to consciously register his actions. Only reflex propelled him forward, snatching the silken collar of Derrek’s undershirt, pulling the distracted man with him into the dust and dirt beneath the wagon. The gentle patter of the arrows’ descent riddled the wood above them and was soon joined by the howls of pain from the wounded.

“KAIT!” Keirn called, his mind suddenly recognizing the danger as voices rose about. “Kait! Where are you?!”

“I think we are under attack,” Derrek stated plainly.

“Oh, did that thought catch your attention now?!”

Keirn scuttled on his stomach to the front of the cart. The vehicle had been brought to a stop by the driver as the guards mobilized to deal with the aggressors. Between started legs, Keirn searched for signs of his sister.

A piercing whistle broken through the pandemonium and Keirn caught the swift slithering of a swarm of shadows along the ground. Another volley had been loosed.

“Stay here!” Keirn shouted over the crash of the arrows upon the beleaguered defenders. Keirn rolled out from beneath the cart just as a terrible cry echoed from the harnessed beasts. Leather cracked in the air and the cart lurched, tipping dangerously upon its wheels as the frightful beasts broke their shaky discipline. With arrows protruding from their flanks, the horses attempted to seek refuge from the onslaught, crashing violently into the wagon stopped in front of them before careening to the side of the road.

Derrek looked up from the ground, his cover now turning head over ass down the sloped plain.

“Shall I still remain?”

“Come on!” Keirn shouted.

Panic rippled down the length of the caravan. The carts still fastened to living steeds broke from the line, scattering in all directions. The hired mercenaries stumbled direction-less amongst what cover they could. Little effort seemed to be made to organize the defenders. The non-combative members of the line were already fleeing from the direction of the arrows, heading towards the sloped, craggy plains. They said little in their retreat, those nameless travelers that kept to themselves and shied away from the men hired to protect them.

Keirn scanned the fleeing, screaming backs, looking desperately for the wave of brown hair belonging to his sister.

“Get down!”

He felt a pair of hands pulling him to the earth as a third volley of arrows slapped into the meaty body of the large mercenary he now cowered behind.

“What’s going?!”

Keirn turned, looking into the panicked face of Shanna.

“Well, I would say we are under attack,” Derek said.

“But by who?!” the young woman shouted. There was a wildness in her eyes that Keirn had never seen before. She always looked so young to him – so naïve. The fear etched on her round face drove the severity of the situation straight through Keirn’s beating heart.

Derrek peeked over the massive frame of their makeshift cover. He reached about the fallen man’s girth, fingers wrapping about the shaft of an embedded arrow and yanking the projectile free with a great squelch of spattered eviscera.

“Dusk oak.”

“What?” Keirn shouted.

Derrek held the item aloft.

“It’s an ashen wood. It has the appearance of bleached and dried driftwood but with rather rich veins running just below the skin. Hard to find and located in only sparse copses in the distant mountains.”

“I’m not looking for a lecture on fauna!”

“This is a rare wood,” Derrek said, using his simple people words. “Not many use this wood. The feathers are also unique. And it’s flora.”

“Are you saying you can tell who’s attacking us from the arrow?” Shanna asked.

“The Rakstas Tribe,” Derrek said. “Plains dwellers and nomads that tract the Endless Steppes. Known for their husbandry and nettled stew.”

“And raiding?”

“No, the stew is definitely more famous.”

Another piercing whistle broke through the air. The three curled up as close as they could to the corpse, waiting for the inevitable arrows. Keirn cast one last glance at the retreating backs of the convoy members as they broke over the distant ridge.

“You know, there is something oddly familiar about that sound,” Derrek muttered.

“Where do they think they’re running?”

“Should we follow them?” Shanna asked urgently.

A thunderous beating echoed overhead as a screech broke the air. Startled, Keirn looked skyward to see an enormous bird with wings that blotted out the sun swoop overhead. It was then they realized that the whistle was not another volley but a cry from the mighty creature.

“Of course,” Derrek chided. “Rocs!”

The bird swooped so close that the wind from its wings was a mighty tempest knocking them prone. The animal screeched, its talons extending as it dove downward past the ridge.

“I’m going to suggest we don’t follow them,” Keirn muttered pressingly closer to the dead body as he became unnervingly aware of how exposed he was to searching eyes above.

“Concentrate fire on the birds!”

The commanding shout shook Keirn from his shock and he braved a look from behind the mountain of a mercenary to see Jeremiah standing behind an overturned cart. He waved a mighty longbow in his hands, pointing heavenward. Two more great shadows passed over the caravan.

Now given guidance, the mercenaries still breathing drew what ranged weapons they could and focused upon the threat hovering over them like circling vultures awaiting their feast.

“Come on,” Keirn grumbled, motioning for the others to follow. Arrows, spears, axes, knives and anything that could be hurled were sent past them as they jumped and ducked their way through the scattered remains of the defenders. Keirn kept an eye for a return volley of arrows, but with the mighty birds overhead he felt it unlikely another would come.

The three arrived at the cart just as Jeremiah fumbled with his arrow, dropping it from the bowstring as the cord slipped from his hand.

“Inspiring leadership there.”

“You’re alive!” Jeremiah cried. “Thank the go-… I’m so relieved.”

“Don’t get excited yet,” Keirn said. “What’s your take?”

“I can’t help but feel we’re in the kettle,” Jeremiah said. “I still haven’t seen sight of the archers. I can only assume they’ve hidden themselves in the brush. Though mighty sneaky of them to still not show their face.”

“I’m telling you it’s Rakstas,” Derrek said.

“The others made a break after the first volley,” Jeremiah continued. “I tried to warn them from running, but once one broke the rest followed. They’re just scared townsfolk so discipline isn’t exactly expected. But I can’t help they’re running into worse. Who knows what’s waiting for them over the ridge.”

“And Kait?” Keirn asked.

Jeremiah looked at Keirn solemnly. Slowly he shook his head.

Keirn leaned back against the wood of the cart. He had no idea where she could be. While they hadn’t confirmed the worst, there was no guarantee that she wasn’t in anything but grave danger.

The rocs overhead shrieked, interrupting the reunion. With a thunderous beat, one descended, snatching a horse still pulling against its reigns within talons the length of a man’s arm. The animal gave a tremendous cry as the wings beat a ferocious storm of dust. Then, cart and all, was lifted off the ground and carried into the clouds.

In its retreat, Keirn spotted the scarf wrapped form of the rider directing the animal. He appeared as little more than a pile of worn and dirty rags with just a narrow slit upon the head for the eyes to peer out. Dark tattoos ran down the exposed arm, twisting in strange symbols that could have been tribal or possibly arcane. But there was something about his posture that gave the young man pause.

Then, just as quickly as they arrived, they were gone. A trail of weapons arced in its wake. But few found purchase in the enormous feathers in the trail of its ascending call.

“What’re your thoughts?”

“He doesn’t have any,” Derrek answered.

“I don’t think flight is really an option. We don’t know the lay of the land and the plains offer little protection.”

“So we fight?”

Keirn peeked over the lip of the cart. He scanned the ruin strewed road as mercenaries continued to scramble amongst the remains of the caravan. He then turned to the brush bordering the road. There was still no sign of their attackers save for the circling creatures overhead.

“They’re not assaulting,” Keirn stated.

“Do you not see the birds!” Shanna cried.

“You think there’s a reason they’re holding back?” Jeremiah asked.

“What else? We’re broken and scattered, now would be the perfect time to finish us off,” Keirn said. “Unless…”

“Unless… unless what?!” Shanna shouted.

“Are you ready?” Keirn asked, turning to Derrek and Jeremiah.

“Ready? Where are you going?” Shanna asked on the verge of tears.

“You’re good at staying out of sight. Wait here,” Keirn instructed. “We’ll be back for you.”

“That’s what you said last time!”

Keirn burst from cover, breaking into a full run towards the brush. Jeremiah and Derrek followed, their weapons drawn in hand. Keirn wasn’t entirely sure what he had planned or even if his ideas had been fully considered. But the time for strategy was quickly ending. He unsheathed his sword, then broke up the hill with a mighty roar. A raucous burst followed immediately behind.

There was movement before they even hit the line of squat bushes.

No resistance was given. The archers broke immediately, the hunched forms jumping and pouncing over the rocks in a swarm of dirty cloth and ragged cloaks. They were not warriors, these people. Their thin forms eking out a meager existence on the dried plains did not build robust constitutions or military discipline. Many of them were young, scarcely more than children and more than a few women could be seen in the retreating line.

And there were no more than two dozen of them in total. Had even a handful of the mercenaries made it to them, the attack would have been over before it even began.

“Cowards,” Jeremiah muttered.

“Well, they are just tribals,” Derrek said, strumming his lute. “I wouldn’t be surprised if even the simplest of cantrips sent them scattering.”

“Now we just have to deal with the birds,” Jeremiah said.

But as they turned, a great blast of a horn rolled over the hills. The rocs circled one last time over the wreckage before wheeling and vanishing into the horizon.

An unearthly silence fell in their wake. Keirn paused, closing his eyes and letting the soft whisper of the wind roll over him.

It was a silence well deserved.

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It’s a Trap! – Part 5

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< Return to It’s a Trap! Part 4

My sister is taking me to the evil dentist today. She has no soul.

—————Break —————

“Anything?”

Jeremiah looked about. Little light crept down through the scattered holes above him. The effect created dim shafts that speared the pit. The one thing he could discern was how dusty the space was. His knees scratched against the rough stone of the wall and every time he placed his hands to steady his descent, he could feel a thin film stick to his skin.

“Lower!”

The taunt rope suddenly slackened, sending him on a short, gut-wrenching plummet before it stabilized and Jeremiah breathed a sigh of relief that he still wasn’t dead.

Course, he was thankful that Keirn thought of lowering him down with the rope instead of blindly jumping off like he imagined. And given the distance he’d already descended, he knew he’d saved himself some serious injury at the very least. But the depth of the pit was much deeper than he first anticipated and he waited for his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer lightning before calling to be dropped even lower.

This entire line of thinking, however, seemed pretty counter-intuitive to Jeremiah. They wanted to go higher to escape, not deeper.

“Lower!”

In the darkness, something seemed to form. He squinted, hoping it was the floor.

“Could I get some more light?”

“What?”

“LIGHT!”

There was the sound of scuffling above and Jeremiah waited, dangling slowly in the air and wondering how long this rope could hold his weight. Then, the walls seemed to be washed in dry orange before he looked up to see a torch plummeting straight for him. He cried, kicking from the wall as the burning wood tumbled by in a flash of heat. He watched it drop, clattering seemingly twenty feet below him.

“Anything?”

“Lower!”

Down and down he was dropped until he felt he was close enough. He then struggled with the tight knots about his waist. Slowly, he began to wiggle the rope loose of his confines until the rope slid from its loops and dropped him roughly on the ground. There was some more shuffling before a distant call echoed down.

“Are you dead?!”

“No!” Jeremiah groaned, as he rolled on his side and immediately regretted not having them lower him further. His chest hurt from where he’d landed but he looked around to gather his surroundings.

The torch still burned close by and he scooped it up, directing the flame towards the darkness.

Small piles of broken tiles littered the rough floor. As Jeremiah took a step, a cloud of dust and dirt exploded upwards and rolled out into the dark. He took his time examining the place, the light of the torch settling over a few tell-tale scattered bones that littered the floor.

However, from his brief inspection, he could not find a way out of the pit. He turned, making his way back to the rope when something caught his eye. Holding the torch above his head, he looked on in wonder at the expansive mural that had been carved into the pit wall.

Great men met upon a lavish field, brandishing swords, spears and bows in their naked hands. Two clear forces engaged each other in a devastating combat. On the one side, came an unimaginable beautiful people from the valleys and hills. Robes and capes fluttered from their lithe, muscular frames. Opposing them was a terrifying band of warriors with wicked weapons and iron helms on their heads. They seemed to swoop down from the very skies as if the clouds had borne them like great boats to this confrontation.

As Jeremiah studied the ancient artwork, a great clatter and shouting erupted above him. He turned, holding his torch to illuminate the shape of a figure quickly descending down the rope. At first he’d assumed that Keirn had grown tired of waiting and was surprised to see Amber dropping the last couple of feet to the floor.

“Where is it?!” she hissed, spinning around.

“Where’s what?”

There was more commotion above them and as Jeremiah turned to look, Amber lunged unexpectedly at him. For such a petite girl, she had a ferocious strength as she grabbed the torch and wrestled it from Jeremiah’s hands.

“Where’s the exit!” she yelled, waving the torch menacingly to keep Jeremiah at bay.

“I didn’t say there was one down here.”

“Where is it! Don’t try hiding it from me!”

She backed away from him, the torch waving madly in the darkness. She stumbled over a pile of debris, cursing in the darkness before scampering to her feet once more.

In the play between dark and light, she appeared different to him. The shadows seemed to harden the features of her face, turning that once round and soft visage into one of steeled malice. A frantic, almost maniacal, spirit seemed to possess her as she stumbled around. Was this the woman he had once loved? She seemed so remarkably changed from that sweet thing he’d once doted over.

Jeremiah turned from the mural, following slowly after her. Somewhere in the dark, he found his voice.

“I must know – why did you do it? Why did you leave me?”

“You all tried to kill me!” she hissed. “You’d leave me here to die!”

“No, not now. I mean before. Back at Galt.”

“You want to know why? You want to know the real reason!”

And Jeremiah had to pondered the proposition. He had often asked himself, alone in his bunk staring up at the rafters of his small house. He wondered if there was something he could have done. He wondered if he had offended her somehow. He wondered if there was no way for him to make things up with her.

He had feared a confrontation, almost terrified to know what reasons had torn them apart. But if he were to close that chapter of his heart, he had to know the truth.

“Tell me.”

The torch paused its examination of the walls for a secret door. Red hair turned, locking those vibrant eyes with his. For a brief moment, that enchanting smile spread across her lips. But that smile was only a vestige of something long dead. Instead, a wicked sneer quickly took hold.

“Have you looked at yourself recently? Please, Jeremiah, it was a fantasy. I am the daughter of the Gothar. I am a direct link to the divines. And what of you? You’re nothing more than some fat, ugly northern barbarian. I can have my pick of any man in the village and you think I’d settle for you?”

And she began to laugh.

But to Jeremiah, it was like some spell had been lifted. Whatever fear had clenched his heart seemed to release. The beauty of the girl seemed to melt away in that moment, driven back like so many shadows before the breaking dawn. All he saw then, in that dank pit, was what she truly was stripped of her fancy clothes and manicured features. Standing naked before him, she was little more than a repulsive, petulant child.

And it was Jeremiah’s turn to laugh.

The sound shook off the walls, reverberating through the small space to come echoing ferociously back upon her. It struck harder than any sword and she seemed to stumble back from its onslaught.

“Why are you laughing?” she demanded.

And Jeremiah found he couldn’t stop. It seemed so ludicrous that it was almost hard to believe it was even true. How could he have ever imagined being with this girl? How had he spent so many nights envisioning the rest of his life with her? He had stupidly looked towards those pegs and pretended to see her cloak dangling from them. It was like some cruel cosmic joke. If there were any gods, then they would certainly be devious tricksters. They were not these romantic visions etched into the walls.

“Stop laughing!”

The self righteousness of her indignation only made Jeremiah laugh even harder. His whole body shook from it that he could feel his sides begin to hurt as if they were about to split. Even if he wanted he didn’t think he could stop himself now. And as his voice rose, so did hers.

She let out an ear piercing scream, dropping the torch as his laughs seemed to pin her in from all sides. She raised her hands to her ears in an attempt to block it out. But from the darkness it felt like an entire chorus of people had come to mock and ridicule her.

“Stop it! STOP! IT!” she shouted. “I’m the daughter of the Gothar! Shut UP! I demand you shut up!”

She flung herself at him, but she was nothing. Her fists were little more than feeble taps like raindrops throwing themselves uselessly against the mountains. She tried to dig her nails in, to cut at the laughter and crush it in her fingers. Jeremiah merely lifted his arms to deflect her assault away.

“I’m the important one! Shut up! She’s just some ugly little daughter of some filthy whore!”

She screamed at her phantoms, retreating back until she pressed up against the wall. Frightened, she clutched at her ears, trying in vain to block out the unending mockery crashing upon her.

“I’m not crazy! I’m not! These visions – they are of the divine! A gift!”

But still the laughter and rejection assaulted her from all sides.

“There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing! It’s the others that are wicked! It’s the others we must be wary of! She brought this upon us. Not I!”

In the darkness, Jeremiah could see tears begin to trickle down her cheeks as Amber’s inner demons seemed to consume her in the shadows. She huddled and shook by herself – abandoned by those that had been near. As Jeremiah slowly calmed and gathered his senses, the girl he’d loved seemed to lose herself completely in the dark.

A rumble and crumble of tiles signalled movement from above. Minutes seemed to pass in the dark and Jeremiah move to the torch barely burning at Amber’s feet. He gently breathed upon the flames, slowly building them into a brightening glow once more. The girl flinched before the flames, crawling away from the revealing light as if it burned at her very skin. He turned towards the hole and dangling rope, watching a dark lump slowly inching its way down. A scramble behind him caused him to turn and he saw, wordlessly, the retreating back of the priestess as she fled into the shadows.

Jeremiah waited as the others slowly made the descent into the pit. Kait took the longest, having to slide her numerous bags down first before committing herself to the climb.

“Where’d the strumpet get off to?” Keirn asked, approaching Jeremiah’s side.

“She ran off. Don’t know where. What happened up there?”

“Took a good swing at Keirn!” Derrek announced happily. “Looked like she was going for the eyes then she hurried down after you.”

“Why’d she do that.”

“Keirn was threatening to throw her after you since you were taking so long,” Aliessa sighed. She gave a brief shout as another of Kait’s bags clattered behind them. Somewhere amongst her folds a frightened bird gave a chirp.

“Are you okay?” Keirn asked. “You look… different.”

“Different?”

“Odd. I don’t know. You didn’t kill her did you?”

Keirn looked at the scattered bones on the ground.

Jeremiah only shook his head.

“We talked before she left. Cleared some things up.”

“You know she’s crazy right?” Keirn asked.

“As a jaybird.”

“Good because some of the things she’s said…” Keirn shook his head. “Nevermind. I’m sure Kait will be glad we never have to hear from her again.”

A shocked shout drew their attention back to the rope and they found Kait struggling to extract herself from the pile of bags. Keirn hurried to her side, chiding her as he fished her out from among her things. She looked back up the way they came, giving the rope a soft tug.

“We’re not going to leave this behind, are we?” she asked.

“Unless you plan on climbing up and fetching it, it’s probably best to leave it.”

“What is this, anyway?” Aliessa asked, stepping to Jeremiah’s side and taking a look at the murals over the walls.

“Ah, see! I knew this was the way to go,” Derrek said. “That’s why the answer was ‘exit.’”

“Dear, you’re not making sense.”

“It’s simple, the floor above us was a trap.”

“Really, you think?” Keirn said.

“But the solution itself was a false lead. See, if we’d successfully crossed and gone out the door, it would have sealed anyway. And from the looks of the cables overhead, the final corridor has already been coated in a flammable grease. Had we arrived through that exit, we’d have been roasted like a boar.”

“He’s not actually being serious, is he?” Kait whispered.

“This way should do it!” Derrek announced, heading into the darkness after plucking the torch from Jeremiah’s hands.

“Just get your bags,” Keirn said. He stepped to Jeremiah’s side as they formed rank. He pulled the long rod from his sleeves, admiring it in the light of Jeremiah’s torch. “At least we still have this to show for our troubles.”

“Seems rather fortunate that she found it before we did,” Jeremiah said.

“Not really. This isn’t the first time that Mai-” Keirn stopped mid-sentence, looking quickly at Jeremiah.

The dark man scowled.

“What was that?”

“Quite a little puzzle, that. I guess we’ll never know for sure.”

“You knew she would be here!” Jeremiah cried, grabbing his friend by the wrist before he could sneak off.

Keirn shook his head.

“I didn’t know she’d be here. But I won’t say it was a surprise. And you seemed so excited when we first bumped into her that I wasn’t going to bring it up. Then there was the whole issue of the creature chasing her and then getting stuck in all those traps and it… just never seemed like the right time to mention it.”

“So this whole damnable adventure had been a trap from the start!”

“This way!” Derrek called, waving the group towards a darkened passage. As the torch drew closer it revealed a set of stairs leading up.

“Look, it’s not my fault that we’re mortal enemies with a woman who has seemingly unending underworld connections.”

“We agreed we wouldn’t deal with that witch again!” Jeremiah cried. Keirn hissed at him.

“Look, the others don’t know and I don’t see why they have to.”

“I’m not keeping your lies now! I can’t believe I agreed to all of this.”

“You agreed because you know you’re needed. Without you, who would be our moral compass?”

“But you don’t ever listen to me!”

“That’s not true. We didn’t throw the tart down the pit and now we’re all better people for it.”

Jeremiah sighed. But perhaps his friend did have a point. Deep down he didn’t really think they would throw her in but maybe that’s because they knew he would intervene. Perhaps it wasn’t the strangers that needed to look up to him at all.

“Oh, before I forget, we packed these up for you,” Keirn said. He held out Jeremiah’s scabbard. “But I thought it might be wise to at least give this to you for now. Who knows what else we’ll come across.”

Jeremiah took the sword. They paused at the top of the stairs as he handed the torch to Keirn then wrapped the leather thong around his waist. The metal of the scabbard slapped against his unarmoured side and to feel the blade against him without his armour on was a strange sensation. But he patted the handle, its presence somehow easing his mind.

“We really need to get you something new,” Keirn said.

“This is just fine.”

“No, look. The reward for this little beauty is quite high. And now that she-who-we-don’t-speak-of has to pay all of us for retrieving it instead of just the little tart, we’ll have plenty enough coin to get you something a little more respectable. Something a bit more knightly.”

“It’s fine,” Jeremiah said. “It’s really not important how it looks but what I do with it that matters.”

And Keirn regarded him curiously as the girls pressed by to continue on after Derrek.

“I’m… glad to hear it. But I insist we get you something. At the very least, let’s get that awful armour of yours repaired.”

“Fine but I’m not sure how comfortable I am with giving her some ancient powerful relic.”

Keirn turned the rod over in his hands. He looked down the corridor to make sure the girls were out of earshot before looking back at Jeremiah.

“Look, if the ancient murals are anything to go by I don’t think her abuse of this artefact is really going to be an issue. From what I can gather it’s for…” Keirn paused as he tried to think of some tact. “Let’s just say its powers are for personal use.”

Jeremiah shook his head.

“Now you’re joking.”

Keirn smiled.

“Buddy, you’ve been missing out a lot by skipping temple. Come on, let’s get out of this dusty place and I can tell you more. Who knows, the gods may not be as bad as you think.”

They hurried down the corridor to catch up with their compatriots. However, as they approached, they found the others standing before a great iron door. The girls were watching Derrek expectantly as the young man pulled anxiously on the bars.

At the sound of their approach, all three turned around and began shouting. But as Jeremiah stepped into the room, he felt the floor shift slightly. A pressure plate slide beneath his weight and before they could react, a crash of metal sounded behind them. They turned to see a second metal gate had sealed them in.

“Turns out I was wrong,” Derrek muttered. “Seems like it was a trap all along.”

A rumble in the distance caused each member to turn with concern to the other. Jeremiah looked at Keirn.

“I still hate temples.”

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