Dwunken Drarves

Feeling like squat giants, sitting in the low ceilinged Halfling tavern; ‘The Short Stack’, the Dwarven blacksmith; Bunkum and missionary; Vinculum share the last dregs of a precious keg of specially imported, double-brewed ‘Rock-bottom’, Dwarven beer.

The Humans of Thornflek are, mostly, good-natured, tolerable and decent customers but the affable Halflings, in their ‘quarter’ of the town, make everyone feel welcome.

The barrel-chested Bunkum, smooths down his bushy red beard and burps, before raising his slopping tankard.

“It was a great shame that young Banaal could only stay with us for a single night. I’d’ve liked to hear more of his fantastical journey and, more importantly, of what’s happening back home, under Mount Verloren.”

The equally tipsy, Dwarven priest; Vinculum raises his half-full tankard in response.

“Considering his youth, I was impressed by his level of enlightenment. He’s barely half my age but his divine connection to Moradin already far outstrips my own.”

Bunkum, the defacto leader of Thornflek’s small Dwarven enclave, leans forward conspiratorially and whispers.

“From what I understand, they’ll need to be. War is definitely coming and the enemy won’t be fragile Humans or Elves.”

The Dwarven cleric sags a little on his stool, as he clunks his, now emptied, tankard down.

“But what can a single war-priest of Moradin, no matter how gifted, do against the legion of the damned?”

Gold, Gems and Magic Stuff

Lots of gold was made by selling the useless (for you) but valuable loot that Rifkin has been lugging around and then immediately spent by buying magic potions, scrolls and one magic ring last session. While trying to keep track of it, I may have let something slip. Please have a look and let me know if I’m at all mistaken.

Current character wealth (including recently purchased personal magical items and equipment).

Banaal: 

Gold: 863gp

10 gems (worth 100gp each) 

4 gems (worth 50gp each)

Potion of Jump x3

Potion of Fly

Scroll of Water Breathing

Scroll of Wind Wall

Fortu: 

Gold: 1194gp  

6 gems (worth 25gp each)

Potion of Fly

Potion of Cure Light Wounds x5

Potion of Protection from Evil

Liga Bur: 

Gold: 18gp (Owes Rifkin 350gp)

Ring of Protection +1

Potion of Cure Light Wounds x2

Rifkin: 

Gold: 637gp  

7 gems (worth 25gp each)

Nonogonagal’s Magical Emporium

Sweeping the accidentally spilled coins on the floor into a few unequal piles, the Wizard’s spotty apprentice; Mouton sighs squeakily.

“That Halfling was a bit cheeky, wasn’t he? Asking for a 25% discount for that 2,000gp Ring of Protection!”

The older, mostly retired Wizard, turns creakily around with a pained expression etched onto his face.

“Please don’t use that ridiculous ‘modern’ system of yours here; just say ‘a quarter off’. Also, cheekiness is baked into their breed. You can’t blame a Halfling for their intrinsically funny nature.”

Pulling his, too long, lilac coloured robe sleeves back up over his knuckles for the umpteenth time, the apprentice Wizard raises an eyebrow.

“He didn’t seem that ‘funny’ to me and his face looked like it’d been repeatedly used as a football during his, obviously rough, childhood.”

The tall, purple clad; Nonogonagal frowns.

“True; he was ‘funny’ but just not in the usual Halfling sense and his ‘cloth’ surprisingly revealed him to be of the Druidic faith.”

Rex, the heavily armoured guard by the door, is usually a man of very few words, but he adds a few more of them now.

“They were ALL funny, but ‘funny’ in the weird sense, not funny ‘Ha Ha’.

The small owl and the tatty Raven on the counter, add their voices to the conversation. Heralding his comment with a throaty cough, the darker bird caws.

“I’ve seen weirder!”

After which, wide eyed, the small owl asks.

“Whoo?”

Losing Faith

The poster depicts Faith Menschy, a pretty sixteen-year-old girl from a middle-class but not particularly wealthy family. The poster captures a fair likeness, showing her curly mouse coloured hair, pale eyes and a small scar on her right eyebrow.Unlike Lord Urdurel’s mass printed recruitment poster, these are hand drawn and lettered. One hundred gold pieces means a lot to her parents but their daughter obviously means a great deal more.

Recruitment Poster

 

Rifkin examines the recruitment poster with mild amusement. He’d never seen Lord Urdurel in real life, but the face represented in the poster was of a man still in rude health. Perhaps in his early sixties and certainly not the near hundred year old he actually is.

Positive state propaganda he supposes. Better to dupe the people into believing they still have a strong leader, rather than a doddering old man, especially in these terrifying times with a war possibly looming.

The last line is interesting though.

‘Musicians also required’.

A strange addition to an, otherwise standard, army poster…

Deo the Doggo

Looking up at the big, inky-dark, metal encased Human, the extremely well-drilled, young dog tries to make a judgement. The man smells of blood, oil and death but there’s something else…

Fortu, crouches down, removes his magical, strength enhancing gauntlets, holds the dogs muzzle gently in his still strong hands and gazes deeply into its eager and intelligent golden eyes.

Rising smoothly back up, despite his heavy armour, Fortu resumes his conversation with the kennel master. The majority of the words are lost on the dog, who looks instead to the much smaller two-legs next to the armoured warrior. He’d surprisingly spoken to him before in ‘dog’. Perhaps he would do so again. With a series of rapid barks, she tries to get the Halfling’s attention.

“Please Sir; What’s happening? Is it my time? Am I to be sold? Is it to him? Is he a good man? A good owner? Will there be treats?”

Liga Bur reassures her that, although rough around the edges, he does believe that there’s a good man beneath the armour. A good that perhaps the little dog can help encourage.

Sniffing up at the big man’s bare hand again, she thinks she can smell something beneath the sulphuric rage and indignation… Resilience and, perhaps deeply buried, kindness?

Suddenly the empathic dog feels a spasm of fear and pain run through her, as if a dark shadow had fallen across her and an invisible claw had pierced her mind. She whines and cries out but then, as fast as it started, the pain is gone.

Gone but not forgotten.

Dog Seven of Eight (Prize Bitch of the litter)

Small (but surprisingly strong and fast) animal

Str: 14

Int: 2

Wis: 12

Dex: 16

Con: 16

Cha: 6

HPs:11

AC: 15

Move: 40’

Alignment: True Neutral 

Initiative: +3

Attack: Bite: +3 Damage: 1d4+2

Reach: 5’

Feats: Alertness / Track

Skills: Jump: +7 / Listen: +5 / Spot: +5 / Survival: *1

Special: Scent / Low-light vision 

Tricks: Attack / Seek / Down / Fetch / Track / Come

The Traitorous Grey

With a final embrace, the quiet and slender Dryad; Sitka, whispers a soft goodbye to the tall Elf, her greenish lips, mere inches from his pink and pointed ear.

“Farewell handsome Arowe. It’s been my honour to be your guide but, sadly, I’ve taken you as far through the green path as I’m able. You must travel the remainder of your journey on foot and alone.”

Arowe allows the sweet and beautiful Fey creature to hold him and enjoy his warmth for a few more moments before disentangling himself from her cool, willowy limbs.

Taking a step away from her, he watches as Sitka Merges back into the thick oak-tree and disappears, fully aware that he’ll probably never see her again.

Turning around, Arowe looks to the South. The forest has thinned out enough, that he can see, high in the distance, the fabled mountains of Falutin. Home to the haughty and universally loathed; Grey Elves. And potentially the location of his real Father…

His mind, unbidden, dredges up memories of his childhood. His loving Mother; Lissomny and his… supposed Father. Now that the truth has been revealed to him, Filigren’s cruel behaviour makes a great deal more sense. The absence of warmth or kindness. The lack of concern in regard to his future or happiness. He wasn’t his Father though and, despite never admitting it aloud, somehow he always suspected the truth.

The realisation doesn’t make Arowe angry though. He’s had several days now to process and rationalise it and, rather than upsetting, it’s liberating. The man he’d always thought was his Father was mean spirited and petty. A cruel and narcissistic man that he’d always been slightly ashamed of.
 
Arowe did remember some of his opines regarding the Grey Elves though. He’d always hated them and he hadn’t been an outlier in that sentiment. His view was shared, pretty much universally and especially by all the High Elves of Glendorne.

Well over a century ago, when the ancient, female Blue Dragon; Theranthor was losing the battle against the Demon Prince; Zartak, the Elder Council of the Grey Elves petitioned and willingly joined forces with the evil Dragon to aid her in the war against the legions of the Demon.

While all the other races of Fissa were fighting, fleeing or simply being crushed under the heels of the Dragon or the Demon, the Grey Elves chose a side and turned the tide of the campaign in Theranthor’s favour.

After the bloodiest of battles, the thirty-year war was finally over and, against all odds, Zartak was banished back to his prison in Hell? The Dragon Empress then ruled over almost the entirety of Fissa for over a century. A dark century, where all the races, except the favoured Grey Elves, suffered under Theranthor’s cruel reign.

Inhaling the cool forest air around him, Arowe wraps his magical cloak tightly around himself and strides forward, towards the harsh, bleak mountains and potentially, his real, but still unknown, Father.