And so the rage builds

 Fortu had never felt such a simmering rage, in the pits the rage and violence was explosive, then over - win or loss. But in the days after they left Scar Burrow and the very nearly terminal meeting with Deleon he felt a pressure building. He attempted to vent at the soldiers escorting them, accompanying them whenever they arrived at an overnight stop, his looming brooding presence unsettling the hosts rather than the ever professional guards. Try as he might he could not fault their manner or the way they handled the caravan, by now Barbella would have stolen half the supplies and Doberman eaten the other half.

He tried to distract himself showing interest in the little shrines they past, learning from Banaal and Rifkin the meanings and gods involved. None settled him. By the time they entered into the small village of 'FarHaven' he was on edge, even the calm plodding of Maurice was annoying.

He was hoping that a night in a good inn, dry bedding and good old human stodge food washed down with ale would ease the tension he felt at every step.

The locals hushed as Fortu and his friends entered the tavern, blatant looks of  'who the frik are you' before returning to their own company. Fortu noticed a couple of men over at the back who didn't have the typical farmers homespun clothing and their gaze lingered just a moment longer than was polite.

'those two - kill them'

Grabbing two tankards of ale Fortu pushed his way over to their table. It was evident they had no desire for him to join them but he dragged over an extra chair and sat. The same red haze and low base hum descended. Fortu could not remember exactly what was said but as their hands reached for knives his fist lashed out, clumsily missing the closest. With trained reflexes the two pulled knives free and moved either side of Fortu, the one in front slashed out but it was easily deflected by his armour. The one who had slipped behind stabbed high and with a remarkable precision found a gap. The sharp pain was like a bucket of ice water to the face, the haze lifted and the hum went quiet. A lifetime of training kicked in, he went from rage fuelled brute to efficient killer. The man in front died in two quick strokes, spinning he drew the 'awesome' blade to a stop at the throat of the other.

The gasps and whispers from the crowd reminded Fortu of just where he was 'now we take this outside and you answer my questions and maybe that will be the end of bloodshed tonight' 

'no kill more'

Outside in the stables Fortu felt the others were mightily relieved when the remaining knifeman admitted he was working for the witches and even more relieved and a bit surprised when he left him alive.

'ah my son you think you are free, we the many will show you real freedom'

All paths lead to trubble

 'Yo Riffers, you got time for a bit more lettering?'

'Always time for you my friend'

'Great, so you know that when Liga Bur was more.....about the woods rather than of the woods, he was teaching  me how to pathfind and read maps. So I've been drawing out our route over the past few months. Just wanted you to check my wordings.'

Rifkin spread out the very crumpled sheet and was impressed by the artwork, the spelling - well considering that Fortu had only learnt to write a year ago it wasn't too bad.

'There's only one T in Ratman, its "here" not "hear" be elixir of life pond and do we really need to say stuck up fey bitch?'

'Well she didn't like me'

'Really good Fortu, I think that even I could find my way using this. Do you want some more sheets to keep practicing?'

'Cheers Riffers, I'd appreciate that.' 

Fortu was diligent in his practice, not so in where he left the copies......

Divine Frienenemies

“That was a mean trick Abbathor.”

Without furniture or other creatures to create a frame of reference for scale comparison, the two ‘men’ seem like normal… normalish Dwarves, talking to each other in the gloom of an endless void. To a casual onlooker, it would be impossible to comprehend the colossal size of these two squat seeming figures.

“You needed an agent. I just made sure a suitably appropriate one was available to you, in the right place and at the right time.”

The first speaker glowers. The huge war-hammer held tightly in his large, clenched fist, glowing red hot.

“You possessed one of my high-priests and subjected that child to a horrific ordeal!”

The second Dwarf, larger but by dint of fatness rather than muscle, rolls his sunken eyes and smiles greasily.

“Relax my Brother; It was all just for show. Nothing actually happened beyond a little light exposure. No innocent little Dwarf boy was harmed in the making of this… escapade.”

Stroking his thick white beard with his free hand, Moradin considers his Brother’s weaselly words.

“Your cleverness is often useful and what you say is true; I did need an Avatar in the Fey realm, but your methods turn my stomach. You corrupt the good for your own nefarious purposes and leave your victims lessened or broken ever after.”

Jaundiced eyes flashing with a spark of indignation, Abbathor answers quickly, barely disguising the bite in his retort.

“I merely revealed your high-priest’s previously hidden and distasteful predilections. I didn’t create them. As for the child; I wiped all memories of the event from his mind. Only your pervert priest remembers what he almost did.”

The near Molten glow of Moradin’s war-hammer dims a little.

“And Banaal. You damaged his faith in me, even as I need him to do my bidding.”

The fatter and paler of the two Dwarven deities merely shrugs.

“Your young priest already had a strong connection to where you needed him to be and he was already searching for an excuse to leave the mountain. For the sake of saving the whole world; Good, Bad, Dwarven, Human and Elven, I’m sure he’ll find a way to overcome his exaggerated trauma.”

Last game of 2025?

I’m still a bit shell shocked from the last ‘Role-play’ session but still keen to get you boys to Lord Urdurel. Let’s try to slip another session in before the end of the year. Not likely I know, but do any of these mornings suit you all?

November 

Saturday 29th

Sunday 30th

December

Saturday 13th

Sunday 14th

Saturday 20th

Sunday 21st

We have a winner!

9am, Sunday morning, the 14th of December!

The Fountain of Youth

Captain DeLeón watches the adventurers leave on fresh horseback, accompanied by a sturdy wagon and three of his best men. Everything should be fine but he still finds himself worrying. Lord Urdurel entrusted him to protect this forward position and he’s proud of his High commander’s faith in him.

He’d handled the removal of Briefadel’s ‘scum’ mercenaries from the adventurers poorly though. He’d hoped that being subtle and removing the three men out of sight of their ‘Masters’, would have made everything easier but, instead, he’d managed to infuriate and accidentally antagonise the ex-gladiator; Fortu.

The other thing that bothered him was the story that the Demi-Elf Bard shared with him yesterday, during their debriefs. Could those strange, gourd-like barrels truly contain the ‘Elixir of youth’? That the pool they were drawn from would stave off the skeletal hands of the Grim Reaper himself?

Pulling off one of his heavy metal gauntlets, Captain DeLeón inspects the back of his own hand. He’s only in his forties and still full of vim and vigour, but the lines are beginning to show. Is it possible that, less than a month’s ride away, lies the secret to eternal life?

Still, it seems likely that, considering the fact that the very same pool lays atop the dimensional portal mentioned, this would also be the place Sir Briefadel and his hellish army would probably re-emerge from.

The Captain bites his bottom lip for a moment, before shaking his helmed head. One month there and one month back. Two months too long to relinquish his position to one of his underlings at such a vulnerable time. 

Smiling wryly, Captain DeLeón shrugs and mutters out loud.

“I guess I’ll just have to earn my immortality the old fashioned way; with tales of my glorious and heroic death in battle!”

His smile falters a little though.

“I wonder if that Rifkin fellow would compose and perform it for me?”

DeLeon de liar

Fortu was impressed by Urdurels guards as they efficiently loaded the six large gourds onto the back of the wagon, there was none of the slovenly manner he was used to from Briadafels guards. The wagon master 'Cookie' directed everything in a competent way that made him feel positive for the next leg of their journey.

Provisions were ample and the guard Ringo, who would be coming with them, mentioned that there would be towns and known stop offs along the way. Preparations were complete, the sturdy dwarf Banaal was mumbling something to his mule. Liga Bur, since his sojourn with the druid Thornburg not so dour, was fussing with the trusty Mir Hunder. Fortu himself had taken to slipping his faithful Maurice a treat daily.

As Ringo called to Cookie to move out and the wagon creaked into motion, Fortu glanced around. 'wait up, we are missing some bodies. Where are Henshaw and the boys?'

It seemed that if Ringo could vanish he would have 'er they will not be coming with us, they have been re-assigned. We were told by Capt Deleon to move on without them.'

Fortu wondering how their henchmen could be re-assigned without his knowledge, dismounted and rounded on the obviously worried guard. Liga Bur edge forward 'I think you'd best get your Captain down here, now'

Pleased to have any other option than to meet Fortu's menacing black armoured form he leaped down and rushed off. Leaving Fortu to pace beside the wagon - 'kill him'

Capt. Deleon was down in a moment, exiting the barracks head high and back ramrod straight his uniform pristine and sharp. His armour gleamed in the early morning sun, the sword at his waist looked well used and deadly. His eyes skirted over the obviously aggressive Fortu to lock with Liga Bur.

Fortu felt like a red haze had been cast over his eyes, a low base hum ringing in his ears as Liga Bur and Deleon spoke. - 'sanctimonious prick, kill him' Unconsciously he braced himself balance shifting slightly and his grip easing towards the hilt of 'awesome'. Liga Bur either saw or sensed the motion, recognising Fortu's preparations from previous battles and spoke louder and possibly more urgently to the Capt. - 'he doesn't respect you kill him' What actually passed between them all was mostly lost on Fortu, the gist he caught was that Capt. Deleon had sent Henshaw and the two others away, he hadn't been upfront about it as he worried about Fortu and his friends reactions. The Capt. blustered about what was best for them and the mission and anyway it was too late as they were already gone. 'he treats you like a servant, worse a slave as if he owns you kill him' Taking a step forward he is distracted by a small worried gasp and instead of drawing sword he spat into the dust at the feet of Deleon 'no kill the shit he deserves it' Turning away sharply, back to Deleon, he contemptuously walked away seething at the thought that still people were controlling him, leading his actions. 'return kill him, kill them all'

Scarp Burrow

Examining the overgrown, long unmaintained and slightly listing ‘Wayside shrine’, Liga Bur tries to dredge up some trace of a memory. Barbella had referred to them as ‘Thumb-shrines’ due to their diminutive two-foot height, upper-half arch-like recesses and rounded stone tops. Apparently there were dozens of them, dotted about in the surrounding area. All long abandoned now, but with different carvings and implied offerings. This one’s shallow alcove still contained the broken remnants of a tiny pottery vase and the engraved image of a daisy-like flower below the ‘window’ supported that assumption. 

The town itself is built on several central hillocks but the surrounding, smaller mounds, still display evidence of unused Halfling defences. Forgotten and settled, perfectly round boulders, once ready to set thundering down the slopes, now lie half-buried in the soil, their wooden chocks and short iron levers, rotted away or rusted to uselessness.

Once back through… Scarborough’s ten-foot-tall outer palisade wall, Liga Bur allows the others to bluff their way to O’Maley’s lockbox treasure and is unbothered by the separation of Henshaw, Barbella and Doberman. If he’s learnt anything about these three men, it’s that they’re all natural born survivors. 

Now, that his attitude has been altered and his inner ‘third’ eye has been opened by his mentor; Thornberg, he notices all the clues he missed during his first visit here, many months ago. The complicated underground tunnels and, low-ceilinged storage system and the occasional, architecturally mismatched, cellar doorway.

Perhaps he just didn’t want to see the obvious signs last time? Perhaps he deliberately avoided contact with the travelling Halfling acrobat troop, out of some misplaced sense of shame? What did he know of Halfling culture beyond secretly studying and learning the language as a child?

But now, he could no longer ignore or deny the truth. The Lightning Tree had been right; this used to be a Halfling settlement. A peaceful farming community, attacked and overrun about twenty to thirty years ago by an ambitious and uncaring Sir Briefadel! 

Desecrated by the mercenaries under his command. Human mercenaries probably. Immoral sell-swords just like Henshaw, Barbella and Doberman!