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, he 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.

Trip-Let in be

It’s been a few days since the three brothers had managed to be alone together, but now, while guarding the wagon and the snoring Cookie, they take the chance to discuss the adventurers.

Despite being apparently identical, each of the triplets can easily identify their brothers and it’s Locket who speaks first.

“They’re not exactly what I was expecting.”

Chape nods in agreement.

“Yeah, I was expecting four shining Knights on gleaming white stallions.”

Ringo though, expands on that thought.

“The Bard and the Dwarf appear sane but the strange Halfling seems to have his own ‘world-view’ agenda and the dark-armoured Gladiator gives the impression of, almost, being on the wrong side! And what happened to the tall Elven Archer who was supposed to be with them?”

Chape nods again.

“I’m actually a little bit frightened of Fortu.”

Ringo agrees.

“I’m more than ‘a little bit frightened’ of him. Have you noticed how he tosses and turns hin his sleep? That man might genuinely be unhinged!  

It’s Locket who hushes his brothers down.

“They may not be what we were expecting, but Captain DeLeón gave us a direct order; Escort the adventurers all the way back to Cottis and get them to Lord Urdurel in one piece.”

This time it’s Ringo who nods his identical, mop-topped, head.

“And by the gods, despite finding ourselves in these times of trouble, we will not fail in our sworn duty.”

I Dream of Demon

Ethereal eyes blink open, but Fortu can’t immediately comprehend where or when he is, or even what he’s looking at. He seems to be floating high up in a bleak void, looking down on two distant but familiar figures. The first is heavily armoured and male, the other bent-backed and wizened but female and they’re facing something… huge and monstrous.

It takes him a moment, from his elevated vantage point, but he eventually recognises the two figures as the loathsome, pony-tailed; Sir Briefadel and, what can only be the undisguised form of the aristocrat’s supernatural Hag Mother; Hetzabah!

Just a nightmare or another one of his hyper-real visions? They’re coming more frequently now though and it’s hard, sometimes, to differentiate between the dreams and his actual memories. Some seem like glimpses of the future or past, but they’re never accurate. The places, times and people, are always confusing and muddled up.

Everything below is black as pitch or burning red. Looming shadows and boiling lava pits fill his entire line of sight and at its centre, in a huge, deep and smooth sided pit, is chained a colossal, crimson skinned and bull horned Demon!

Bigger than any creature he’s ever seen.

Bigger than the massive hooked horrors that had almost killed him in the Givrad Void.

Bigger than the towering Frost giant; Droofin, who had saved them in the frozen-world of Kik-Ri.

Bigger even than the gigantic burrowing ice monster that had tried, nearly successfully, to swallow his friends whole.

However, regardless of its apparent power, the Demonic creature is securely bound, with multiple iron chains linked to thick iron bands around its neck, wrists and ankles shackling it to the solid rock beneath its cloven hooves.

Something is wrong with it though. Despite being impossibly large, it seems emaciated. Sucked dry. Its thin, stick-like forearms are covered with translucent tubes, connected to weird, cold-iron needles piercing its immortal flesh and veins. Black/Red ichor still slowly dripping down and through them to somewhere beyond Fortu’s ghostly sight.

Suddenly, the creature’s huge head snaps upwards, away from the dream versions of Briefadel and Hetzabah, and the demonic beast locks eyes with the invisible, hovering dreamer.

“I SEE YOU THERE, SPAWN OF MY SPAWN!”

His real eyelids snapping open, Fortu jerkily sits up, takes in the cool darkness of the real world and feels his bedroll under him, slightly softening the reassuringly solid ground beneath. It’s only been a day since they’d escaped the barn fire at Eisen-Heart and they’re still a day’s ride away from Thorn-Flek. Controlling his breath, he sees the recently joined but stalwart Dwarf; Banaal standing guard in the mid-distance and allows himself to slump back down in the warm glow of Cookie’s campfire. 

Slowly shaping the sulphurous word in his mouth, Fortu quietly spits out the strange name echoing around his head.

“Zartak.”

A name that, he innately understands, carries immense power and fiendish importance, yet simultaneously means nothing at all to him.

Duo eyed dog Deo

 Fortu was happy that Riffers had agreed to accompany him to the dog breeders, just a little surprised that Liga Bur came with them. Was it to offer advice or to keep an eye on the volatile warrior?

He couldn't blame the nu druid for worrying, for weeks now Fortu had felt his rage building. The inner voice urging him to violent acts: it seemed that ever since his strange dreams in the Givrad Void, when he'd drowned in the blood sand, that all his emotions were aggressive/ violent.

He'd executed the mage Moody, yes he was a slaver, yes he was scum and deserved to be punished - but was it Fortu's right to kill him.

The guard in the woods, yes he was an enemy that was trying to ambush them, yes he'd been offered surrender but chose to flee - but he was surrendering, just before Fortu took his life.

The spy in the tavern, yes he was working for the witches, yes he was a trained killer who drew first - but Fortu was looking to cause a reaction an excuse to kill.

So yes it was fair that Liga Bur might think he needed to be chaperoned.

Fortu had spotted the dog breeder's as they'd arrived in town. The morning after the fight in the flaming barn, feeling he needed to get away from the curious crowds forming, Fortu felt an urge to get a dog. He'd been raised in the fight pits with scavenger dogs and occasionally war dogs were used in fights. Part of his early chores were to feed and clean their stalls, he'd felt relaxed with them.

The breeder had quite a selection of dogs, one whose praise he was full off caught Fortu's eye. The breeder announced what he probably thought an exorbitant amount, seeing Riffers wince it no doubt was. Fortu though still had little concept of wealth, he had the gold he wanted the dog and before the breeder could change his mind Fortu bought her. Leaving Riffers to sort the papers, he watched bemused as Liga Bur had a chat with the dog.

Back at the wagon Fortu sat with the dog, brushing her coat and letting her get used to all the new smells.

'what's her name then? ask Chape, hesitant to approach the unstable fighter but like most interested in the new party member.

'Deo, seen it carved in some of those shrines along the road. Not sure what it means but its short and even I can spell it' Fortu glanced up with possibly the first smile Chape had seen from him.

'oi Riffers, what colour eyes has she got?'

'they are golden, like an evening sunset'

'damn me, that's what I thought. Only now one is crimson like a blood red moon.'

New Year, Same Scheduling Problems

After stuffing ourselves with turkey and trifle, let us now turn our attention to your, less fortunate, alternate selves. No feasts or family reunions for them as they’re all far from home, if they have families or homes at all. Instead they face the final leg of their journey towards the capital city; Cottis, where they’ll finally get to meet Sir Briefadel’s much maligned father, the legendary; Lord Urdurel and perhaps do a bit of magic shopping in the January sales.

Possible dates for a probable role-playing-no-combat D&D session. January’s currently pretty good for me but February is already looking distinctly shaky…

2026

January

Saturday the 17th

Sunday the 18th

Saturday the 24th

Sunday the 25th

Saturday the 31st

February

Sunday the 1st

Saturday the 21st

Sunday the 22nd

Hopefully enough options here. Let me know if you can do any of these 9am morning dates. 

Also, remember to forward me your new 8th level character sheets. 

Edit: after a slightly worrying delay, we have a consensus:

9am Sunday the 1st of February.

The Colours of Magic

After travelling by horse and wagon from the outlying village of Scarborough, through the cattle ranching hamlet of Far-Haven and Iron mining village of Eisen-Heart, the Party eventually gain entry to the larger, wool-farming and spinning town of Thorn-Flek. Once there, Chape and Ringo leave their brother; Locket behind to stand guard, while they head off to the local garrison to announce their arrival and to grease the wheels with the local authority.

Ringo looks a little sheepish on his return, as he hands out the three cuts of coloured cloth to Banaal, Liga Bur and Rifkin. The material squares are all about six inches by six inches and come with a cunningly designed silver pin. 

“Attach these onto yourselves, somewhere that they’ll show.”

Liga Bur looks confused by this request but both Banaal and Rifkin accept theirs gracefully, if not gratefully.

The rough Halfling hesitates though.

“What’s this?”

Ringo takes a breath before trying to explain.

“It’s the law of the land. It didn’t really matter in the outer hamlets and villages, but now we’re in a larger town, we have to adhere to the rules. Magic isn’t forbidden here as such, but spell-casters must register at the town magistrate and present their colours in public.”

Rifkin, wrinkles his normally straight nose at the thought of it. He knew the rule and understood the reasoning, but still slightly objected to it.

“I thought Bards were exempt?”

Ringo shrugs.

“The general opinion of the people is that ‘Bard’s don’t really count’ but I’d rather not risk it. Using spells will draw attention that I’d rather avoid and cause conflict with this garrison, regardless of Captain DeLeón’s letter of safe passage.

Each of the three use their silver pins to attach their specific coloured cloth to themselves. Banaal looks heavenward, as he pins his white square to his leather belt. Rifkin pins his pink one to his breast, directly over his poetic heart and Liga Bur attaches his, dangerously flammable, brown one to his left shoulder, furthest away from where he generally grasps the sturdy wooden shaft of flaming Dijonn.

Noticing Fortu’s slightly disappointed expression at being the only one of them left out, Rifkin whispers.

“No coloured square for you just yet, as your connection to Mother Fissa is still in its infancy. If and when you can access the magic of the wilds, your cloth square will be the green of the forest.”