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!
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'
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!
Standing to, a slightly scruffy, attention opposite their potential new Captain, Henshaw, Barbella and Doberman consider his pitch. As usual, it’s the shrewd-headed Henshaw who acts as their joint representative.
“So your offer is; abandon the adventurers, transfer our allegiance from Briafadel to Urdurel and reenlist in his army, but this time in a position of greater authority?”
Captain DeLeón shrugs.
“You must refer to him as ‘Lord Urdurel’, but overall; yes.”
Barbella sidles forward to stand beside his friend and teammate.
“With complete pardons for ALL our past crimes and we get to keep ALL our stuff?”
Captain DeLeón grinds his perfect teeth. He’s dealt with men like this all his life. Self serving men. Men who put their needs way above the needs of others. Men who simply lust for violence. Looking at Barbella, he can’t help but to add a barb to his offer.
“Unlike you, I’m not a thief. Your recent acquisitions and possessions are yours to keep, but I expect you to restrain yourself from pilfering from your new brothers-in-arms.”
Ignoring the insightful insult to his friend, Henshaw speaks again.
“What kind of ‘position of authority’ are you suggesting?”
Summing up, Captain DeLeón, is as concise as he can be.
“Well, you and Barbella will be immediately promoted to sergeant with a substantial increase in pay from what you were getting before.”
Narrowing his eyes, Henshaw indicates his boulder-shaped colleague.
“How substantial? We woz on a half share of loot with the adventurers and, before that, on 5sp per day under Briefadel.”
The handsome Captain brushes a hand through his thick but silvering hair.
“I can’t match an adventurer’s irregular ‘salary’ but the life of a soldier is, ironically, still a lot safer than adventuring and men of your… ability deserve a lot more than what Briefafel was paying you. How does 8sp a day sound? Plus three square meals on top.”
Henshaw nods in satisfaction at the notion of full board and meals, plus 24 gold a month, before adding.
“And Doberman?”
Captain DeLeón visibly winces.
“Ah… Would you accept a Corporal’s salary of 6sp a day for him, as long as he serves directly under one of you?”
Henshaw and Barbella look at each-other wide-eyed and laugh simultaneously…
“Bagsy not it!”
Well, I needn't have worried, the loyalty of the henchmen and the trustworthiness of these men seems unquestionable now. Going against that band of Briafedel's men, showed who they really are. And thank Moradin that he called forth his most divine power to stand against them! Maybe they will trust me now? Maybe I can even be of use?
One thing is for sure, I need to find out more about the threat that the fallen prince imposes, and use that to persuade my kinsmen that it is worth wading into another war.
And so, do Banaal's true motivations become clear. But, do not forget, dear reader, that events are driven by men vastly more powerful than the Good Dwarf. His idea of the influence that he may bring to bear are somewhat inflated, like his ego.
After stumbling across another of his men while fleeing the woods, Sergeant O’Malley heads toward the prearranged meeting point with the disturbingly forthright; Madam Megarna.
“What do you mean ‘you failed’? There were over thirty of you fools!”
O’Malley had left his few remaining men a safe distance behind before facing the wiley, black clad, fortune teller.
“We did everything you said. We stayed well out of sight until Spider Murphy confronted them and then rushed out of our hiding places to prevent them fleeing. Our crossbowmen peppered them with waves of bolts and everyone held strong.”
Openly scowling, Megarna purses her thin lips.
“So what went wrong?”
O’Malley tries to meet the wrinkled woman’s grey eyes but fails.
“My old sword-mates triple crossed us. They happily took Spider Murphy’s offer to pass unscathed but then, literally, stabbed us in the back as soon as the opportunity presented itself.”
Her voice growing quieter, Megarna almost whispers.
“Go on. What else?”
O’Malley can feel the trap about to spring but can do nothing to escape it.
“The adventurers were too strong. The big, darkly armoured Fighter sliced through your Orc mercenaries as if they were just wheat to be harvested and the other two; the Dwarf and the Halfling summoned terrifying beasts I’ve never seen before!”
Her stare intensifying, Megarna utters just one more acidic word.
“And?”
Brow damp now, O’Malley finally reaches the point Megarna was waiting for.
“It was Spider Murphy’s fault; He let his personal vendetta against the Bard derail the entire plan. He jumped down too early and chased the Demi-Elf into the thicket. It wasn’t my fault we lost. I did everything I could. Without him commanding the crossbowmen, they fled, leaving my men uncovered…”
Madame Megarna lets him trail off until an agonisingly long silence builds between them.
“So it ‘wasn’t your fault’? You ‘did everything you could’? More likely, you spilled your guts about me to ensure your own survival. No matter; knowledge of the coven won’t help them any and Spider Murphy was far, far too vengeful for his own good anyway. Or ours. Meet me here again this time tomorrow for your next mission.”
Returning to his four men, one of them asks if he’ll go. In response, O’Malley chooses his words very carefully.
“Not likely. Whatever this is, it’s not worth our lives. We move out today, keep moving south as far and as fast as we can and try to keep our necks out of it.”
The same soldier presses the point though.
“What about Barbella’s betrayal, your lockbox and your magic sword?”
O’Malley looks back at his man in surprise.
“Fuck Barbella, fuck the lockbox and fuck the magic sword!”
