Way Back When Story

Urdurel was a young man. Barely a man at all at just fourteen, but a man he must be, as his parents were now both dead. Killed by the hand of their King’s chief enforcer, merely because they dared speak out against the ever increasing tax burden to fund King Vagitus the IV’s extravagant and pampered lifestyle.

The Brutish Captain Glabella had spared his life, not out of mercy but as an added insult. As a son of two millers, Urdurel had strength but no combat skill and was easily beaten down by the professional soldier.

Lying in the dirt beside his parents’ butchered bodies, Urdurel swore revenge. Revenge against his parents’ killer. Revenge against his Lord and master. Revenge against all the bloated and self-indulgent aristocracy.

He would recover his strength. He would train with the sword. He would kill every titled blue-blood in Stowan and all the surrounding realms.

Favoured Son

The generously proportioned and well muscled;

Dajambat Prap lays down the sturdy wooden tent-poles and heavy canvas she’s carrying and turns to her husband.

“That was a noble act. Tough as our adopted little son is, it would have been almost certain death for him in the wastelands. Now he and his funny dog, Mir Hundur still have a chance at life.”

Mahd Boss gazes back at his wife.

“Then why does it feel as if I’ve betrayed him?”

Confounding tradition, the Orcan chief of the Darkstar clan had only ever taken one wife and he trusted her judgement above all others, sometimes even above his own.

Closing the short distance between them, the prodigious, middle-aged Orcess places a strong hand on her husband’s broad shoulder.

“You saved him once before, gave him a good life, a family and now you’ve saved him once more.”.

Mahd Boss’ heavily tusked head nuzzles into his wife’s wild hair.

“And what of our other children? Why didn’t I send any of them with him to the safety of the Human lands?”

Fully wrapping her strong arms around her husband’s wide neck, Dajambat Prap squashes herself tight to him.

  

“You know full well that the accursed Red-eyes are targeting our tribe’s Orcish blood-line. They are unrelenting and will chase us down wherever we run. Only Halfling-blooded Liga Bur can escape them and there’s no need for him to die pointlessly trying to protect his younger brothers and sisters… Trying to defend us.”

Mahd Boss pats his wife’s plump behind and sighs.

“True enough.”

Then Dajambat Prap snarls.

“Besides, he’s the only one of them that would be accepted for anything more than lowly mercenary work. Despised by their leaders. Hirelings for the worst scum that the Humans have to offer. And you, my wise husband, know more than anyone how that feels.”

The massive Orc Chieftain breathes heavily.

“True again my love. Perhaps our clever boy will discover a path beyond mere ‘grunt’ work, beyond just hunting and fighting for survival. Perhaps he will find friends in the Human lands. Perhaps good fortune will shine upon him at last.”

It’s the thick set Orcess’ turn to sigh.

“Gruumsh willing, my Chief; Gruumsh willing.”

Mirrorworld - The Next Session

 

Dancing with Death

Back behind the heavy, decorative curtain, the (still-desperately-pretending-to-be-middle-aged) Elven actor blinks rapidly, as if coming out of a deep trance. The applause from the auditorium though is still ringing loudly around the open-air theatre and the curtain rises once more to reveal a rapturous standing ovation.

Automatically stepping forward, his fingers still interlaced with those of the two actors either side of him, Gielgud Beams widely and bows flamboyantly as the clapping continues and perseveres long after the final curtain fall.

Still confused, Gielgud looks to the younger, beautiful actor on his left, who grins impishly in return.

“You were amazing sir! The best I’ve ever seen you! You were truly inspired tonight!”

Visibly shaken, the veteran actor makes his way back to the privacy of his dressing room, leans heavily on the mirrored vanity table and stares deeply into his own, grease-painted reflection.

‘Best they’d ever seen him perform’?

‘Truly inspired’?

He couldn’t even remember being on stage. It was as if  he’d been possessed by something… otherworldly, for the entirety of his performance. From his opening monologue until his dramatic closing speech.

No, that’s not quite right. He can still remember locking eyes with a remarkably tall Elf in the centre of the front row (much to the annoyance of everyone sitting behind him) and holding contact. A handsome youngster who’d caused Gielgud’s old heart to flutter. Sadly he’d been accompanied by a youngish Elven maiden.

And then…

Nothing.

Carefully removing his long golden, pre-plaited wig and starting to disrobe, a shudder runs through his thin Elven frame. A standing ovation is a wonderful thing to receive, but disconcerting when you know it wasn’t truly for you.

Still, the play he’d just performed was lightweight; barely more than an expanded children’s pantomime show really.

‘Dancing with Death - A musical adventure with magic and faries'.

A swashbuckling action story about terrifying, demonic Orcs and beautiful, otherworldly Fey. A tale about a band of steadfast brothers in arms overcoming unimaginable evil.

Gielgud shudders as he tries to pull himself back together. Whatever had caused his uncharacteristically virtuoso performance, be it muse, demon or deity, he’d accept it with unquestioning gratitude. An actor’s fame or notoriety sells tickets and puts bottoms on seats. If he was as good as he’d just been told, tomorrow’s show will be an absolute sell out!

Now though, a glass or five of fine Elven wine in the performer’s bar to steady his nerves is most definitely called for.

…

Far above him, in another realm, a disembodied but melodious Elven voice laughs in agreement.

The Perfect Match

It was a strange deal that he’d made with the large Druid. An enchanted, inexhaustible ironwood staff to subsist on indefinitely at the cost of the loss of all independent movement.

A harsh bargain, but Dijonn had been in an extremely poor, literally last gasp, negotiating position at the time…

Die now or live forever as a slave.

Eternal life was an odd concept for a fire elemental. Flames generally burn fast and furiously but not usually for very long. Would he become bored of the board he’d be eternally attached to? Could he, one day, become tired of life everlasting?

These thoughts though, were for another day. It was surprising however that Thornberg had come to trade, not for himself, but for the Halfling that he’d already previously sworn servitude to, for freeing him from the hundred years trapped in Dulcetta’s accursed tower prison.

Even more surprising was how much Liga Bur had changed in the mere four hours since they’d last seen each other. Flesh creatures were hard to understand sometimes but his Halfling saviour had seemed to have undergone an equally profound mental, emotional and physical transformation. 

It was impossible to predict if this new partnership would prove successful, but by tethering his flaming self to the top of this magical, blackened-tipped quarterstaff, Dijonn had managed to unlock a plethora of new and interesting abilities…

Which Witch is Which?

The two wrinkled old women, one short and stout, the other surprisingly tall and thin, regard each-other suspiciously. 

From the safety of their Mistress’s hemlines, two correspondingly proportioned cats, one short-limbed, well padded and ginger, the other more resembling an angular, furry, black bag of bones, hiss at each other. Their backs arched, their tattered ears flattened down and their sharp fangs bared. 

After an agonisingly long pause, the fat, old woman finally breaks the silence.

“It’s been over twenty years since I last saw your warty face. Why have you sought me out after all this time? What do you want Megarna?”

The taller woman forces a smile, mostly just to show that, out of the two of them, she still possesses the majority of her own teeth.

“What do you think I want Bronwen? I’m putting the Coven back together.”

Bronwen chokes with bitter laughter.

“The Coven? Of the original thirteen of us, only you and I survived Lord Urdurel’s purge!”

Megarna shrugs skeletally.

“That’s mostly true, but I didn’t travel all this way on a whim. My charge of the last forty years; Sir Briefadel has finally found his Mother and is currently raising an inhuman army to defeat his aged Father.”

Bronwen’s rheumy eyes widen in surprise as she suppresses a tiny shudder.

“Our Mistress; Hetzabah is still alive? How, after all these years?!”

This time, Megarna’s smile is genuine.

“Yes, Hetzabah’s alive and free once more. It was she herself who issued this command.”

After recovering her composure, Bronwen gathers up her skirt and attempts to take control.

“Hurry then Sister, there’s lots to be done in preparation for her return.”

Megarna though, merely scoffs and proceeds, very deliberately, to take her own sour time.

“Don’t forget your place Sister; even after all these lost seasons, you’re still only number two.”

No Mere Hundur

Keeping semi-guard whilst simultaneously serenading one of the glade’s beautiful Dryads, Rifkin looks across at his recently returned Halfling friend and the big, slobbery riding-hound; Mir Hundur.

Liga Bur had obviously gone through some kind of magical awakening but, seemingly unnoticed by the others, the dog also seems transformed.

After spending so long with the adventurers, certain things, extraordinary things have become… somehow ordinary. Normal. 

Extraordinary things like the bond between Liga Bur and his animal companion; Mir Hundur.

But now, something’s changed. Liga Bur seemed noticeably older when he returned after just one day away with the towering Thornberg, but the dog… 

The dog seems bigger. 

And tougher..

Much larger than a normal hound.

Objectively massive for its breed.

Over the last few months, Mir Hundur has somehow transformed from merely a big dog into an absolute beast!

Mir Hundur has grown since we started this adventure, from a large, shaggy 2HD riding dog into a physically impressive 6HD unit.