Meditations on Evil

It’s been several weeks since they parted ways with the adventurers but Henshaw can still feel the influence that the Bard; Rifkin and the others had on him. Seeking out Barbella one evening, he asks his friend’s help in understanding his recent confusion.

“Are we defined by our actions or our impulses? Do you think we are born with our natures set and that they’re beyond our control?”

Barbella is a clever man but not so taken to angst-ridden introspection as his friend.

“You’re asking ‘if you were born evil; if it was your fate like, and you ‘ad no control over it, would you actually be evil or just an innocent puppet of the gods and demons what made you’?” 

Henshaw tugs at his blond thatch.

“I guess so. The Human gladiator; Fortu was a lot like us. Driven by his more beastial urges, but he seemed to be the master of them… more often than not. Could we not decide to do the ‘right thing’ as easily as taking the easier, more self-gratifying… more profitable path?”

Barbella scowls.

“I don’t like your intellectual flights of fancy. If our actions are set according to predetermined nature and the gods, then they cannot be evil. I’m just a man who enjoys killing, but I didn’t choose my preferences, so surely, rationally, I shouldn’t be punished for them?”

The newly promoted Captain Henshaw breathes heavily.

“Imagine if Doberman chanced upon a buxom servant girl, wedged front half in and plump bottom half out of a low, ground floor window. She can’t get no traction with her legs and her arms are too puny to push or pull herself free. She’s completely trapped and calling out for help but there’s no one around but ‘im. We both know what he’d do, but is it right just because ‘it’s his nature’?”

Sergeant Barbella grins at the thought, a couple of his gold teeth flashing briefly in the remains of the daylight.

“Nice image but yeah. Doberman would be just acting on his base animalistic instincts. He’s too dumb to consider the victim. He’d just see it as an opportunity too temptin’ to pass up.”

Henshaw straightens up in his chair.

“See, that’s exactly the problem. You and I are smart enough to empathise and understand the consequences of our actions against that poor, beautiful, fictitious girl. A dangerous imbecile like Doberman must be controlled and held to account… held in check by men like us.”

Barbella stops grinning.

“You’ve always been more concerned with rules and laws than me but I’ll always be your friend. We’ve both done bad things in our lives, terrible things, but it’s always been about surviving in this brutal, dog-eat-dog world. I don’t share in your ‘crisis of faith’ though. I’ve done what I’ve done to get by and I’m not sorry. Killing’s what I’m good at and I won’t apologise for it.”

Henshaw places a hand on the back of Barbella’s neck and pulls him forward until their foreheads are pressing together.

“Doberman’s just a dumb brute but, you and I, we’re not just products of our pasts. We’re clever enough to see what we’ve done, what we do, is wrong. Surely, we can change… If we wanted to? Become better men?”

Unkempt Contempt

Liga Bur had encountered several Orcs on his travels since being driven from his Dark-Star clan in the Broken lands, beyond the boarders of so called ‘civilisation’. Young Orcs selling themselves out as mercenaries or guards. In the Human lands, they’d been a surprising number of Half-Orcs, rejected by their tribes or raised by their Human Mothers. None of them were fully accepted by the Humans though. They’d always felt a certain level of fear and distrust.

Understandable, considering the general Orcish reputation, but unfair never-the-less. As a Halfling, raised by Orcs, Liga Bur understood their mindset. He understood their specific morality and the pride they had in their race, their tribe and their emblems.

The seven ‘Orcs’ he’d encountered today though, shook him to his core. He’d always assumed that the silent Red-Eyes that drove his Father’s Dark-Star tribe further and further into the inhospitable Dead-Lands were just one, unwaveringly evil tribe. They all wore the same dark colours with a red circle on their chests. These ones though, they looked and acted so similarly; Silent, fearless and with eyes showing no iris or pupil, just blood-red sclera, but their tribal colours and emblems didn’t match. 

Although he hadn’t recognised any of them, he’d counted at least four different tribal symbols and rather than seeming proud of them, these Orcs seemed less than indifferent to them. Contemptuous even! 

No Orc, not even ones from the lesser tribes, would behave that way.

He’d instructed his friends to dismember the, somehow not-quite-dead-or-alive bodies. Hopefully that’ll be enough to stop them rising again, like the ones who’d attacked his adoptive family so relentlessly all those many months ago.

The Gods Above and Below

“Your… supposedly unaware,‘not-so-free-willed’ vassals are becoming increasingly suspicious of your ‘heavy handed’ involvement.”

Moradin glares angrily around at the gathered gods, but while the others remain silent, it’s small Yondalla who responds calmly but firmly.

“Impossible. We have kept out touches feather light.”

The Dwarven god barks out a deep laugh.

“Feather light? Your Halfling; Liga Bur feels the weight of the world pushing down on him and the Elf; Arowe was so sure of Solonor‘s Interventions, he was deliberately attempting impossible ‘trick-shots’ just to prove himself wrong!”

The Elven god of Hunting; Solonor Thelandira, responds directly.

“He was a supremely skilful archer regardless of my help. And I sent him on a separate quest to prevent any possible cross contamination.”

Moradin turns his stare to the beastial; Erythnul.

“The Human you selected also suspects your influence.”

The huge Bugbear’s face twists and changes with every thought.

“True, his night-time visions of past, present and future are much more enlightening than I’d.., than we’d expected.”

Standing tall behind him, the striking, golden goddess; Mayaheine steps forward.

“Fortu was the obvious choice. As a male though, we just didn’t expect our, seemingly ignorant blunt instrument to exhibit such sensitivity to the dream-state .”

Moradin’s stern expression breaks for a moment in surprise.

“Didn’t expect? Didn’t expect?! That dark talent boils deeply within his very blood!”

Yondalla lifts her chin defiantly.

“Well what of your Dwarf? Does he not suspect your obvious involvement? Did he not realise that it was you who unveiled that Assassin? Does he not feel your heavy hand pushing him onward?”

Moradin laughs again. Wider and louder this time.

“Of course he does! Banaal’s my Cleric. Everything he does is under my influence and his every action is done in my name!”

Yondalla pauses for a moment.

“Perhaps you’re right. It’s against all the celestial rules and laws, but considering the lead the Demon Prince has on us… Perhaps the time for subtlety is behind us? Perhaps we should reveal ourselves? Perhaps our help can be a little more… overt?”

From the shadows, a huge, eye-patch wearing Orc god steps forward and growls.

“It’s about time!”

Son of a Witch!

Quickly rereading Fortu’s letter while the others prepare to move on, Rifkin feels the high quality parchment between his sensitive thumb and fingers.

‘My Darling Little One,
I’m so sorry that I couldn’t be there for you.
I’m sorry that I missed sharing in your laughter or comforting you when you cried.
I’m sorry that my selfish choices made life hard for you.
Know though, that you were born from love and that love is everlasting.
If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, follow the map and come find me.
Once there, light one of the candles.
There is much I need to tell you.
Love,
Your Mother;
Viccissa.’

Carefully refolding the paper along its original crease-lines, the Bard places the letter gently back in the compartment on top of the silver music box. Alongside the equally well preserved map showing the location of Viccissa’s apparent grave and under the four magical (presumably ‘speak to the dead) candles.

If it’s to be believed, the letter raises a few concerning questions. 

Firstly the three digit code: 142. How did she know his name would end up as two numerals pronounced together and why did she think that he’d somehow remember that her pet name for him was ‘Little one’?

Rifkin smiles at the pragmatistic Liga Bur’s no-nonsense suggestion. The Halfling always surprises him with his cool head and often brutal rational. No wonder the powerful Druid; Thornberg chose him back in the Fey lands. If two sequential numbers were known, the remaining options were only one to ten.

Brilliant!

Secondly, what important information could Fortu’s mother possibly have to impart on her son, a quarter of a century after her death?

And thirdly, why would her old ‘Den-mother’; Megarna bother sharing this information? By the tone of Megarna’s voice, when she delivered the silver box, there was no love lost between them. It even sounded like they’d hated each-other!

If Fortu decided to visit his Mother’s burial site now though, it would take him a month or so to get there… 

He’d effectively be taken off the board and his fighting skills that had proven themselves vital, especially after the loss of the Elven Archer; Arowe and Liga Bur’s transformation from Ranger to Druid.

Banaal and Liga Bur had been wise to take precautions though. A silver music box from Fortu’s infancy, just happens to turn up at the (almost) exact time and place as this mysterious Viccissa predicted?

Rifkin gently closes the lid and the heart-shaped clasp clicks back into place. Instinctively testing a theory, he tries to reopen it but, just as before, the heart resists. Only Fortu was ‘allowed’ to open the box.

Another mystery. Did the Witches manage to open it? Did they know what the letter said? Did they perhaps tamper with it in some way?

It’s all so unlikely, and yet he’d heard plenty of stories in his travels about witches foreseeing the future in knucklebones and chicken blood. There’d even been a mad woman in his own home village, who swore she could tell your fortune just by looking at tea-leaves!

Could this Viccissa see the future? Could she have passed this gift down to her son? Fortu’s fevered dreams did seem to often lead him to truths he shouldn’t rationally know. Almost like he himself was a… a…

A Fortune teller?

…

A Fortu.. ne teller!

Rifkin gasps as he almost drops the precious silver music box.

“It can’t be!?”

Fairer Sharer

Without the surprisingly trustworthy Henshaw to help him, Rifkin counts out the gold coins by himself into seven equal piles. Seven equal piles for seven men? No, as the Triplets still refuse to accept any extra gold for their service. It still feels wrong to exclude them but he allots, as agreed, double shares to Banaal, Fortu and Liga Bur and keeps a single share for himself. Then, he sorts out the magical equipment. 

The two daggers are deceptively powerful but not really the style of anyone here. They could make useful back-up weapons though.

The glass web-wand is tragically, unusable by anyone here. It’s a bit like the ‘Burning-hands’ wand they got from Sir Briefadel’s fake Wizard squire; Egrow. Only usable by Wizards or those especially skilled with magical devices.

The poison vials are also dangerous to use, unless skilled with their storage and application. 

The twenty-four flaming crossbow bolts though, are usable by Fortu, Banaal AND the Triplets… Could this be another way of ‘sneaking’ them a little more help?

Despite still not using his, potentially cursed, magic ‘Vampire’ sword, Rifkin’s finger trails along Danté’s black, oily Leather armour. It’d helped him slip through Liga Bur’s entanglement spell but it was worthless to his teammates…

(After a few conversations.)

Current gold totals

Banaal:
Gold: 1606gp
10 gems (worth 100gp each)
4 gems (worth 50gp each)

Six +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

Fortu:
Gold: 1934gp
6 gems (worth 25gp each)

Liga Bur:
Gold: 411gp 

Rifkin:
Gold: 1550gp
7 gems (worth 25gp each)
+1 Leather armour (improved Slickness)

Ringo:

Six +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

Locket:

Six +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

Chape:

Five +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

+1 Heavy metal shield.

In addition:

Two +3 medium sized magic Daggers

Five vials of (handily labeled) Blue Whinnis poison

Wand of Webs

Fourteen Masterwork daggers

Fey Contract

As the strange, ethereal songbird disappears in a puff of pale blue smoke, the enigmatic Estrid examines the wax seal on the envelope left in its place. 

‘R’?

Tentatively breaking the seal, the tall and beautiful Fey woman unfolds the letter.

‘For the attention of Estrid; guardian of the pool. I have received your messengers and tasted your magical waters. I’m an old man who did not expect to see another summer but, as you know, war is coming. A war against a shared enemy. I’ve agreed to send you a battalion of my men; they should arrive within the month. Gods willing that it will be soon enough. I also agree to prevent any further incursions into your land from my people. In return, all I ask is that you maintain your current borders and furnish me with an ongoing supply of your rejuvenating waters. Regards, Lord Urdurel.’

The Satyr; Magritte canters over.

“Good news? We certainly need some.”

Estrid smiles reassuringly.

“It’s from the almost-Elf; Rifkin. I’m quite surprised how good his writen Sylvan is. The adventurers succeeded. Their Lord Urdurel has agreed to our request and we shall have our Human guards within one full cycle of the moon.”

The swarthy and hirsute Satyr pulls a worried face. 

“It’s been weeks since the adventurers returned through the pool. Do you think we have that much time? Can we really trust Humans to help us?”

The goddess of the pool smiles cynically and shrugs.

“Alas my curly-horned, cloven-hooved friend; what choice do we really have?”

Half-Casters

Of all the races of Fissa, from the Elves, Orcs, Dwarves and Halflings etcetera, the Humans are the ones most prone to mix their bloodlines with other creatures. Half-Orcs, Half-Elves, even the Half-Dwarven; Dueregar! 

It also isn’t just the bipedal creatures of the world. Beasts and monsters also found their way into Humanity’s gene-pool. The reasons were varied and the couplings were often brutal and uninvited but regardless, they sometimes managed to produce mixed-breed offspring.

Most of these couplings resulted in freakish abominations but, depending on the other parent, sometimes they resulted in marvels. The most famous of these rare combinations are Humans with Dragons. Just a drop of Dragon blood running through a Human’s veins, opens up the possibility of reality-bending Sorcerous powers. Spellcasting ability without the need to spend decades studying or relying on dusty old books. 

A lesser known combination though, also gives rise to magical talent and knowledge. If your bloodline has been infected by that of Fiends, then magic comes easier, but usually of the dark variety. The blood from evil Demons and Devils usually comes with equally dark thoughts and feelings. Rather than Sorcerers, this dark blood, in the female line, gives rise to Witches!

As for the unfortunate male descendants, they’re generally far less ‘blessed’. Their blood legacy is often just uncontrollable rage, omni-directional hatred and rabid self-destructiveness. They rail against the world and everyone in it, without ever understanding the root cause of their own dark motivations. Only the strongest of them, the most righteous, have any hope of overcoming their… unnatural nature.