Reflections in the Dark: Arowe

Loosing yet another shaft from his suddenly righteous 'Oath-bow', Arowe howls in a fury that surprises himself, as the arrowhead, shaft and flight pass harmlessly through, the already badly injured Sir Briefadel's heart, as if he were already a ghost! 

Unlike the sinisterly intelligent rapier; Arogon Feybane, that had sought to influence Arowe to act out its own rampantly anti-Fey agenda, the magical bow seems to have just exponentially amplified his own anger toward the vile Human Knight.

Leaning precariously over the ledge, literally holding on by his fingernails to the metaphorical skin of Dulcetta’s stone teeth, the Elven Archer howls again as the ethereal trio of Knight, Witch and Nightmare horse, pass through the illusionary veil surrounding the tower and out of his sight. In apoplectic frustration as much as anything, Arowe clamps his jaw shut, releases his tenuous grip and falls toward where he last saw the heavily armoured Fortu disappear into the inky darkness below. 

Despite his rage, Arowe safely assumes that, if the fierce updraft could support his weightier, heavily armoured friend, it’ll comfortably cushion his fall. He’s instantly proven correct; a little too correct however. The upward blast rips up at his pink, silk shirt and chaff’s his delicate Elven skin but he barely begins to drop at all! Fortu seemed to be falling at about half of gravity's natural rate, Arowe’s falling at only about half of that!

Finally though, the finely boned Elf descends through the top layer of darkness, but Arowe realises that he won’t finish up at the same place as the ex-Gladiator. The tower had already rotated several degrees before he’d dropped after his Human travelling companion.

Eventually, landing lightly on his feet, Arowe strikes one of his remaining stowed Sun-rods and the warm, orange light pushes the darkness back a little. The blackness surrounding him is more like a thick fog, but his acute Elven eyes still enable him to see, perhaps ten feet ahead.

Calling out to Fortu confirms his initial assessment; this sight and sound dampening black mist is not remotely natural.

Now, alone in the dark, with no audience to impress, Arowe's mind begins to drift. In his eagerness to seek out adventure, he’d skipped past any possible humdrum encounters with the normally dull Humans. His High-born, High-Elf Father had warned him against getting too involved in the short-term matters of the short-lived Humans, so he'd skirted the cities, even the famed capital; Cottis, with its elaborate and towering architecture said to rival that of the Dwarven citadels, and aimed straight for the Feylands at the western border of Stowan.

As an educated Elf, Arowe had heard of Lord Urdurel of course. He would be an old man now, but only by Human standards. As an Elf child, Arowe had loved hearing the exciting tales of daring heroics and epic battles during the Human's early reign. Approximately fifty years ago though, things suddenly changed. The military expansion stopped and instead, an enforced peace fell across the conquered kingdoms. There was, he remembers, a short resurgence of bloody violence but it only lasted a few years and it was mostly targeted towards his own people. Interestingly, after which, the injured King Urdurel laid down his sword and gave up his crown, returning his conquered lands to their (confused but grateful) surviving heirs.

During his journey through the hundred-and-sixty-mile span of Stowan however, there was one aspect of the erstwhile kingdom, that had captured his attention. The whole realm seemed to frown upon the use of magic and, though Witchcraft and Sorcery were permitted, its practitioners were closely monitored and heavily restricted. 

As he yells out for the unresponsive Fortu again in the darkness, Arowe is still surprised by the obvious ire still apparent in his voice. He’s never, in all his long life, felt this angry before and the fact that he’s now unable to act upon it, burns at his Elven soul!

Tales from the Ledge: Moody’s Warning

Leaving the distracted and recently deafened Rifkin to tend to the, still weirdly wounded Doberman, Barbella walks over to Henshaw, who remains staring over the toothy ledge.

Casting a slightly too casual look over his shoulder, the swarthy stabber-for-hire, loudly asks.

“Any sight of them?”

Before sneakily whispering into Henshaw’s oversized, pink and sticky-out ear.

“I was finking about what that Wizard Moody said before Fortu slit his throat. He told us that the adventurers didn’t really care about me, you and Doberman and that they’d sacrifice us as soon as it was advantageous to them.”

Henshaw furtively glances at the apparently deaf Rifkin before whispering back.

“I can’t say I appreciated the way Arowe shouted at me when I questioned why he was sending Doberman out first…”

Barbella interrupts his lanky friend.

“As Canon fodder!”

Henshaw sighs.

“The Elf was frustrated and under pressure though… And he did offer us a larger share of the loot from now on.”

Barbella sneers.

“Look around you; this tower was a prison, not a treasury. A half share of nothin’ ain’t no more than a third share of nothin’. It was just a costless bribe, just in case we was thinking of betraying them and they was definitely willing to ‘sacrifice’  Doberman to gain that ‘advantage' Moody was talking about.”

The blond-haired Henshaw sneaks another crafty peek over his shoulder.

“In fairness though, I’m surprised Doberman’s still alive anyway. He stupidly barrels into every skirmish with no concern for his own safety. He just chops away with whatever weapon he happens to have to hand. He's got no finesse whatsoever!”

Barbella smiles.

“That’s true. In Doberman’s stubby fingers, everythink’s an axe. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s not been killed just by all the foul crap he mindlessly stuffs down his cake-hole!”

Henshaw laughs out-loud but Rifkin still doesn't seem to notice their conversation.

“Doberman’s so fat, he can surround a group of enemies all by himself!”

It’s Barbella’s turn to choke with laughter.

“Doberman’s so stupid, he could pick a fight wiv himself in an empty room!”

After a while their shared mirth subsides and they gaze back at Rifkin and Doberman, who are both sitting upright now. Then, Henshaw, with a serious expression falling again across his face, finishes their conversation.

“Doberman may be a fat idiot but he’s our fat idiot. It ain’t right that they treated him like he was just expendable.”

Reflections in the Dark: Fortu

Fortu roars in rage as the sneering Sir Briefadel, his Mother still in his arms, steps back over the lower-teeth barrier and falls off the edge. Running forward, the ex-Gladiator is amazed to see the armoured Knight and naked woman falling at a pace far slower than he'd anticipated. It takes him a moment to register that the roaring, magical wind is substantially reducing their rate of fall.

Searching around, desperately for something to do, Fortu grabs his combat rete and casts it down after them, but it too is caught in the wind and just spirals comedically above them. Perhaps due to its weighted ends and relatively small surface area, it does appear to be falling slightly faster than his enemies but frustratingly, not fast enough.   

Then, with reckless abandon, Fortu dives headfirst off the balcony after them!

If Sir Briefadel, while wearing full plate-mail, could do it, then surely the same updraft that slowed their fall would do the same for him? The wind rips at him but his armour fully protects him, aside from his exposed, and now already windchilled mouth and chin. For a moment Fortu wonders how the bare-naked woman below can tolerate it, but then he remembers the insidious, thousand-bladed machine she'd recently been trapped within. Glaring up, she momentarily locks eyes with him and then, just before the darkness below swallows her up, Fortu again feels those multiple needles of pain pierce his solid armour, as if it wasn't even there.

A few moments later, Fortu too is engulfed in the inky darkness and, although it's glow doesn't illuminate the blackness more than a few feet in front of him, he's still thankful for the 'light' spell that Rifkin had recently recast upon his new sword.

His new sword...

The beautiful, raven haired, voluptuous woman had laughed when she saw that he'd found 'Her Husband's sword'. 

As he tumbles onto the sudden ground, Fortu is forced to consider what he really knows about Lord Urdurel. Obviously, his son; Sir Briefadel despised him, but what value is there in the opinion of a snake? When he’d first disembarked in Stowan via the oceans to the south, Fortu had avoided the larger cities. Considering his fraught, captive slave history, he had no desire to spend anymore time within their walls.

Clambering to his feet, Fortu feels around for his lost net but he's not surprised when he fails. The fierce cross winds could have carried it yards from where he landed. Strangely silent in the thick, soupy darkness, Fortu advances with his massive flamberge sword raised, on the lookout for the Witch and her son.

What actually, did he know? He'd heard that Lord Urdurel was the undisputed leader of the prosperous realm, that it sat at the furthest point of the Human lands and acted as the border between the so-called civilised world and the mysterious Fey realm. Lord Urdurel appeared to be a King in all-but-name. A supposedly wise but reclusive old man, respected rather than feared. His rule was said to be firm but fair and he'd kept the peace with the neighbouring regions by way of a strong, well organised army and stronger diplomacy.

All turned around in the dark, Fortu realises that he's not even sure which way he's facing and begins to suspect that leaping into the darkness, had possibly been a rash decision.

Tales from the Ledge: The Men Left Behind

Henshaw and Rifkin are still tending to the battered, bitten and barely conscious Doberman, when Barbella rejoins them in Dulcetta’s stone mouth.

After checking on his friends, the swarthy Barbella moves over to the toothy edge.

“The fools jumped after the bastard! They all just jumped!”

Discarding his finally fritzed out healing wand, the now stone-deaf Rifkin joins the bearded rogue, peers over and shouts.

“DID THEY CATCH THEM?” 

Barbella shakes his head.

“No. Sir Briefadel and his Witch Mum rode off on a flying, black horse, what was hiding in the darkness below. Our three‘glorious leaders’ just fluttered down behind them.”

The Demi-Elven Bard looks confused.

“Sir Briefadel and his bitch Mum rode off on a frying crack whore?!”

Leaving the pallid Doberman where he lays shivering, Henshaw joins the others at the edge of the ledge.

“So, do we trust that updraft and follow them down or dare face the Blob?”

Barbella’s pragmatism settles the discussion for the moment.

“There ain’t no hurry now. Let’s just wait to see if they makes it out of the darkness alive before we decide either way.”