A Servant of Two Masters

It’s the third night out from Scarborough toward Cottis, and despite spending the night under the sloping thatched roof of the huge, outlying; Clark & Sons farmyard barn, the added security of their three new Lord Urdurel guards and the comfort of Cookie’s large, covered wagon, the perpetually angry Fortu has another of his hyper-vivid dreams. Or perhaps, this time, it’s just a nightmare bound to the recent loss/theft of the three Briefadel mercenaries they’d saved months ago, combined with two distorted and disturbing memories…

After mercilessly cutting down the runaway soldier during Spider Murphy’s forest ambush, Fortu suddenly and inexplicably finds himself in a warm, sunlit glade, facing the beautiful Fey goddess; Estrid. They stand, face to face, eye to eye, mouths… lips just inches apart, close enough to kiss, yet her expression reveals a combination of consternation and confusion. 

"You slaughtered that defenceless human! He’d dropped his sword and surrendered. Surrendered! I don't see how a good person could do such a thing?"

Over Estrid’s pale shoulder, Fortu recognises a couple of armoured figures standing silently in the distance. The larger of them is male, beastial and warlike, while the other is feminine, refined but, perversely, also warlike. Of the two though, only the beast-like one is smiling with approval.

Eyes snapping open, Fortu hears those words echoing in his mind. But in truth, she hadn’t said them. She’d never said them. He had. They were his words, said months ago, to the eighth-Elf; Rifkin, when the goddess Estrid had ordered the merciless execution of four of the surrendered Human invaders of her glade.

Why then, had he murdered that unarmed and cowering soldier? What was the difference? What was his defence? Was it somehow morally justifiable when he did it but not when she had? Was it true for the beaten, bound and broken Wizard Moody too?

Glancing around the large, lantern-lit barn and his sleeping teammates, he becomes uncomfortably aware that he’d been far out of sight of the others when he’d caught up to that soldier and they’d never really questioned him on what’d happened. 

Fortu guessed that his teammates had assumed it was just a desperate encounter, man verses man, sword against sword but, for whatever reason, he’d not expanded upon that presumed falsehood or revealed the actual truth.

But what was the truth?

The truth was that soldier had laid in wait, with dozens of his sword-mates and crossbowmen, to ambush and kill him and his companions.

A greater truth was that the outclassed soldier had fled too late and raised his hands, only when cornered.

The absolute truth though, was that he’d butchered a defenceless young man after he’d dropped his sword in terror and unconditionally surrendered.

Wiping away the patina of sweat from his furrowed brow, Fortu silently asks himself the obvious question:

‘Was Estrid right to execute the surrendered men who’d invaded her glade and slaughtered her people, or was he just a hypocrite for doing the exact same thing, not just once now, but twice?!’

Then, the deeper and more profound one:

‘After all his of protestations, all his claims of honour and righteousness, despite his brutal, loveless upbringing; did he actually crave violence? Did he seek it out? Was he, in fact… an evil man?”

And so the rage builds

 Fortu had never felt such a simmering rage, in the pits the rage and violence was explosive, then over - win or loss. But in the days after they left Scar Burrow and the very nearly terminal meeting with Deleon he felt a pressure building. He attempted to vent at the soldiers escorting them, accompanying them whenever they arrived at an overnight stop, his looming brooding presence unsettling the hosts rather than the ever professional guards. Try as he might he could not fault their manner or the way they handled the caravan, by now Barbella would have stolen half the supplies and Doberman eaten the other half.

He tried to distract himself showing interest in the little shrines they past, learning from Banaal and Rifkin the meanings and gods involved. None settled him. By the time they entered into the small village of 'FarHaven' he was on edge, even the calm plodding of Maurice was annoying.

He was hoping that a night in a good inn, dry bedding and good old human stodge food washed down with ale would ease the tension he felt at every step.

The locals hushed as Fortu and his friends entered the tavern, blatant looks of  'who the frik are you' before returning to their own company. Fortu noticed a couple of men over at the back who didn't have the typical farmers homespun clothing and their gaze lingered just a moment longer than was polite.

'those two - kill them'

Grabbing two tankards of ale Fortu pushed his way over to their table. It was evident they had no desire for him to join them but he dragged over an extra chair and sat. The same red haze and low base hum descended. Fortu could not remember exactly what was said but as their hands reached for knives his fist lashed out, clumsily missing the closest. With trained reflexes the two pulled knives free and moved either side of Fortu, the one in front slashed out but it was easily deflected by his armour. The one who had slipped behind stabbed high and with a remarkable precision found a gap. The sharp pain was like a bucket of ice water to the face, the haze lifted and the hum went quiet. A lifetime of training kicked in, he went from rage fuelled brute to efficient killer. The man in front died in two quick strokes, spinning he drew the 'awesome' blade to a stop at the throat of the other.

The gasps and whispers from the crowd reminded Fortu of just where he was 'now we take this outside and you answer my questions and maybe that will be the end of bloodshed tonight' 

'no kill more'

Outside in the stables Fortu felt the others were mightily relieved when the remaining knifeman admitted he was working for the witches and even more relieved and a bit surprised when he left him alive.

'ah my son you think you are free, we the many will show you real freedom'

All paths lead to trubble

 'Yo Riffers, you got time for a bit more lettering?'

'Always time for you my friend'

'Great, so you know that when Liga Bur was more.....about the woods rather than of the woods, he was teaching  me how to pathfind and read maps. So I've been drawing out our route over the past few months. Just wanted you to check my wordings.'

Rifkin spread out the very crumpled sheet and was impressed by the artwork, the spelling - well considering that Fortu had only learnt to write a year ago it wasn't too bad.

'There's only one T in Ratman, its "here" not "hear" be elixir of life pond and do we really need to say stuck up fey bitch?'

'Well she didn't like me'

'Really good Fortu, I think that even I could find my way using this. Do you want some more sheets to keep practicing?'

'Cheers Riffers, I'd appreciate that.' 

Fortu was diligent in his practice, not so in where he left the copies......

Divine Frienenemies

“That was a mean trick Abbathor.”

Without furniture or other creatures to create a frame of reference for scale comparison, the two ‘men’ seem like normal… normalish Dwarves, talking to each other in the gloom of an endless void. To a casual onlooker, it would be impossible to comprehend the colossal size of these two squat seeming figures.

“You needed an agent. I just made sure a suitably appropriate one was available to you, in the right place and at the right time.”

The first speaker glowers. The huge war-hammer held tightly in his large, clenched fist, glowing red hot.

“You possessed one of my high-priests and subjected that child to a horrific ordeal!”

The second Dwarf, larger but by dint of fatness rather than muscle, rolls his sunken eyes and smiles greasily.

“Relax my Brother; It was all just for show. Nothing actually happened beyond a little light exposure. No innocent little Dwarf boy was harmed in the making of this… escapade.”

Stroking his thick white beard with his free hand, Moradin considers his Brother’s weaselly words.

“Your cleverness is often useful and what you say is true; I did need an Avatar in the Fey realm, but your methods turn my stomach. You corrupt the good for your own nefarious purposes and leave your victims lessened or broken ever after.”

Jaundiced eyes flashing with a spark of indignation, Abbathor answers quickly, barely disguising the bite in his retort.

“I merely revealed your high-priest’s previously hidden and distasteful predilections. I didn’t create them. As for the child; I wiped all memories of the event from his mind. Only your pervert priest remembers what he almost did.”

The near Molten glow of Moradin’s war-hammer dims a little.

“And Banaal. You damaged his faith in me, even as I need him to do my bidding.”

The fatter and paler of the two Dwarven deities merely shrugs.

“Your young priest already had a strong connection to where you needed him to be and he was already searching for an excuse to leave the mountain. For the sake of saving the whole world; Good, Bad, Dwarven, Human and Elven, I’m sure he’ll find a way to overcome his exaggerated trauma.”

Last game of 2025?

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!

The Fountain of Youth

Captain DeLeón watches the adventurers leave on fresh horseback, accompanied by a sturdy wagon and three of his best men. Everything should be fine but he still finds himself worrying. Lord Urdurel entrusted him to protect this forward position and he’s proud of his High commander’s faith in him.

He’d handled the removal of Briefadel’s ‘scum’ mercenaries from the adventurers poorly though. He’d hoped that being subtle and removing the three men out of sight of their ‘Masters’, would have made everything easier but, instead, he’d managed to infuriate and accidentally antagonise the ex-gladiator; Fortu.

The other thing that bothered him was the story that the Demi-Elf Bard shared with him yesterday, during their debriefs. Could those strange, gourd-like barrels truly contain the ‘Elixir of youth’? That the pool they were drawn from would stave off the skeletal hands of the Grim Reaper himself?

Pulling off one of his heavy metal gauntlets, Captain DeLeón inspects the back of his own hand. He’s only in his forties and still full of vim and vigour, but the lines are beginning to show. Is it possible that, less than a month’s ride away, lies the secret to eternal life?

Still, it seems likely that, considering the fact that the very same pool lays atop the dimensional portal mentioned, this would also be the place Sir Briefadel and his hellish army would probably re-emerge from.

The Captain bites his bottom lip for a moment, before shaking his helmed head. One month there and one month back. Two months too long to relinquish his position to one of his underlings at such a vulnerable time. 

Smiling wryly, Captain DeLeón shrugs and mutters out loud.

“I guess I’ll just have to earn my immortality the old fashioned way; with tales of my glorious and heroic death in battle!”

His smile falters a little though.

“I wonder if that Rifkin fellow would compose and perform it for me?”

DeLeon de liar

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'

Scarp Burrow

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!

Bad Boys Stick Together

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!”

Banaal's Diary : Entry #432

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.

Enlightened Enemies

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!”