S-Words

With a sudden lurch to the right, Cookie’s massive wagon comes to an abrupt halt and Rifkin looks to the two soldiers sitting with him in the back.

“What’s happening?”

Chape and Locket don’t answer though and instead, climb out of the open exit without a word. They’d all been on high alert ever since the suspiciously fallen tree about a mile back.

Steeling himself, the Bard clambers out behind them and peeks around the corner of the wagon. There’s an angry voice he doesn’t recognise, shouting near the front but more concerning are the dozen or so armed horse riders galloping towards them. Gritting his teeth, Rifkin mutters to himself under his breath.

“This is it. This is the moment I prove myself more than just a worthless minstrel.”

Drawing Spider Murphy’s magical short sword, Rifkin feels a strange sensation creeping up his wrist, through his arm, all the way to the top of his neck, where it joins with the base of his head and he hears another strange voice. A scratching, metallic whisper of a voice. 

Rifkin stops abruptly, mid-flourish and mentally strains to listen…

“Vampiric touch!”

Lowering the weapon with an involuntary shudder, the Demi-Elven Bard stares wide-eyed at the sinisterly gleaming blade now limply pointing toward the ground.

He’d had his fill of ‘intelligent’ swords, after Arowe’s Dryad-hating, magical rapier; Arogon Feybane. 

It had been fortunate that his Elven friend had been strong willed enough to resist its full influence, but the sword had still tricked them into attacking the beautiful Dryad guardians of Estrid’s mystical glade.

Seconds crawl by while Rifkin stares at the (apparently) inanimate sword held loosely in his hand, before he tentatively raises it up again in his pale fist and tries to ‘listen’ again to the, potentially intelligent, magical short-sword.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be too terrible? After all, wasn’t the recently staff bound, morally ambiguous, fire elemental; Dijonn, now a staunch ally to Liga Bur?

Another few seconds tick by and nothing immediately happens, but then the electrical itch travels up his arm again and he ‘hears’ the same words repeated just as before…

“Vampiric touch!”

The ‘Night’ Watchmen

The ghost of the young Cottisonian soldier; Pardrik sways easily, as he shimmers in the bright sunlight. His form and features have become clearer somehow, after each completed guard duty. More defined and in focus after each re-emergence, even though his spirit form had been shredded, defeated and dismissed several times by the ethereal but still vicious Hag and her phantom steed. Regardless of that though, he’d always reformed by the next shift. Despite their pitiful existence, ghosts are notoriously hard to actually ‘kill’ again. 

It’s the end of his and Arowe’s seventh eight-hour guard duty, and Pardrik notices that his Elven partner seems finally, to have calmed down. The ghost hovers over the still sleeping Halfling, but thanks to the clever positioning of his bones, he’d been able to move freely around the marquee and act as an early, though imminent, warning system for all his new friends. Now though, a feeling of anxiety runs through him. Like his ghostly form, his mind had become less clouded after each successfully completed shift, and now he wonders if the Halfling; Liga Bur was correct in his assumption about fulfilling his previously failed duty. He was cursed on the orders of Lord Urdurel to exist forever, tortured by the unending sight of the young Lady Lamenta’s dying moments. A testimony to his failure to protect her. 

Now though, after serving those seven nights of duty, that he’d failed to give her, was his curse truly over? The last three days had been spent just quietly standing, as the Hag and her badly injured Nightmare steed hadn’t reappeared.

As if in answer to his silent thoughts, a beam of bluish light, despite the natural brightness around him, somehow seems to illuminate him from above and he feels a pull upward.

“My friend! It appears you were right and, in protecting you, my curse has been lifted. I didn’t dare believe it but, after a century of suffering, I’ve served my penance and can finally return to the afterlife I deserved.”

Liga Bur, who’d suspected as much, quickly summons his teammates to say goodbye to their insubstantial ally. Pardrik takes the opportunity to thank them all in turn but deliberately finishes on Arowe.

“It is you, that I’ve spent the most time with over this last week. The magical hand you possess, your sharp Elven senses and your uncanny trancing ability have made you the ideal partner. While I stood guard on the ethereal plane, you guarded the material one. Now though, from now on, I’m afraid you must guard alone.”

The ghostly soldier instructs Arowe to lay the ornate, magical rapier he’d gotten from Magritte on the warm sand before placing his own immaterial longsword overtop it. The two swords exist in the same space for a moment before the spirit sword fades from existence, leaving only Arowe’s rapier behind. It looks different though in some way. It’s magical glow has turned from an orangey gold to a blueish silver and the blade, despite the warm sand, is unnaturally cool to the touch.

As Arowe turns, he sees that Pardrik too is fading, but rather than a feeling of sadness, now that his anger is no longer magnified by the Oath-bow, he shares the smiling teenager’s joy.

Arowe’s bejewelled +2 Rapier (that he was given by Magritte in exchange for his sinisterly intelligent one) has now been further enhanced by the parting gift of the ghost; Pardrik and now has a +3 bonus on attack and damage as well as having the ‘Ghost touch’ feature! 

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!