The worst laid plans of Hags and Witches

Leaving the glaring adventurers standing far below, as she spirals upwards through the night rain, Megarna scowls in irritation. Mallophor and Danté had been right, there had been no sign of the Elven Archer; Arowe. Worse, whoever this Dwarven War-priest replacement was, if left unchecked, he was surely going to become an ongoing problem. 

None of Viccissa’s prediction's had ever mentioned a Dwarf or Cleric being involved, and her new augur recruit; Kasandra, could only recently, give even the vaguest of information. It was as if he’d been maliciously thrown into the established flow of fate, like a large rock tossed into the stream of destiny, disrupting its proper path and, potentially, altering its final destination.

What did this mean to her Mistress’s; Hetzabah’s carefully conceived plans? What did it mean to her Mistress’s Master; Zartak’s endgame?!

On a more personal note, Megarna coldly considers how a Clerics involvement might negatively affect the quarter-century old trap she’d laid for the traitoress’s son; Fortu… 

Although, she hadn’t even known his name back then.

Suddenly reversing her frown, the old Witch cackles loudly.

“It matters not, I did as my Mistress; Hetzabah commanded and gave the Gladiator one more, final, final, final chance. The next time we meet will certainly mean his death and the deaths of all of his associates. Viccissa’s cage can remain just a… Dead end.”

(S)Elf Abuse

The Older Grey-Elf; Tamerlane, finally finishes his lengthy explanation, to his recently returned son, before falling silent.

“So you understand now, when I came to see your Mother's people that century-and-a-half ago, we were trying to recruit the High-Elves into attacking Theranthor. The Demon Prince, or so we thought, was semi-permanently dealt with and we’d spent the last hundred years secretly undermining the great Blue Dragon’s support and power. The Grey are more thinkers than fighters though, and we couldn’t do it alone.”

Sitting across from his Grey Elf Father, Arowe pushes his glass of wine away from him. It’s a fine, dry white, but it currently tastes like vinegar in his mouth.

“You tried to recruit the High-Elves to attack the Dragon for you, after actively defending her from them? No wonder you were thrown out of Glendorne’. It wasn’t just the man I thought was my Father who despised your people. Pretty much everyone I knew growing up in Glendorne spoke angrily about the treacherous Grey. ‘Worse than the Drow’ they’d say! Everyone except my Mother, and now, after meeting you, I fully understand why.”

Tamerlane has the grace to place his glass down, unfinished.

“There’s a greater reason why your people… Your Mother’s people hate us. We didn’t just align ourselves with Theranthor, we actively protected her. We fortified her body with our spells. We bolstered her lightning breath with our enchantments. We defended her from all attacks… Even when those attacks were from the other Elven races. She HAD to live long enough to destroy Zartak’s material plane form and drive his essence back to the Nine hells!”

Arowe finds himself scowling. He hadn’t realised until he’d arrived at the mountaintop city of Falutin, how much prejudice against the Grey Elves had permeated his Sylvan heart.

“There HAD to have been a better way?!”

Tamerlane just shakes his head.

“You’ve seen the Tapestry. We had no choice. If the High Elves hadn’t tried to attack her directly while Zartak was still active on this plane, we wouldn’t have been forced to counter-attack them in Theranthor’s defence.”

Arowe bristles.

“It was years before I was born, but I heard the stories. Your people killed hundreds of my people! Uncles, Aunts and Cousins!”

It’s Tamerlane’s turn to get angry.

“Your people?! You’re not ‘Your people’. You’re half ‘My people’. They attacked us! Killed us! I am sorry for all the deaths… On both sides. Unlike the Orcs and the Humans, there are too few of us to spare in unnecessary battles.”

Arowe nods as he calms himself down.

“My Mother used to say that it was a consequence of our long lifespans; Elven children are few and far between.”

Tamerlane mirrors Arowe’s nod.

“Exactly right. Your Mother was always clever… for a High-Elf. That was why, as a race, we had to be practical in our decisions.”

Despite the unconscious but obvious insult aimed at his Mother and the High-elves in general, Arowe smiles ironically at his Father’s assertion.

“Your ‘practical’ decision has come back to haunt you now though, hasn’t it?”

Tamerlane’s grey eyes cast downward, just for a moment.

“Unfortunately, despite our plan succeeding and the Great Dragon; Theranthor defeating the Demon Prince in their final battle. It has made us enemy number two on Zartak’s hit list. Only the relentless Orcan hordes angered him more. It’s almost certainly why he’s using them as meat puppets now to herald his return.”

Grayeux Tapestry

Standing in the large, magically illuminated circular room, side by side with his newly discovered Grey-Elf Father, Arowe examines the section of the vast tapestry indicated. The whole tableau is about eight feet tall but is sewn into a hoop-like circle, covering everything except the single entrance. From start to finish, the mostly monochrome tableau must stretch out over several hundred yards.

“What is this place?”

Tamerlane places a reassuring hand on his son’s well-muscled, bow-strengthened shoulder.

“This chamber is called ‘The Circle of Time’. The tapestry was woven by a group of our women over a millennia ago. Women obsessed with their task… Possessed by it, some say. It shows the history… And future of my…of our people.”

Arowe draws his keen eyes back to the tapestry.

“So what exactly is it that I’m looking at?”

Tamerlane tilts his elegant, silver haired head to one side.

“Do you not recognise your pink shirted self?”

Looking again, Arowe’s eyebrows shoot up at the rare splash of colour.

“Yes, that’s me and my friends, but I’ve never fought those weird six-legged panther creatures before…”

And looking further along.

“And I’ve never crossed a river on a burning barge either!”

His, recently reunited with, Father nods. 

“These battles were fated to happen and yet, somehow they didn’t… At least not to you. You were never meant to come here. We were never meant to have met and yet, for some unknown reason, the future’s been disrupted.”

Slightly confused, Arowe pulls a quizzical expression.

“Is that what the first Grey Elf meant when he said ‘I shouldn’t be here’?”

The older, Grey Elf nods. 

“You being here disrupts the grand scheme of what’s meant to happen and what’s not. Although I am glad of this chance to see you, I fear your presence, in a place you were never destined to see, will have long term ramifications on both the Grey Elves and the future of Fissa.”

Running to the end of the tapestry, Arowe comes to the final scene; A huge demon leading a vast army of red-eyed Orcs.

“Do we win?”

Tamerlane unhurriedly catches up.

“As you can see, the tapestry’s predictions are coming to an end, and for the first time in a millennium, we literally have no idea what’s going to happen.”

Not Small - Father Away

Sitting in his oddly perfect but dull chamber, Arowe is startled by a sharp knock from outside. Despite the general condescension he’s received from the Grey Elves, they’ve treated him… cordially… mostly, and he’s felt safe at least. Rather than being a prisoner, the lock on his private chamber door is, reassuringly, on the inside.

Standing up, Arowe walks slowly to the barred entrance and slides back the bolt, before drawing open the door. Outside, he finds himself eye to eye with a thin but handsome Grey Elf, perhaps an inch taller and a century or so older than himself.

“It’s gratifying to see you inherited both my height and your Mother’s beauty.”

Arowe takes a step back further into his room. He’d come all this way, primarily to enlist the Grey Elves into the coming war, but also to discover his true ancestry. He hadn’t expected to meet the man so quickly though and felt somewhat unprepared.

“You’re my real Father?”

Looking the Grey-Elven man up and down, Arowe takes in the slender but athletic frame and well defined jawline. It’s like gazing into an unfunhouse mirror, where the colour and joy had been almost completely drained out of the reflection.

After a long pause, in which both men assess each-other, the Grey Elf claiming to be his Father, speaks.

“Look at us. Look at you. Can there be any doubt? Despite your name and title, your bloodline is as much Grey than High.”

Arowe instinctively moves forward to hug the tall Elf in front of him but stops short, as the other Elf’s response isn’t inviting. Instead, he gestures for his… Father to come in and sit down.

“Why was I not told of this before? Why didn’t you claim me? Why did I have to endure the contempt of my… High Elf… Father…”

Arowe falters.

“I’m sorry. This is quite unsettling. I don’t seem to have the vocabulary needed.”

The slightly older Grey Elf reaches out his fine boned hand and places it reassuringly onto his son’s.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. Allow me to fill in a few of the blanks. My name is Tamerlane, and the last time I saw your Mother; Lissomny, was the day you were born.”

Another uncomfortable silence settles over the two men, until Arowe eventually breaks it.

“Why?”

Tamerlane sighs.

“I was an ambassador for my people, looking to recruit the High Elves to our cause, but when I was introduced to your Mother, I was instantly smitten. As you know though, romantic relationships between our species is forbidden. That said, Lissomny and I would have braved the prejudice if the High Elf council hadn’t decided to break ties with the Grey. Not just break off diplomatic relations but to outright condemn us. I was driven out of Glendorne and your Mother, as a High-born Elf of the city, had no choice but to remain.”

Arowe takes in the story with a puzzled look.

“But you said you saw me when I was born?”

Tamerlane continues.

“I secretly stayed in communication with your Mother but she’d already settled on a practical plan moving forward. Despite my objections, she married a grasping minor High Elf noble, to give you a chance of a good life. I think she hoped that your Grey heritage wouldn’t present itself quite so obviously though.”

The handsome Grey Elf falls silent again for a moment.

“I slipped into the city unseen and made it to your Mother’s bedchamber. You were asleep in the cradle next to her. She let me hold you but insisted that her plan was the correct one and she was already married. Was this… Filligren not even a little good to you?”

Arowe twists his mouth, trying to find something kind to say about the cruel and petty man who he’d thought had been his Father. Tamerlane spares him the grief though.

“Lissomny assured me that it was all for the best, but I see now that I should have fought harder for you. Fought harder to be in your life. I’m so sorry… my son.”

(S)Elf Respect

Standing in the austere stone hall, waiting to be received by the Elder Lord’s of Falutin, Arowe fusses with the now frayed cuffs and collar of his (long passed its best) pink shirt. Despite his extremely long lifespan, he’s never been the most patient of Elves.

He’d only arrived at the Grey Elven fortress a day ago but he’s already been surprised by what he’s seen and experienced.

After spending his youth physically looking down on all his Elven peers and then, as he grew older and taller, his elders, Arowe is amazed to find himself of a ‘normal’ height in this Elven stronghold. Even the women are only a few inches shorter by average. Their style and manner however are decidedly different from his own upbringing. His flamboyant pink shirt, despite being dulled by months of hard travelling, is still garish compared to the, well-tailored but deadly dull, design of their clothes. In fairness though, the Grey Elves’ pale skin, silver hair and flat personalities match their dress sense seamlessly.

He’d also worked out that the sniggering cry of ‘Hey-boy’ wasn’t a call to attention, but actually an insult term aimed at his mixed Elven heritage; Half High and half Grey. For whatever reason, Elven species interbreeding with other Elven species was viewed with more than a certain level of measured scorn. What was the phrase he’d heard repeatedly in older childhood, when members of the other Elven races visited Glendorne?

‘Keep your hands to yourselves, when you’re with the other types of Elves.’

Eventually, the overly large, double doors swing open and a silent underling ushers him into the hall of the Grey Elders.

Walking in, Arowe senses their judging eyes boring down upon him and he feels, every inch, the half-breed his ‘adoptive’ Father despised so much.

Arowe finds himself standing alone, centre stage in some sort of brightly lit court, with a circle of five austere Grey Elves seated high above, literally and metaphorically looking down on him.

After the servant backs out and closes the large doors behind him, a steady voice rings down from one of them.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Squinting up through the spotlights, Arowe attempts to identify the speaker of that odd opening statement and braves an answer.

“I was sent by Estrid of the Fey. She told me that my Father… My real Father might be here. She also said that your help will be vital in the coming demonic invasion.”

Another voice barks out from above. A woman this time.

“You are young, but perhaps old enough to remember the Great Dragon’s reign. As a member of the High Elves, you’ll probably have a strong opinion on the choice the Grey made in supporting Theranthor.”

Arowe nods. His Father… Adoptive Father; Filigren had hated the Grey Elves, ‘Blood traitors’  he’d called them. They’d actually petitioned the High Elves to join the ancient Dragon; Theranthor in battle against the Demon; Zartak. While all the other Elven races were fighting both enemies on two fronts, the Grey went out of their way to protect the Blue tyrant and in turn, they were protected by her.

Yet another voice joins the conversation.

“Yes, we aided the great and evil Blue Dragon. I think it wouldn’t be too arrogant to say that we actively and effectively turned the tide of the war in her favour.

Arowe has heard the argument before. The Grey had apparently sent emissaries to all the Elven races, asking them to side with the Great Blue Dragon, but all of them, from the Wood to the High, even to the shadowy Drow, refused. A choice between two monstrous tyrants, wasn’t a choice they could stomach. True Elves could never be willing slaves!

A forth voice calls out.

“It wasn’t just the other races of Elves we approached. We petitioned the Dwarves and Gnomes too. All the long lived races. You see, as long lived as we are, we could afford to be patient, to outlive and outlast our opponents, and as phenomenally long lived as a Dragon is, they are still, ultimately, mortal. We could just wait, the already ancient; Theranthor out. Zartak on the other claw was… is an everlasting, immortal Demon…”

Calling up from his small stage, Arowe sneers.

“So you just chose the lesser of two evils?”

Finally the fifth voice rings out, but this one sounds slightly different. Male but with a hint of emotion… Pride?

“Exactly. We chose the pragmatic path, we chose to stand with the evil that could… that would die. A tyrant that we, as a people, as the long lived Grey, could survive!”

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!”

The Disadvantage of Superior Action Economy

Arowe, Fortu and Liga Bur. Having the Party made up of three Fighter class Player Characters posed a few problems for me as your Dungeon Master.

Easily solved problems though.

An Elven Archer, a Human Gladiator and a Halfling Tracker (plus his hound) actually made creating combat encounters pretty easy. All I needed was a way to divvi out healing when needed. Potions, plentiful and freely available would have done it but it also gave me the option of shoehorning in a suitable Non Player Character.

Rifkin; A Bard who could both bolster the Party and heal you during and after battles. He also allowed me to offer advice within the game when needed. He worked well for me because his Bardic ‘inspiration’ and personal cowardice made him super-easy to handle during combat encounters. 

This meant three/five characters vs whatever monster/monsters you were facing sped by quite quickly in round by round combat.

Then, thanks to David/Fortu’s moment of mercy, you also acquired three more melee based henchmen. Henchmen that I hadn’t planned on giving you.

Henshaw; a defensive based but intelligent Fighter, Doberman; a mindless chop-monster and Barbella; the slightly more complicated sort-of-thief-back-stabber.

So now, with seven/eight ‘heroes’ vs whatever monster/monsters I threw at you. Combat became twice as slow…

Half as fast?

Then Scott ‘evolved’ Liga Bur from Ranger to full Druid and added extra healing (if he ever selected it) and several more options in combat, not least of which, was the ability to summon multiple more combatants during the battles. 

He also rescued the flaming executioner/prisoner; Dijonn and had him bound to a magical staff. Another, potentially independently acting, morally dubious, member of the team!

Seven/nine (plus) ‘heroes’ vs whatever monster/monsters I throw at you.

Then Assif ‘retired’ his quick-on-the-draw, archer; Arowe and brought in a Dwarven Cleric and his fantastically well trained Mule; Murmul.

Seven/Ten (plus) ‘heroes’ vs whatever monster/monsters I throw at you.

More combat options to be sure and yet another healing opportunity but in Banaal’s second combat encounter, he summoned an Air-elemental. A pattern he’d oft repeat!

Now combats are running at around three-times slower…

A third as fast?

I did ‘cancel’ your evil trio of Henchies recently but I almost immediately replaced them with the (much more dependable and untreacherous) good triplets.

Given the current numbers, it can still work but it’s gotten progressively harder for me to plan and run the adventure, the more wheels are simultaneously turning. More player options mean more planning for me and more combatants, perversely means much, much, much longer combats.

In addition, the larger and more powerful the Party, the tougher and more numerous the enemy needs to be to compensate. The obvious additional consequence but pertinent to the speed of combat.

I’m guessing that ( unless they’re easy-peasy walk-overs) this slows the ‘average’ battle down to about one combat per session.

The last Mar-Gin river crossing combat encounter involved sixteen 4th level Rogues, a 5th level Witch and a 9th level Assassin verses 8th level; Fortu, Liga Bur and Banaal, 6th level Rifkin, three 4th level Fighter triplets; Locket, Chape and Ringo, a 5th level Captain Lynchin, four of his 2nd level guards plus the dogs; Mir Hundur and Deo, five riding gee-gees, the massive Night Fever, Dijonn and two divine summoned creatures; the Celestial Hippogryph and the giant Squid!

Plus poor innocent bystander (boat-stander?); Jane!

Forty-two (weird cosmic coincidence?) pieces simultaneously on the board!

To be honest, confusing as it is, I kinda-sorta love it, but it does potentially create two (four-hour) session combats. 

Ultimately, this is the bloated (despite only having three player-characters) situation we’ve created for ourselves and if you can live with it, so can I.

:)

The Traitorous Grey

With a final embrace, the quiet and slender Dryad; Sitka, whispers a soft goodbye to the tall Elf, her greenish lips, mere inches from his pink and pointed ear.

“Farewell handsome Arowe. It’s been my honour to be your guide but, sadly, I’ve taken you as far through the green path as I’m able. You must travel the remainder of your journey on foot and alone.”

Arowe allows the sweet and beautiful Fey creature to hold him and enjoy his warmth for a few more moments before disentangling himself from her cool, willowy limbs.

Taking a step away from her, he watches as Sitka Merges back into the thick oak-tree and disappears, fully aware that he’ll probably never see her again.

Turning around, Arowe looks to the South. The forest has thinned out enough, that he can see, high in the distance, the fabled mountains of Falutin. Home to the haughty and universally loathed; Grey Elves. And potentially the location of his real Father…

His mind, unbidden, dredges up memories of his childhood. His loving Mother; Lissomny and his… supposed Father. Now that the truth has been revealed to him, Filigren’s cruel behaviour makes a great deal more sense. The absence of warmth or kindness. The lack of concern in regard to his future or happiness. He wasn’t his Father though and, despite never admitting it aloud, somehow he always suspected the truth.

The realisation doesn’t make Arowe angry though. He’s had several days now to process and rationalise it and, rather than upsetting, it’s liberating. The man he’d always thought was his Father was mean spirited and petty. A cruel and narcissistic man that he’d always been slightly ashamed of.
 
Arowe did remember some of his opines regarding the Grey Elves though. He’d always hated them and he hadn’t been an outlier in that sentiment. His view was shared, pretty much universally and especially by all the High Elves of Glendorne.

Well over a century ago, when the ancient, female Blue Dragon; Theranthor was losing the battle against the Demon Prince; Zartak, the Elder Council of the Grey Elves petitioned and willingly joined forces with the evil Dragon to aid her in the war against the legions of the Demon.

While all the other races of Fissa were fighting, fleeing or simply being crushed under the heels of the Dragon or the Demon, the Grey Elves chose a side and turned the tide of the campaign in Theranthor’s favour.

After the bloodiest of battles, the thirty-year war was finally over and, against all odds, Zartak was banished back to his prison in Hell? The Dragon Empress then ruled over almost the entirety of Fissa for over a century. A dark century, where all the races, except the favoured Grey Elves, suffered under Theranthor’s cruel reign.

Inhaling the cool forest air around him, Arowe wraps his magical cloak tightly around himself and strides forward, towards the harsh, bleak mountains and potentially, his real, but still unknown, Father.

Trip-Let in be

It’s been a few days since the three brothers had managed to be alone together, but now, while guarding the wagon and the snoring Cookie, they take the chance to discuss the adventurers.

Despite being apparently identical, each of the triplets can easily identify their brothers and it’s Locket who speaks first.

“They’re not exactly what I was expecting.”

Chape nods in agreement.

“Yeah, I was expecting four shining Knights on gleaming white stallions.”

Ringo though, expands on that thought.

“The Bard and the Dwarf appear sane but the strange Halfling seems to have his own ‘world-view’ agenda and the dark-armoured Gladiator gives the impression of, almost, being on the wrong side! And what happened to the tall Elven Archer who was supposed to be with them?”

Chape nods again.

“I’m actually a little bit frightened of Fortu.”

Ringo agrees.

“I’m more than ‘a little bit frightened’ of him. Have you noticed how he tosses and turns hin his sleep? That man might genuinely be unhinged!  

It’s Locket who hushes his brothers down.

“They may not be what we were expecting, but Captain DeLeón gave us a direct order; Escort the adventurers all the way back to Cottis and get them to Lord Urdurel in one piece.”

This time it’s Ringo who nods his identical, mop-topped, head.

“And by the gods, despite finding ourselves in these times of trouble, we will not fail in our sworn duty.”

Moving Pieces

A disembodied voice, feminine and small, yet strong and resolute, speaks into the featureless ether.

“Our strategy isn’t working. The Demon Prince’s  plan bounds way ahead.”

A refined, musical and oddly asexual Elven voice responds.

“You are mistaken. One of my champions is on his way to recruit the legions of the Grey as we speak, while the other maintains a watch over your two.”

Two voices call out, almost simultaneously, from the mist. One deep, gruff and animalistic, the other higher pitched  but just as commanding.

“And ours is returning to the Human realms to help instigate the unification of their armies.”

The first voice replies once more.

“It’s not enough. Pampered Elves, unrefined Humans and my poor, tortured Halfling champion won’t be enough. It’s time we involved the Dwarves.”

…

It’s the androgynous Elven voice that responds first, but only after a lengthy silence. 

“If we must. I suppose a champion of Moradin is an acceptable alternative to recruiting an uncouth agent of Old One Eye.”

Somewhere though, in the background, a guttural and echoey laugh can be faintly heard.

Opposing Magic Numbers

In the draped gloom of her heavy, circular, travelling tent, Megarna stares into her crystal ball sat in the centre of the small, round table.

“I’ve been tracking them since they returned to Fissa, as you asked me to, Mistress.”

In the centre of the glassy orb a face can be dimly seen. An ancient, grotesque and evil face.

“And their number remains seven?”

Megarna, her eyes slightly averted from the intensity of the expression on Hetzabah’s true face..

“Yes, despite the Elven Archer leaving them, his place has been almost immediately taken up by a Dwarven Cleric of Moriden.”

Hetzabah spits.

“Four Humans, a Halfling, a Demi-Elf and their new Dwarven recruit. Seven is a bad number for us. A terrible omen. A fated powerful number for the Gods of Law and Good.”

Megarna tries to meet her Mistress’s eyes.

“But our Coven has reached eleven. Only two more recruits needed to reach the equally powerful number thirteen. A magnifier for the powers of evil.”

In the core of the crystal ball, Hetzabah cackles.

“True enough my loyal servant. This game still goes our way. These ‘heroes’ barely comprehend the stakes of their involvement.”

Marriage Vows

Eleven months pregnant but still tall (by High-Elven standards) and elegant, Lissomny calls to her chambermaids to have her second-cousin Filigren granted entry to her private chambers.

“Have you read the documents I had couriered to you? Do you agree to these terms?”

The shorter elf sneers in response.

“A marriage of convenience. I gain a sizable share of your wealth and my family name is elevated back into the upper echelons of Glendorian society. What’s not to understand?”

Lissomny Sighs. 

“And in exchange, you marry me and promise to claim this child as your own and never reveal their true origin?”

Filigren scowls. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll pretend your half-cast brat is mine but when his true heritage is eventually revealed and this charade is finally over, I’ll still expect you to continue financing my, soon to be lavish, lifestyle.”

Lissomny sighs again. 

“Unlike you, I’m an Elf of my word but, if my son ever does discover the truth and I find out that it was you who told him or were behind it in any way, there will be nowhere for you to hide and I will have you killed.”

For the first time since entering Lissomny’s chamber, Filigren’s sour expression pales.

“I swear, if and when the time finally comes, it’ll not’ve been me who told your mongrel son the awful truth.”

Innocence Lost

Lamenta’s beloved and kind-hearted mother, Lady Dulcetta had died at just thirty-three years of age. As cruel fate would have it, precisely the same age as Lord Urdurel had been when they’d first met and fallen in love. Since her death though, everything had changed dramatically for the worse.

Life in a cage, no matter how gilded, is mere existence. Since her Mother’s premature death, her Father, Lord Urdurel had cut her off from everything and everyone she’d known, except for her Mother’s now, long-in-the-fang, deer-hound; Belvedere. Her Father treated her as if she were suddenly too delicate to face the world, as if she were made of the fragilest crystal. A situation that had only grown more wretched since her Father suddenly remarried a woman with obvious evil intent, even though he seemed completely incapable of seeing it. He was infatuated with his dark-locked and voluptuous new bride, to the point that he hadn’t even seemed that interested in her newborn half-brother; Briefadel.

Lord Urdurel, under the thrall of Hetzabah, had returned to his warring ways, blind to the objections of his advisors or the suffering of his own people.

Lady Lamenta’s life had been reduced down to that of little more than a prisoner, kept hidden away in her dead Mother’s tower under lock and key. She was sixteen now but there was nothing sweet about her situation.

The Commander of the guard; Captain Aglet had recently halved her protection detail, on the instructions of her step-mother but then immediately reinstated it, on the orders of her suspicious Father, with twice the number of men as before. He’d even stationed an armed guard immediately outside her bedroom chamber door. 

This was the second week and there was a change in soldiers. Her new door guard; Padrik, was fair-haired, fresh-faced and handsome, perhaps only a year or two older than herself. Even though she knew he was instructed to keep his eyes to himself, she couldn’t help teasing him with glimpses of a bare ankle or an, accidentally revealed, shoulder.

That night though, something was wrong. She’d changed into her nightgown and stepped over the multiple, concentric, magical protection circles etched around her Mother’s old bed and wriggled under the silk sheets. With her big, old dog lying at her feet, her dreams were no longer haunted by evil witches or giant, shadowy horses, but Lamenta still felt a cold wave of anxiety in her stomach as Belvedere abruptly twitched awake and started to growl. 

Slipping quietly out of bed and heading to the iron caged balcony, she thought of the young man standing guard just outside her door. She knew he wasn’t allowed to leave his post but she needed someone close. Then, in the darkness of the walled garden below, she saw a flash of a steel blade and could hear someone beginning to scale the wall. The balcony was protected and her windows were barred but certain magics could easily overcome mundane iron, no matter how thick.

Paralysed with fear, she tightly clutches her loyal hound in fear and calls out.

“Guard! Guard!”

Almost immediately, Lamenta sees the shadow of her young protector fall across the frosted glass panels of her bedchamber door and she hears him whisper…

“My Lady?”

Then, before she can reply, another shadow looms up behind him on the other side of her bedroom door, followed immediately by the splatter of Padrik’s dark arterial blood across the glass. 

This is when the sixteen-year-old Lady Lamenta screams, 

Despite his advanced age, the boney but still pony-sized Belvedere stands bravely, fangs bared and hackles raised, between his young Mistress and the door, but when the two black-clad Assassins pass like smoke through the, still locked, barrier, there’s nothing the dog can do beyond dying by their wickedly curved blades.

Lasting barely a few moments longer than her slaughtered dog, despite her pleading, Lamenta‘s pitiful screams are quickly silenced by the merciless killers.

The kind-hearted and innocent young woman’s last words are…

“Father!”

Becoming what you Hate

Holding a bloody crown in his hands and looking down from his lofty balcony, Urdurel takes in the cheers and applause from the chanting crowd below. 

“The King is dead. Long live the King!”

At just eighteen-years-old, Urdurel had already succeeded in the first two of his promises; he’d killed the drunken Captain Glabella while he’d been naked and distracted in a brothel and, after raising a small army, he’d beheaded King Vagitus the IV during a well organised coup. All of the royals in the castle; men, women and children, were given the axe with the surviving soldiers and servants offered a simple choice; Serve under Urdurel or share their Master’s fate.

He wasn’t finished though, not even remotely. If he was going to retain this Kingdom, he’d need to destroy all who would oppose him and that meant any remaining enemies within his realm and the royal families of all six of the Kingdoms along their border. Stowan’s largest boundary though, stretched along the Fey wilds, a land that he could safely ignore whilst warring against all the other Human realms.

Below him the large crowd continued to chant his name.

“Long live King Urdurel! Long live King Urdurel! Long live King Urdurel!”

His expression momentarily souring, Urdurel considers his new title. Would it be so wrong to be called ‘King’? Surely it was different if their King was one of them, one of the common people and not some high-born, inbred and entitled popinjay?!

Urged on by the crowd, Urdurel takes Vagitus’ blood splattered crown, raises it over his head and then pulls it down, firmly into place.

King Urdurel? 

He could learn to live with that.

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.

Who, Where, Why, What, How and When?

Who is the physically and emotionally scarred Fortu and what series of tragically unfortunate events led him to a brutal childhood in the gladiatorial fighting pits and whose fevered and nightmarish dreams seem often to be more like confusing and indecipherable prophecies?

Where did Mahd Boss find the baby Liga Bur and why did Hetzabah’s eyes briefly flashing ‘blood red’ make the Halfling tracker involuntarily shudder and remind him so much of the unrelenting and supernatural army that drove his Darkstar tribe into the unsurvivable ‘cursed lands’?

Why does Arowe’s High-Elven Father; Filigren despise him so and why does his beautiful and noble Mother; Lissomny put up with a Husband so obviously beneath her, especially considering that all the prestige, power and wealth come from her side of the family?

What drives the obviously cowardly Rifkin to risk his life adventuring instead of using his natural beauty and musical talent to simply earn a decent living in any one of the Human cities and towns he’d travelled through before his chance meeting with Arowe, Liga Bur and Fortu?

How are any of you going to discover the answers to all these, as of so far, unsolved and unasked questions?

And finally…

When will the Party come to fully trust the mercenary, ill intentioned, take what they want, killers for hire; Henshaw, Barbella and Doberman?

Practice masks Defect

After listening to, and learning from, his friends, Fortu realises that he’s not the only member of their group to have learned a few new tricks during their last few months under the harsh and multiple Calcientan suns. Arowe’s phenomenal speed and accuracy with his magical longbow has somehow, amazingly, incomprehensibly, improved still further and little Liga Bur, even before his Druidic rebirth, had focused on improving his rudimentary, though supernatural, animal summoning abilities. 

Rifkin, Henshaw, Barbella and even Doberman have also noticeably improved their skills, through a combination of experience and surprisingly dedicated practice, during their dead-time travelling with him and his friends. Having watched, gold toothed, Barbella, sneakily sliding around the battlefields, always ‘going for the soft bits’ or  looking to ‘Stab ‘em where it ‘urts’, the ex-gladiator realises that they share a certain understanding of human anatomy and vulnerability.

While he watched them train though, Fortu also noticed that the nimble Barbella mostly just practiced rolling about and dodging with Rifkin. The only obvious difference between the two of them is that Barbella did it with a dagger clenched betwixt his teeth and Rifkin whilst cradling his precious mandolin, as if it were a baby.

Henshaw and Doberman’s mock battles though, have become longer lasting and much more entertaining of late, with Henshaw doubling down on his awkward looking ‘crab-like’ defensive stance. Despite its ridiculous appearance, it’s remarkably effective but at the expense of a shockingly poor, though slowly improving, offence. Doberman, at the other extreme, just batters at Henshaw’s shield with little skill or regard to his own safety but with an ever increasing, bulging-eyed ferocity. In Doberman’s chubby, stubby fingers, Fortu’s gifted, enchanted Bastard sword will always be just a two-handed axe.

…

Actually, Moon-faced Doberman appears to have learnt very little from the last few months. He has however, seemed to have grown even more resilient to food poisoning since his last few bouts of projectile diarrhoea.

Please make the following changes to your henchmen…

Henshaw: 

Gained a level in Fighter:

(4th level Fighter)

4th level attribute bonus: +1 Strength.

+8HPs, +1 to hit, +1 Fortitude.

New Feat: Weapon Specialisation 

(Long sword +2 damage).

Skills: +1 in Climb, Jump, Swim / +2 Ride.

Barbella : 

Gained a level in Rogue: 

(2nd level Fighter/2nd level Rogue)

4th level attribute bonus: +1 Dexterity.

+5HPs, +1 to hit, +1Reflex.

New Class Ability: Evasion.

Skills: +1 in Climb, Jump, Swim, Balance, Hide, Move Silently, Tumble, Escape artist, Sleight of Hand, Use Rope.

Doberman: 

Gained a level in Barbarian:

(4th level Barbarian)

4th level attribute bonus: +1 Constitution.

+12HPs, +1 to hit, +1 Fortitude. 

New Class Ability: Rage x 2 per day

Skills: +1 in Climb, Jump, Swim.

The (Current) Heroes

Fortu: 

Raised in the brutal gladiatorial arena, without love or kindness and with no real memories of his life before his childhood enslavement, Fortu eventually won his freedom through his martial prowess but soon found life outside the arena, sans friends or sponsors, as potentially dangerous as life was within. 

Travelling oversea to Stowan to escape the land of his erstwhile masters and, perhaps reclaim some sense of who he was… Who he might have been before he was captured or sold, Fortu headed for the border town of Scar Borough. A place, he’d been told, where fortunes could be found and a strong man could be his own master. 

Arowe:

Still young by Elven standards, but old enough to have lived through the final years of the Dragon Queen; Theranthor’s reign and raised on the terrifying tales of the Demon Prince; Zartak, the foppish and impatient; Arowe suffered from a sense of not quite fitting into High-Elven society and yearned instead for a life of adventure. 

Never feeling completely at home in Glendorne, tall Arowe left his childhood friends, his graceful and noble Mother and his mean-spirited, flint-hearted, short-of-stature Father behind him and set out for the ever expanding Human lands to seek, not gold, but fame and glory.

Liga Bur:

His adoptive Orc Father; Mahd Boss never spoke to him about his real Halfling parents and after his fifth ‘disciplining’, he learned not to ask again. He was just a baby when he was taken in by the Darkstar tribe and they were kind to him in their own brutal way but he was still curious about his real parents. What happened to them? What happened to the shire they were from? Still he learned to fight, despite his size, and worked hard to earn a place there and became the best tracker of the tribe.

When the unrelenting ‘Red-eyes’ came, seemingly out of nowhere and drove his tribe further into the inhospitable badlands, Mahd Boss ordered Liga Bur to take his loyal hound; Mir Hundur and travel out of the Orcish broken lands and find a new life for himself. To survive, even if they could not.

The Circle of the Scale

A brief three chapter recap…

Module 1: The Rat King

The recently freed Human Gladiator; Fortu, the thrill seeking Elven Archer; Arowe and the Orc raised Halfling Tracker; Liga Bur met up, travelling on foot through the region of, magic-use-restricted, Stowan, toward Scar Borough. Though cautious at first, they found themselves bonding after rescuing a naked, demi-elven Bard; Rifkin from a band of bandits, lead by the Afro-haired; Spider Murphy. Only he escaped the slaughter by taking to the trees, after swearing his revenge on Rifkin.

In town, the newly formed, four-man, Party encountered the usual corrupt town guards and spent some time at the town fete, where they met a worryingly convincing fortune teller; Madame Morgana, a troop of acrobat Halflings and several travelling merchants, including potion seller; Al-Khemi.

Then, hired as a group by the leader of the small town; Sir Briefadel, to discover what happened to Rat-catcher; Hamlyn and why an outlying tannery hadn’t made two scheduled deliveries. The Party found everyone dead, including the hung-by-the-neck; Hamlyn and were soon set upon by a crazed old Druid leading a mass of rats of various sizes. The battle was fierce but, despite being bitten and infected, the four adventurers managed to kill Koenig and survive. On their return to town, they passed on a map they’d found and the magical set of ‘rat summoning’ panpipes to Sir Briefadel.

Module 2: The Wolf Pact

Impressed by the Party’s tenacity, Sir Briefadel recruited them to accompany himself and his personal Wizard; Egrow-the-Magnificent, to find the magical pool deep within the Feylands shown on the map. 

During their horseback (aside from the Mir Hundur riding Liga Bur) journey, they encountered wild boars, bears and a little fox before finally arriving at a hidden glade. Once there, they battled strange hybrid creatures, such as the owl-horse; Howl, the orc-scorpion; Scorcion and the half-halfling, half-human; Three-Quarterling. Sir Briefadel took great delight in crushing the pacifistic, in-a-fish-form Three-Quarterling and killing him. Slightly disturbed by his behaviour, the Party searched the Three-Quarterling’s comfortable and fortified den. Enraged by finding ‘the wrong pool’ Sir Briefadel commissioned the Party to search on without him, as he rode back with Egrow to Scar Borough.

Travelling on with a rescued, old hawk-dog; Dawk, the Party encountered a tribe of Centaurs lead by the handsome; Prince Tsigan and after sparing their lives, were invited back to speak to his Father and chief; Rozinante. Though suspicious, the Party were welcomed and actively helped by the inner group of malformed Centaurists.

Next came a malevolent talking tree and then a wolf-pack, led by the Werewolf; Kane. Those battles were hard and the Party were lucky to escape unscathed. Then came the Dryad archer ambush and the discovery of the second magical pool and its Fey goddess guardian; Estrid.

But before trust could be earned from either side, the glade was overrun with Human soldiers! Sir Briefadel had planted a small scrying device, hidden in one of the horses saddlebags and used his Witch ally; Morgana to help him create a portal, linking Estrid’s glade to the Courtyard in Scar Borough. The battle was fierce and brutal with the tiny Fey Pixies, Nixies and Dryads trading their lives for their Queen. Realising the treachery, Fortu found himself fighting back-to-back with the charming Satyr, Magritte and Liga Bur and Arowe picking off the Human soldiers from protected positions atop the rocky formations. Despite their ‘cold-iron’ weapons though, the Human soldiers were quickly overwhelmed and it became apparent that they were just being used as a distraction so Sir Briefadel could reach the pool unconfronted. He and his, suspiciously clever Hawk, successfully made it through the hidden dimensional gateway, deep below the pool but the ‘Wizard’ Egrow was caught and stopped by Liga Bur.

Realising his dire situation, Sergeant Philco and a few of his men surrendered but they were butchered anyway, alongside their blinded Captain and the bleeding Egrow. Fortu was appalled but wise enough to keep the worst of his anger to himself.

Module 3: The Givrad Void

In exchange for her gratitude and the lives of the three surviving town guards; Henshaw, Doberman and Barbella, the Party agreed to help Estrid and persued the dastardly Sir Briefadel through the void. Whatever plans he had, he mustn’t be allowed back through the portal!

After a disconcerting journey, the, now enlarged, Party travelled to an ice world called Kik-ri, where they encountered a gigantic, burrowing insectoid monster and a friendly Frost giant called; Droofin.

Then they travelled to a three-sunned, desert world called Calcienta. After a skirmish with a group of human, snake and monkey zombies, they were back on Sir Briefadel’s trail and Liga Bur led them to an oasis, where they met a strange but welcoming merchant of magic; Whackeem. After that Arowe killed a highflying hawk before the Party were hunted down and captured by its owner, a wrathful slaver, Magician; Moody and his mounted swordsmen. Only Rifkin managed to escape, thanks to the aid of the (magical bangle) summoned Tsigan.

Fortu then realised, to his horror, that he (and his companions) had been returned to the slave arena. After several fraught death-matches, the Party managed to escape during an attempted city revolt and Rifkin’s cleverly timed rescue plan. They then, by an accident of fate, encountered and captured the very slaver that put them in that predicament. Moody pleaded for his life, but after unwillingly guiding the Party to the, apparently mythical ‘Singing Tower’, Fortu slit his throat.

More giant insectoid, pounce-predator creatures caused a moment of fright and the strange, targeted and protracted, dream harassment of Liga Bur, but the Halfling Ranger still successfully led the Party to the mystically shrouded tower.

Dulcetta’s tower itself was full of traps and tricks but it also acted as a prison to several other apparent malefactors, such as Dijonn the tiny fire elemental and Pardrik the teenage ghost guard. After rescuing them and evading the living green slime, Fortu, Arowe, Liga Bur, Rifkin, Henshaw, Doberman and Barbella finally caught up with Sir Briefadel again and his beautiful, raven-haired Mother. After rejecting his offer to join him, there was a brief melee, after which they fled on flying horseback.

Giving up any hope of still being able to track them down, the Party headed back to the void and to Estrid’s pool, where, despite their failure, they were welcomed with open arms, genuine smiles, music, sex, food and wine.

Liga Bur was forced to sacrifice himself for his friends though, after the mighty Thornberg demanded restitution for the deaths of three of his brothers. The Halfling was forced to give up his lance, his bow and a year of his life to join Thornberg’s Druidic brotherhood; ‘The Circle of the Scale’.

Now though, decisions must be made.

Next…

Module 4: Return of the Demon

The End or the Beginning?

It’s early morning, with the dawn sky still hazy with the rising golden sun still partially hidden behind the trees. Although there are several of the Fey creatures still enjoying the gentle music, wine and each-others company, the Elven Arowe is the only member of the Party still conscious when the large, shadowy oak tree at the edge of the clearing, opens up again and the mighty Thornberg steps through. The Archer hurriedly shakes the nearby Fortu and Rifkin awake and the three of them try to peer around and behind the enormous Druid and his shaggy, over-sized, brown bear to see if their Halfling friend; Liga Bur is still with him. All of them break into relieved smiles at the sight of their diminutive scout companion, but… 

…

He looks tired somehow, weary.

…

No, not tired.

…

He looks older.

…

Older and wiser.