Blood Ties

Deo’s protective growl wakes Fortu and alerts him of the repetitive tapping on their second story window of the Knot wave inn. Rolling slowly out of the comfortable bed, Fortu draws back the heavy curtain to reveal the tip of a broomstick gently rapping against the thin pane. Directly below, standing alone in the rain, is the broomstick’s mistress. Dressed head to toe in black, the old woman beckons him, unsmiling, down to the courtyard.

Shaking his roommate; Rifkin awake, the two of them quickly pull on some clothes and knock for the others. Once gathered, bleary-eyed, all seven of them make their way down the stairs, through the dark hall and unbolt the back door. 

Shuffling out, they stand ranged in a line, under the shelter of the eaves, while the Witch stands ten feet away, seemingly unfazed by the cold rain, her scraggly black cat curled around her ankle. Fortu, Liga Bur and Rifkin recognise her as the fortune teller from the Scarborough fair, but her ‘costume’ is very different now and along with it, her attitude. 

Rifkin opens his mouth to speak, but Megarna rudely silences him with a raised palm.

“I’m here to speak with Fortu. The rest of you have no immediate interest to me, but I promise; no harm will come to any of you today… unless you wish it.”

As she speaks, she gestures upward and, despite the darkness, the distance and the rain, you can clearly see the silhouettes of six similarly clad Witches, circling overhead.

Fortu raises his chin but doesn’t move forward. Instead, Megarna steps towards him, even as she summons her broom down from the window above.

“Against my advice, my Mistress has requested that I offer you this final chance to give up this pointless quest against her. I thought you seemed familiar when I first met you in my tent half a year ago. Hetzabah sniffed you out though, as soon as she first smelt you. Your blood is our blood. Demon blood. The blood that grants Witches their mystical power and connection to their Dark Lord. Blood you gained through our coven sister…Your Mother. If you join us, I’ll even tell you where you can find her.”

Unable to fully deny his interest, the unarmoured Fortu answers, low but steady.

“I’ve no time for your lies. Get away from here and take your stinking coven with you.”

Taking another step forward, Megarna pulls out an ornate silver box from under her black cloak and, with the click of a tiny switch, music like tiny bells, rings out in the courtyard. 

Before Fortu can say anything further though, the bristling Dwarf; Banal, grips his holy symbol and barks.

“You heard the man. Begone Witch!”

Unshaken, Megarna, grabs hold of the broomstick floating beside her and, almost provocatively, turns her back to the adventurers. As she scoops up her black cat, she deliberately places the expensive looking music box down in its place, before allowing herself to be slowly pulled aloft by her magical broomstick.

Deo the Doggo

Looking up at the big, inky-dark, metal encased Human, the extremely well-drilled, young dog tries to make a judgement. The man smells of blood, oil and death but there’s something else…

Fortu, crouches down, removes his magical, strength enhancing gauntlets, holds the dogs muzzle gently in his still strong hands and gazes deeply into its eager and intelligent golden eyes.

Rising smoothly back up, despite his heavy armour, Fortu resumes his conversation with the kennel master. The majority of the words are lost on the dog, who looks instead to the much smaller two-legs next to the armoured warrior. He’d surprisingly spoken to him before in ‘dog’. Perhaps he would do so again. With a series of rapid barks, she tries to get the Halfling’s attention.

“Please Sir; What’s happening? Is it my time? Am I to be sold? Is it to him? Is he a good man? A good owner? Will there be treats?”

Liga Bur reassures her that, although rough around the edges, he does believe that there’s a good man beneath the armour. A good that perhaps the little dog can help encourage.

Sniffing up at the big man’s bare hand again, she thinks she can smell something beneath the sulphuric rage and indignation… Resilience and, perhaps deeply buried, kindness?

Suddenly the empathic dog feels a spasm of fear and pain run through her, as if a dark shadow had fallen across her and an invisible claw had pierced her mind. She whines and cries out but then, as fast as it started, the pain is gone.

Gone but not forgotten.

Dog Seven of Eight (Prize Bitch of the litter)

Small (but surprisingly strong and fast) animal

Str: 14

Int: 2

Wis: 12

Dex: 16

Con: 16

Cha: 6

HPs:11

AC: 15

Move: 40’

Alignment: True Neutral 

Initiative: +3

Attack: Bite: +3 Damage: 1d4+2

Reach: 5’

Feats: Alertness / Track

Skills: Jump: +7 / Listen: +5 / Spot: +5 / Survival: *1

Special: Scent / Low-light vision 

Saves: F: +5 / R: +5 / W: +1

Tricks: Attack / Seek / Down / Fetch / Track / Come