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.”

Moral and Actual Bankruptcy

“What do you mean ‘Danté’s dead’?!”

The two old men bristle at each-other, each one blaming the other for the far away failure of a third old man.

“Exactly as it sounds. Our secret deal with the Assassin has ended in abject failure.”

Dunning and Kruger have never particularly liked each-other or had any respect for the other’s opinions. Both men originally sought the Stowanian crown for themselves and then, after Urdurel’s peace offer, both men thought that they’d be the first choice to be his named successor in place of his murdered daughter and disavowed son. 

It’s fifty years later now though, fifty years of weaselly sycophancy and slyly currying favour. Decades of promoting their own self interest, while actively undermining each-other. Despite both men holding positions of great influence and prestige within the country, second only to Lord Urdurel himself, that promise of absolute power is still, frustratingly, beyond either of their reach.

The initial speaker; Dunning, whispers a second question.

“Do they know we were behind the attack at the border?”

Kruger purses his already wrinkled lips.

“No. No, I don’t think so. Danté’s association with the Witches is smokescreen enough.”

Both old men fall silent for a moment before Kruger continues.

“If we don’t find a way to stop Urdurel, he’s going to bankrupt the whole Kingdom. The army is swelling to a size that the realm can ill afford to pay for long and he’s sent those adventurers off to offer full payment for that ridiculous prison tower, plus interest, to the Gnomes of Ambergis!”

Dunning responds with an equally bleak tone.

“Poison’s failed repeatedly and, unless we find another way to… stop him, there’ll soon be nothing left for either of us to inherit, even if those accursed demons are beaten back.”

Son of a Witch!

Quickly rereading Fortu’s letter while the others prepare to move on, Rifkin feels the high quality parchment between his sensitive thumb and fingers.

‘My Darling Little One,
I’m so sorry that I couldn’t be there for you.
I’m sorry that I missed sharing in your laughter or comforting you when you cried.
I’m sorry that my selfish choices made life hard for you.
Know though, that you were born from love and that love is everlasting.
If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, follow the map and come find me.
Once there, light one of the candles.
There is much I need to tell you.
Love,
Your Mother;
Viccissa.’

Carefully refolding the paper along its original crease-lines, the Bard places the letter gently back in the compartment on top of the silver music box. Alongside the equally well preserved map showing the location of Viccissa’s apparent grave and under the four magical (presumably ‘speak to the dead) candles.

If it’s to be believed, the letter raises a few concerning questions. 

Firstly the three digit code: 142. How did she know his name would end up as two numerals pronounced together and why did she think that he’d somehow remember that her pet name for him was ‘Little one’?

Rifkin smiles at the pragmatistic Liga Bur’s no-nonsense suggestion. The Halfling always surprises him with his cool head and often brutal rational. No wonder the powerful Druid; Thornberg chose him back in the Fey lands. If two sequential numbers were known, the remaining options were only one to ten.

Brilliant!

Secondly, what important information could Fortu’s mother possibly have to impart on her son, a quarter of a century after her death?

And thirdly, why would her old ‘Den-mother’; Megarna bother sharing this information? By the tone of Megarna’s voice, when she delivered the silver box, there was no love lost between them. It even sounded like they’d hated each-other!

If Fortu decided to visit his Mother’s burial site now though, it would take him a month or so to get there… 

He’d effectively be taken off the board and his fighting skills that had proven themselves vital, especially after the loss of the Elven Archer; Arowe and Liga Bur’s transformation from Ranger to Druid.

Banaal and Liga Bur had been wise to take precautions though. A silver music box from Fortu’s infancy, just happens to turn up at the (almost) exact time and place as this mysterious Viccissa predicted?

Rifkin gently closes the lid and the heart-shaped clasp clicks back into place. Instinctively testing a theory, he tries to reopen it but, just as before, the heart resists. Only Fortu was ‘allowed’ to open the box.

Another mystery. Did the Witches manage to open it? Did they know what the letter said? Did they perhaps tamper with it in some way?

It’s all so unlikely, and yet he’d heard plenty of stories in his travels about witches foreseeing the future in knucklebones and chicken blood. There’d even been a mad woman in his own home village, who swore she could tell your fortune just by looking at tea-leaves!

Could this Viccissa see the future? Could she have passed this gift down to her son? Fortu’s fevered dreams did seem to often lead him to truths he shouldn’t rationally know. Almost like he himself was a… a…

A Fortune teller?

…

A Fortu.. ne teller!

Rifkin gasps as he almost drops the precious silver music box.

“It can’t be!?”

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.

Bitter Sweet Lullaby

 

Sitting alone on his bed in the Knot wave inn, illuminated only by the light of a dimmed lantern, Fortu cradles the silver music box on his lap and listens to the gentle tune until it winds down to silence.

The Witch; Megarna had teased him with information about his mother and tried to use it to distract him from his mission for Lord Urdurel. He’d distrusted the woman when he’d first met her pretending to be a fortune teller back in Scarborough and he trusted her even less now.

Still, she’d been surprisingly bold, considering her age and obvious frailty. It’s almost as if she’d wanted him to strike her down…

A knock on the door announces Rifkin’s presence before he enters their shared room, giving him time to wipe his eyes.

Fortu only recognises the artfully crafted music box from his dream, but the music? It stirs up something deep inside of him; Comfort, warmth… Love.

Could these three raised relief portraits truly be of him as a baby, his wild haired, gypsy mother and his handsome father?

Finaghan Begins Again

Lounging in the back-room of the (formerly secret) bar, his feet still casually up on the desk, the head of the Stowanian Thieves’ guild, watches the Dwarf, the Halfling, the demi-Elf and the armoured Human walk back up the wooden stairs and out of his (now compromised) hideout.

It had taken Finaghan decades of lying and scheming to claw his way up to being named head of the Cottis Thieves’ guild. Dante’s recent splinter group of Assassins though, had rapidly become a painful thorn in his side. A thorn that the four Adventurers had kindly volunteered to tweeze out for him. Not just offered, but paid him fifty gold pieces for the privilege!

A paltry sum considering, but the feeble bribe still tickled him.

Dante had always been… difficult, arrogant, always chaffing against his authority, but with the resurgence of the Witches, his attitude had shifted into something much more… condescending. It hadn’t been long before the older man had poached a large slew of his Thieves’ guild minions for his competitive Assassins’ guild. Nearly a quarter of his members!

A loss in number that had greatly diminished his influence and the guilds’ power. Mostly though, it was a personal and professional slight that Finaghan couldn’t let stand.

Allowing Fortu and his adventurer friends to take care of this… problem, also overcame the sanction against guilds working openly against other guilds.

Finaghan smiles. Losing a lowly lookout and having to establish a new base of operations, is a small price to pay for getting rid of ‘old-man’ Dante. With him gone, most of his traitorous ex-Thieves’ guild members will come cringing and scurrying back.

He might even allow them to rejoin… after a certain amount of grovelling and an additional ‘buy-back-in’ fee.

Shouting over to one of his trusted barmen, Finaghan calls out.

“Bring over a fresh bottle of rum. The best we have; I feel like pre-celebrating a certain forthcoming victory!”

Bitter but Better

‘Old man’ Dante had trained in isolation for decades; angry and unfulfilled. Years ago, after a stellar start in the Assassins guild, under instruction of the Witches and more experienced Assassins, he’d been promised power and the freedom to inflict pain whenever and wherever he went. He cared nothing for the head hag; Hetzabah’s plans to take over Lord Urdurel’s kingdom, as long as he could torture and kill whoever he wanted to.

Although still very young at the time, he was a gifted sadist and there, for a change, his overtly psychopathic tendencies were a blessing rather than a ‘problem’. Then, just when it was getting really good, it all fell apart. 

After Hetzabah successfully duped the still mourning Lord Urdurel into a quick second marriage, the Assassins working under Megarna had an extremely good year, but then the hag became overconfident in her control over Urdurel. After the birth of her son; Briefadel, Hetzabah ordered her Assassins to murder his teenage daughter, Lamenta to clear the line of ascension. Lord Urdurel loved his daughter and her death unclouded his mind just enough to throw off her thrall. He then sent hundreds of his men after her and all of her minions.

The Witches who weren’t captured and killed; scattered to the neighbouring lands. The same happened to the Assassins. Everything was lost. All of Dante’s masters were killed or gone, leaving him to fend for himself. Find work for himself and join the lesser Thieves’ guild. He had been forced to secretly train himself in the Assassin arts. It hadn’t been easy and learning the hidden tricks, skills and spells of his original order had been near impossible. He’d spent years researching when he could have been, should have been, out there killing.

Still, fifty years later, Megarna had finally reformed her coven and recruited all the wannabe Assassins her underlings could find. Young, poorly trained, eager idiots mostly but it did, at least, give him the chance to train/torment a host of willing fools and show off his hard earned skills, whilst simultaneously creating a new Assassins’ guild. It also, finally and ironically, enabled him to use his covert, decades won, shadowy abilities out in the open.

Witches get Stitches

The middle-aged Witch cackles manically, as she soars away ‘side-saddle’ atop her traditional flying besom. The broom, the pointy hat, the black dress and even her precious black cat, make her resemble the classic image of a Witch. Mallophor was never one for this cliché but the costume was one of Megarna’s conditions for joining her coven. A ‘forced’ decision that, despite her apparent bravado, she’s currently having serious doubts about, even as the distance between her and the adventurers increases.

The river ambush plan had been some-what elaborate but its execution, in practice, should have been simple.

Four of the Assassins hid invisibly in the dry area beneath the pier, ready to slink out and kill the ferry-wheel operator and secure the mule and barge tether control wheel.

Two Assassins, by the use of water-breathing potions, were hiding beneath the barge with hull boring and sabotage tools.

The slightly-less-than-hinged; Dante, having already killed the Agentian bank’s ferry-wheel controller and replaced him in a reasonable (from-a-distance) disguise, was to stop the boat mid-river, effectively mooring the barge and snagging the adventurers between the two shores.

Then, his hidden men would launch a barrage of magical flaming crossbow bolts to ignite the barge’s already oil-soaked canopy. This would frighten the horses onboard and hopefully distract the trapped adventurers, while the ten South-bank and four East-bank Assassins peppered the front-facing and back-facing Adventurers with additional repeated flaming crossbow bolt attacks.

Her task was simply to circle invisibly above until the Halfling shape-shifter flew into the air and then target him exclusively until he fell, was dead or fled. 

No plan survives past first contact but Mallophor had been surprised by how quickly this one had fallen apart.

The Dwarf, with his divine and targeted magic, managed to help the town Captain and his four men, overcome their invisible Assassins AND drench the burning barge canopy, extinguishing the fire.

The heavily armoured Human actually dived into the water and, more surprisingly, swam quickly and confidently to the opposite bank.

And the Halfling, as expected, flew up to assess the situation from a bird’s eye perspective. An easy target in avian form but she had not expected him to fight back so fiercely or effectively.

Despite that, Mallophor would have gleefully traded spells with him a little longer, but she was now also under attack from, thanks to the Dwarven war-priest’s interference, the now unopposed Captain Lynchin and his men. 

Already injured and unable to long withstand assaults from both Liga Bur’s lightning and the Stowanian soldier’s crossbow bolts, she leaves the insane but effective, Dante and his remaining, expendable men to fend for themselves. 

Assassins to the Slaughter

“What do you mean ‘All six of them are dead’?!”

The voice is so screeching and vitriolic, that the lower status Witch doesn’t dare look up, let alone make eye contact or reply to the screamed question. To end the expanding silence, Megarna answers the hanging question herself.

“So, of the eight Assassins we’ve sent to spy on or murder the adventurers, seven have been killed and the other one captured? When I first encountered these adventurers at the Scarborough fete, half a year ago, I dismissed them as mere, short-lived, thrill-seeking idiots, but they’ve proven to be much more tenacious and durable than I’d initially assessed them to be.”

The recently recruited, and still qualling, young Witch nods in agreement as her Coven leader continues talking, mostly it seems, just to hear the sound of her own voice.

“We shall have to find more foolish and violent men to do our bidding. Evil men but skilled in the art of murder. Send out six of our Sisters to find and recruit as many as you can of our old Assassins. They’ll be mostly old men now, but their sons and grandsons will serve us well enough.”

Finally recovering her ability to speak, the twenty-something Witch mumbles her agreement.

“Yes my Crone Mother. I shall see that it’s done but that will only leave seven of us to stymie the efforts of the adventurers.”

The elderly Megarna smiles, revealing her creepily long, yellowed teeth and hands the novice Witch her enchanted besom.

“Seven of us verses seven of them? Equal numbers, but with the Hag Queen and the Demon Prince on our side, that shall more than suffice.”

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!”

As the Crone Flies

Smiling toothlessly to herself, the plump, old woman shuffles out of the filthy pig-shed where a young woman was being held. A special young woman, though she barely knows it herself. The nearby farmhouse is empty now. Empty, except for the corpses of the Farmer, his wife and his two other teenage daughters.

Whispering into the hidden ear of a beckoned crow, the old, mad-haired Witch; Bronwen smugly shares a secret message.

“I’ve found the thirteenth member of our baker’s dozen. With this poor, recently and… Tragically orphaned; Alwina, we’ve finally gotten our Witch’s coven!”

The crow then spreads out its oily, black wings and takes to the air, heading straight back to Megarna to share the news.

Thirteen Witches.Thirteen Sisters from the eager young to the shrewd old. A magical number. The sum at which the combination of their various powers unlock greater gifts. Gifts to rival Grand-Wizards and High-Priests!

O’Malley the Tally Stat

The professional soldier; Sergeant O’Malley still can’t believe that he’s not lying lifeless, amongst the leaf-litter on the forest floor. The enemy Dwarven Cleric had not only brought him back from the very brink of death but the adventurers had actually freed him too!

And all it had cost him, were the lives of nine of his men, his lockbox savings and his treasured, magical longsword.

Leading his three surviving men through the dense woodland, he reruns the recent events in his head and tries to recall what had happened over the last few months to get him here.

After being driven out of Scarborough by the imminent arrival of Lord Urdurel’s superior forces, O’Malley begrudgingly found himself leading a dozen directionless men. Sir Briefadel was gone, probably for good, as was Captain Hall and Sergeant Filko from a previous fiasco. As of his recent promotion, he was the highest ranking officer left in Scarborough and, as such, he’d found himself in charge, but without a salary or a mission.

It was then that Sir Briefadel’s elderly mystic advisor made herself known again. Madame Megarna was the one who had warned him to gather up the men and leave before any possible confrontation with Lord Urdurel’s troops and she appeared again, a while later, accompanied by Spider Murphy. 

He’d known the tall, Afro-sporting rogue, on and off, for over a decade and he’d been aware that Sergeant Filko had been in cahoots with him on several side-hussles in recent years. Jobs that didn’t directly concern Sir Briefadel or need to involve the more rigid, rules-driven; Captain Hall.

Offered pay and purpose, he, and the dozen men under him, gladly accepted. Morality wasn’t really a question for any of them. They were all mere mercenaries, often with murky pasts and in it just for the coin, not for any higher purpose or noble cause.

Madame Megarna had somehow known, approximately, where and when the adventurers would be passing through the forest, on their return journey from the Fey realm, with their saddle bags, hopefully full of magic and treasure. 

Her instructions had been crystal clear.

Travel to Bitboh wood, join forces with Spider Murphy’s bandits, as well as the handful of eager young Orcush warriors she’d hired, and ambush the party. Slaughter them to a man, elf, halfling and dwarf, but spare the horses and capture the weird gourd-like barrels unscathed. That’s all she wanted. Not even a share of the loot!

At the time, he’d felt supremely confident. Thirty well-organised, well-armed and well-armoured men verses just seven undisciplined adventurers, seemed an easy task. 

How wrong he’d been…

The Righteous Follow the Light of a Dark Star

In the gloom of Megarna’s thatched hut, the young Witch; Kasandra deeply inhales the herb infused smoke and stares intensely at the blood-soaked knuckle bones in the wooden bowl.

“Our enemies fate will depend upon whether they follow the light of a dark star.”

Megarna scowls.

“Yes, yes. I know all about the Halfling’s importance. He is the only one who truly understands how we plan to upset the balance of this world and the others trust him to lead them in the right direction. What else?”

Kasandra breathes in the thick, aromatic smoke once more.

“I see that the Dark-star has changed. He has turned from the crimson of the Orcs to the celadon of the Druids.”

Megarna’s brow furrows.

“Changed direction? To their benefit or ours?”

The young auger cowers under the penetrating glare of the High Crone of her recently joined Coven.

“To theirs my Mistress. To theirs.”

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.”

Four Fatherless Men

Megarna gazes down at the scrawny young woman knelt before her in the dingy, smoke-filled hut. 

‘You have the rare gift of prophecy child. A gift our coven needs. Tell me what you see.”

The young woman, with a certain amount of trepidation in her hazel eyes, coughs nervously before finding her voice.

“I see four men. An Elf, a Half-Elf, a Halfling and a Human. Tied together by fate.”

A scruffy black moggy hisses from atop a roughly made wooden shelf and Megarna responds directly.

“Yes, yes, I know that she’s being vague.”

And then back at the raggedy, young woman.

“Go on… And do better!”

The younger woman bows deeper over the bowl of smeared animal blood and rune-marked knuckle bones, her eyes rolling back further into her head.

“These four men, raised without knowing their true heritage, without knowing their true names or even their true Fathers. Tied together by a past they have no knowledge of and bound by a purpose they cannot comprehend… I see a war. The greatest war this world has seen in over a century. I see these four men leading armies. Armies of Humans, Elves and… Even Halflings. A war against a seemingly endless wave of red-eyed demons!”

The thin-backed, black-clad old woman leans closer, her long, yellow stained teeth bared. 

“Tell me more. Tell me how we can break their spirits? Tell me how we can most easily defeat them?”

The young woman quails.

“I… I don’t know. My visions are clouded and I can’t properly decipher all the myriad possible outcomes.”

Megarna spits.

“You’re pathetic! Useless! Your paltry gifts are barely worth the bother of recruiting you. Our last Augur was worth twenty of you.”

Eyes snapping back into place, the young woman finds a little courage.

“Your last Augur? Where is she? What happened to her?”

The old Witch scowls.

“Viccissa was her name. She was talented, far more talented than you but she betrayed the coven for her own selfish needs. Worse, she betrayed me, and so I had her hunted down by our assassins and slain.”

Which Witch is Which?

The two wrinkled old women, one short and stout, the other surprisingly tall and thin, regard each-other suspiciously. 

From the safety of their Mistress’s hemlines, two correspondingly proportioned cats, one short-limbed, well padded and ginger, the other more resembling an angular, furry, black bag of bones, hiss at each other. Their backs arched, their tattered ears flattened down and their sharp fangs bared. 

After an agonisingly long pause, the fat, old woman finally breaks the silence.

“It’s been over twenty years since I last saw your warty face. Why have you sought me out after all this time? What do you want Megarna?”

The taller woman forces a smile, mostly just to show that, out of the two of them, she still possesses the majority of her own teeth.

“What do you think I want Bronwen? I’m putting the Coven back together.”

Bronwen chokes with bitter laughter.

“The Coven? Of the original thirteen of us, only you and I survived Lord Urdurel’s purge!”

Megarna shrugs skeletally.

“That’s mostly true, but I didn’t travel all this way on a whim. My charge of the last forty years; Sir Briefadel has finally found his Mother and is currently raising an inhuman army to defeat his aged Father.”

Bronwen’s rheumy eyes widen in surprise as she suppresses a tiny shudder.

“Our Mistress; Hetzabah is still alive? How, after all these years?!”

This time, Megarna’s smile is genuine.

“Yes, Hetzabah’s alive and free once more. It was she herself who issued this command.”

After recovering her composure, Bronwen gathers up her skirt and attempts to take control.

“Hurry then Sister, there’s lots to be done in preparation for her return.”

Megarna though, merely scoffs and proceeds, very deliberately, to take her own sour time.

“Don’t forget your place Sister; even after all these lost seasons, you’re still only number two.”

The (Potential) Patron

Lord Urdurel:

Undisputed ruler of Stowan, Lord Urdurel was a very young, extremely ambitious and hyper successful Warlord, invading all the lands around him and rapidly expanding his realm. Only when he met his first wife, Dulcetta, did his attitude change, his heart soften and peace reigned for the first time in over a decade. Together, they retreated back to the capital city of Cotis, in the very heart of the Kingdom.

Their Daughter was just fourteen-years-old when beautiful Dulcetta fell ill to a mysterious fever and died, despite every possible treatment, blessing and magical remedy offered. 

A year later Lord Urdurel, ‘coincidentally’, met his second wife; Hetzabah and was instantly (and literally) enchanted by her and she fell pregnant within a month of their marriage. Hetzabah gave Lord Urdurel a son and a powerful ‘flamberge’ bastard sword and encouraged him to wage war once more, and for a time, he did but he eventually began to grow suspicious of her motives. When his first child; Lamenta was murdered in her bed, he ordered Hetzabah’s capture but she escaped and managed to claw out Lord Urdurel’s left eye in the skirmish. 

Sending out a dozen of his most loyal and trusted Captains, with orders to ‘stop at nothing’, the thirteen Witches were quickly killed, captured or driven out and with them, all of their evil thugs, thralls and followers. 

Hetzabah herself was eventually caught but even then, Lord Urdurel couldn’t bring himself to fully overcome her enchantment and order her death, even though she herself had ordered hundreds, if not thousands of rebels to be burnt alive in the years before by her personal executioner. Instead he commissioned the Gnomes of Mount Snaffang and a conclave of Human Wizards to bind her in his first wife’s tower and hide it away somewhere that it would never be found. 

It’s fifty years later and now he’s practically ancient by Human standards, yet Lord Urdurel, in spite of the physical failings that come with advanced age, has made amends for his past crimes, returned lands, forged strong alliances with the surviving nobles and surrounding kingdoms and still, solely and unchallenged, rules the realm that borders the untamed; Fey wilds.

The (Primary) Villains

Sir Briefadel: 

Middle-aged and bitter, Sir Briefadel rules the small but fortified, Feywild bordering town of Scar Borough. He is the unloved and unwanted, only son of Lord Urdurel and a (apparently at the time) young and beautiful Gypsy woman. His Father; Lord Urdurel, rules over the entire Kingdom of Stowan but banished his son, at an early age, to the furthest reaches of his realm. After hiring the four adventurers to find a magical pool, Sir Briefadel betrayed them in order to save his (supposedly dead) Mother; Hetzabah from his Father’s imprisonment. During the chase, despite appearing to be a normal, if aristocratic, armoured Knight, Sir Briefadel revealed that he secretly possessed (much frowned upon in this realm) arcane powers and his Mother was much, much more than just a mere, innocent Gypsy healer.

Hetzabah: 

Dark haired and so eye-bogglingly voluptuous, every incidental jiggle is akin to a full blown ‘exotic’ performance. The second wife of Lord Urdurel, she was discovered, too late, to be no mere Gypsy. Instead it turned out that she was responsible for the (previously presumed natural) death of Lord Urdurel’s first wife; Dulcetta and, later, his teenage Daughter; Lamenta. Hetzabah encouraged Lord Urdurel to restart his stalled conquest of the neighbouring kingdoms and bore his second child; Sir Briefadel. Later, almost immediately after the death of his Daughter, Lord Urdurel discovered the truth and, despite her enchantment over him, still managed to drive out her witch coven, capture Hetzabah and imprison her on a different world, where she’s been held and perpetually tortured for a hundred years in that dimension’s timeline, although only fifty-years by Fissian reckoning.

Madame Morgarna:

Posing as a simple, flimflam, fortune-teller, this old woman is secretly a shrewd and powerful Witch in the, long-term, employ of Sir Briefadel. She was part of Hetzabah’s coven of thirteen witches, fifty-two years ago, that helped her ensnare Lord Urdurel and poison the Lady Dulcetta. The coven was broken up and destroyed by Lord Urdurel’s elite guard but many of its members, including Morgana herself, managed to escape. Recently tasked with reforming the fractured coven, she seeks to help her old mistress and more recent master succeed in their fiendish, possibly world changing goals.

Why Should You Care?

Assif asked the question after the last session; 

“Why should we care about Sir Briefadel?”

It’s simultaneously a fair and unfair question.

As a Party, you were sponsored by Sir Briefadel to find Estrid’s magical pool/portal. You were doing that for the sake of adventure and promised coin. (Coin that he was never going to pay.)

At the moment of your success however, Sir Briefadel betrayed you and magically transported (with the aid of Madame Morgana) himself, his lackey Egrow and about thirty soldiers to your position. After which, you fought a bloody battle, where you swapped sides and found yourselves fighting back-to-back with Magritte the Satyr and the other Fey creatures against Sir Briefadel’s troops. 

You won the battle and captured the ‘Wizard’ Egrow but Sir Briefadel and his phenomenally intelligent Hawk; Sephony, managed to get to the pool and escape through the dimensional portal. 

It was at that point that Estrid, the goddess of the pool pleaded for your help to pursue Sir Briefadel and stop him doing whatever he was attempting and to prevent him, at all costs, from returning back through her pool.

It should be obvious by now, that beyond just being an evil dick, Sir Briefadel is consorting with actual demonic creatures and is attempting to raise an army of the damned to destroy his father; Lord Urderal, along with a huge chunk of the continent.

Individually, it’s a slightly more difficult question. Why should a Halfling, a Human and an Elf risk their lives and chase a whinging, vengeful Aristocrat through the void between worlds?

Arowe’s introductory story, painted him as a flamboyant, drama seeking Elf, desperate for fame and glory.

Fortu’s was about brutal death, a lack of autonomy and the anguish of not knowing his own past.

Liga Bur’s dealt with the mystery of his Orcish upbringing and the loss, of not just one family, but his unknown Halfling one too!

It’s my ‘job’ as the DM, to try to tie these three backstories into the thread if the overarching adventure story but it’s also your responsibility to actively engage in it.

Is travelling into the Fey realm, battling living trees and werewolves before passing through multi-world dimensions, not enough of an adventure for the drama hungry Arowe?

Is the recognition that Liga Bur felt, as he saw the Hag’s eyes flash ‘demonic’ red like the ‘Red-eyed’ Orc clan that slaughtered his Orc tribe, not enough to drive his urge for revenge, or at least, his curiosity to find a link between these two events?

Is Fortu’s heart not filled with a desire to learn more about the magical, indestructible, seemingly symbolic sword he now possesses? An enigma, that’s perhaps more solvable than the frustrating mystery of his own personal history?

I’ve tried pretty hard to create an enticing world for you three to explore and a hopefully exciting adventure. Ultimately though, it’s down to you as the Players to choose to engage in the story. All I can do is offer, hopefully fun/interesting plot hooks; it’s up to you three to bite. 

Should you continue to chase Sir Briefadel into Hell itself? The only reason you caught him the first time, was because he (overconfidently) waited around for several days, just in an attempt to recruit you. Perhaps you should return to Fissa to warn Estrid or even Lord Urdurel that his son is raising a fiendish army for vengeance and conquest? Or you could disentangle yourselves from this responsibility and look for another cause or adventure.

Ultimately, you can decide that you’ve seen enough of the world(s), that adventuring isn’t for you after all and just retire. You’re all certainly rich enough now. It’s entirely up to you.

Something Wicked that way waits

Hunched over the round table in a small, darkly shuttered stone hovel, her wrinkled face bathed in a soft glow, the aged woman sits momentarily dumbfounded.

"You found her? You actually found her after all these years?!"

The crystal ball is fogged by the multiple dimensions between them but the hawkish visage of Sir Briefadel is still clear enough to be certain.

"Yes but she is weak and we're being pursued. I need you to reconvene the coven. Mother will soon need its protection."

Madame Megarna chews her thin bottom lip for a moment.

"It's been over twenty years since we last convened... The traitor Witch was eventually found and killed, some of us died while fleeing these lands and a few would have certainly perished since then. I'll send word out to the few I’m still in contact with, but it'll take time and I'll need to recruit several new members if we're to make up the necessary thirteen."

Sir Briefadel seems to wait for Megarna’s words to travel back but finally acknowledges them.

"You'll have some time. First I have some vermin to squash and then we're off to recruit my army."

Watching the crystal ball fade to grey, the old witch's brow furrows further and she turns to her ever-attentive black cat companion.

"Well Moggy, it looks like our retirement is over. Time to put the Coven back together."