Run Rabbit Run

Under the watchful eyes of his faithful hound; Mir Hundur and his magical staff; Dijonn, Liga Bur sceptically tugs on the two magical rabbit fur boots, gifted to him by Lord Urdurel. Despite his doubts though, he’s amazed to discover that the small boots readily stretch and extend to fit over his long Halfling feet. Halfling feet that now, due to their disproportionate length and sable coloured fur covering, actually resemble the long back feet of a giant Jack-rabbit!

He’d never felt the need for footwear before and had always, secretly, taken pride in the fact that, despite his smaller stature compared to his Orcish brethren, his feet had always been bigger and tougher than theirs. 

Looking down at them now though, he has to admit that they feel pretty good wrapped in the soft leather and fur. Better than good. He feels ‘springy’ for the first time in his life. 

Springier and stridier!

No Halfling Measures

Riding in the back of Cookie’s wagon, Rifkin watches Liga Bur trailing far behind, atop his, now disturbingly, huger and slobbier hound; Mir Hundur. Although he’s tried repeatedly over the last few months, the Halfling has always resisted Rifkin’s attempts at closeness. They are friends, but friends from time spent together, rather than the type that shares intimate details of each-other’s lives.

Pulling his precious mandolin into place, Rifkin absent-mindedly strums a few cords as he considers what he really knows about his cauliflower-eared travelling companion…

Liga Bur; a Halfling raised by Orcs, forged strong but without any knowledge of his true ancestry or culture.

After a quarter of a century living in the ‘Broken lands’ with the Orcish Darkstar tribe, he found himself driven from his adoptive family and into the Human lands and then, the overrun Halfling strip.

When Liga Bur encountered a band of travelling Halfling acrobats at the Scarborough fair half a year ago, did he seek to find out more?

When (a very pretty) one of those wandering tumblers secretly passed him a note to meet up with him in private, did he agree?

When, months later on their return, it became apparent that Scarborough was previously a Halfling settlement called Scarp Burrow, did he dig deeper?

When exposed, just a day ago, to the Halfling quarter (sixteenth) in the large Human town of Thornflek, did he introduce himself to the Halfling leadership or book himself a room in the Halfling run inn?

And finally, when he just encountered Marvin, the angry Halfling bandit, potentially old enough to have been his Father, did he try to gather any information from him before he was shish-kabobbed by Fortu?

Considering the mystery of his history, the answers are a surprising ‘no’, ‘no’, ‘no’, ‘no’ and ‘no’!

Could it be that Liga Bur’s brutal upbringing has made him a race denier? Is it possible that, after spending his entire life being beaten and judged by Orc standards, the battle-scarred Halfling is afraid? Afraid to admit to himself even, that he is a Halfling after all?!

Rifkin’s delicate digits stop playing before he registers it.

Is Liga Bur’s rejection of his race any different from his own? True, his Quarter-Elf Father was murdered by his Mother’s inbred relatives and she, in turn, drank herself to an early death, but…

Considering the difference in lifespans, his Half-Elven Grandmother could possibly be still alive and his fully Elven Great-Grandmother would certainly still be, yet he’s done nothing to find them.

If he really thinks that Liga Bur should be interested in his own past and true heritage, surely he should be too? Perhaps he’s avoided those travelling, full-blooded Elves in the last town because he was afraid they’d pity him for his diluted blood, or worse?

Perhaps Liga Bur also fears being judged by his Halfling kin as lesser because of his harsh, uncultured Orcish upbringing?

The Dirty Dozen’t

Landing, a little clumsily, beside Cookie’s wagon in his intimidating eagle form, Liga Bur morphs back to his natural and more comfortable Halfling shape. He’d spent a year under Brother Thornberg’s patient guidance, learning to transform into a variety of animals but he realises, even now, that he’ll probably never become fully comfortable with the dramatic shift of his physical capabilities or senses.

After briefly talking with Fortu, he watches the soldiers; Ringo and Chape attempt to scoop up the shredded remains of the Halfling bandit leader; Marvin. He can’t remotely justify it but Liga Bur feels an odd pang of kinship. This middle-aged, grey-haired Halfling, whoever he was, had hated Lord Urdurel with a passion and, from what Fortu had heard, blamed him entirely for the destruction of his borderlands village.

Who was this angry man and why did he run with a dozen Human bandits? Why had he rejected… or perhaps been rejected by his… their own people?

Picking up the steel pole that Fortu had pulled out of the wagon wheel spokes, Liga Bur turns it around in his stubby but strong fingers. It’s more than just a crude rod of metal, it has a hook like shape on one end and a stirrup shaped triangle at the other. Considering the reasoning of its construction, Liga Bur mentally puts himself in the position Marvin would have found himself in.

He must have been hiding in a concealed ditch between the ruts in the cambered road when Cookie’s wagon had slowed for Banaal to examine the felled tree, then using the hooked end of the steel pole, caught the underside of the wagon and then used the stirrup end to brace his foot to help him clamber up as he was dragged along. Then the sneaky stowaway must have just waited until they’d reached the prearranged ambush point before thrusting the main shaft of the pole through the spokes of the front, right wagon wheel.

Whoever this Marvin was, he’d obviously been clever, tough and charismatic enough to command his twelve Human underlings, but his anger (and recklessness) was patently symptomatic of a dark past. 

As for his, so called; ‘Dirty Dozen’, they mostly went down without much of a fight. Liga Bur himself, while in eagle form, had ensnared over half the horses (and therefore the men riding them) with his ‘enchanted grass’, leaving the remaining five bandits to ride on towards the wagon. 

Once there, despite their original number advantage, they were easily overpowered by the armoured Dwarf; Banaal and his own massive (and also) armoured hound; Mir Hundur.

Even now, despite spending every single day with him, since he was a pup, plus the mystical Druidic bond they now share, Liga Bur was still surprised how his faithful hound; Mir Hundur was able to slaughter a large horse in just two big bites!

Finally, Fortu’s performative skewering of their Halfling leader crushed any residual bravado they had left and all eleven of the surviving bandits surrendered instantly.

The Party gain two (Halfling sized/non-glowing) +2 daggers.

Mule or Fuel?

The strange group of fleshy creatures had long departed with a few of its root-retrieved trinkets, but the Lightning tree still finds itself mulling over their last baffling encounter.

The heavily armoured Human had been gone for considerably longer than the sentient tree had initially anticipated but Fortu had finally returned to keep his word.

The concept of time is relative though, especially to one as long lived as the Lightning tree. One week, one month, one year; what does it matter, as long as the promise was eventually fulfilled?

Fortu’s timing had been extremely fortuitous though. Arriving with a considerable amount of ‘gift meat’ just when it’d been arguing with a Dwarf about the very definition of food and that ‘meat wasn’t murder’ unless the animal could speak.

The Dwarf; Banaal had vehemently disagreed, claiming that his mule wasn’t food but actually his trusted steed and companion. This made little sense though as the Halfling, Liga Bur had previously gone to great lengths to explain the difference during their previous meeting. 

‘Intelligent meaty creatures are not food but, simple minded, grazing animals and scavengers were. If it can talk, it’s not food but instead a potential friend or ally.’

This would make the braying creature, that it had scooped up in its branches, definitely fall into the category of ‘morally edible’, so why did the Dwarf object so fiercely?

Perhaps because the Mule had been taught a few tricks and was being used to carry Banaal’s equipment?

Ultimately, it didn’t really matter though. Fortu had honoured his promise to return with meat and so consuming the mule had become unnecessary. The four deer carcasses, now interred deeply beneath it, would rot slowly and provide sustenance for months to come. 

Alone again, the Lightning tree begins to absorb the slowly releasing nutrients through its tendril-like roots and considers the conundrum.

Perhaps it’s simply that unintelligent creatures, like the Dwarf’s mule; Murmul or the Halfling’s hound; Mir Hundur, are not to be considered to be merely food, if they’d been given an actual name?

Risk free Goodies

Considering you got nothing from the six Displacer beast pack, it only seems fair that I was generous in other areas.

From Rifkin’s satchel:

Mir Hundur got a collar (medallion) of Natural attack +3

Liga Bur got a scroll of Heat metal  

From the Lightning tree:

Murmul goat a full set of Horseshoes of speed.

Fortu got a pair of Gauntlets of Ogre power +2

From Magritte:

Potions of 

4 x Cure Light Wounds 1d8+1 

2 x Cure Medium Wounds 2d8+3

1 x Cure Serious Wounds 3d8+5

2 x Delay Poison

2 x Barkskin +2AC (10 minutes)

1 x Bear’s Endurance +4 con (1 minute)

1 x Bull’s Strength +4 str (1 minute)

1 x Cat’s Grace +4 Dex (1 minute)

2 x Lesser Restoration 

(Although we’ve suddenly got a situation where two of the three characters can cast these spells themselves, we can argue who takes what potion next session, but up until then, Rifkin puts them in his satchel for safe keeping.

Update your character sheets and Scott, take this opportunity to un-disable poor Liga Bur and fix Dijonn.

Favoured Son

The generously proportioned and well muscled;

Dajambat Prap lays down the sturdy wooden tent-poles and heavy canvas she’s carrying and turns to her husband.

“That was a noble act. Tough as our adopted little son is, it would have been almost certain death for him in the wastelands. Now he and his funny dog, Mir Hundur still have a chance at life.”

Mahd Boss gazes back at his wife.

“Then why does it feel as if I’ve betrayed him?”

Confounding tradition, the Orcan chief of the Darkstar clan had only ever taken one wife and he trusted her judgement above all others, sometimes even above his own.

Closing the short distance between them, the prodigious, middle-aged Orcess places a strong hand on her husband’s broad shoulder.

“You saved him once before, gave him a good life, a family and now you’ve saved him once more.”.

Mahd Boss’ heavily tusked head nuzzles into his wife’s wild hair.

“And what of our other children? Why didn’t I send any of them with him to the safety of the Human lands?”

Fully wrapping her strong arms around her husband’s wide neck, Dajambat Prap squashes herself tight to him.

  

“You know full well that the accursed Red-eyes are targeting our tribe’s Orcish blood-line. They are unrelenting and will chase us down wherever we run. Only Halfling-blooded Liga Bur can escape them and there’s no need for him to die pointlessly trying to protect his younger brothers and sisters… Trying to defend us.”

Mahd Boss pats his wife’s plump behind and sighs.

“True enough.”

Then Dajambat Prap snarls.

“Besides, he’s the only one of them that would be accepted for anything more than lowly mercenary work. Despised by their leaders. Hirelings for the worst scum that the Humans have to offer. And you, my wise husband, know more than anyone how that feels.”

The massive Orc Chieftain breathes heavily.

“True again my love. Perhaps our clever boy will discover a path beyond mere ‘grunt’ work, beyond just hunting and fighting for survival. Perhaps he will find friends in the Human lands. Perhaps good fortune will shine upon him at last.”

It’s the thick set Orcess’ turn to sigh.

“Gruumsh willing, my Chief; Gruumsh willing.”

No Mere Hundur

Keeping semi-guard whilst simultaneously serenading one of the glade’s beautiful Dryads, Rifkin looks across at his recently returned Halfling friend and the big, slobbery riding-hound; Mir Hundur.

Liga Bur had obviously gone through some kind of magical awakening but, seemingly unnoticed by the others, the dog also seems transformed.

After spending so long with the adventurers, certain things, extraordinary things have become… somehow ordinary. Normal. 

Extraordinary things like the bond between Liga Bur and his animal companion; Mir Hundur.

But now, something’s changed. Liga Bur seemed noticeably older when he returned after just one day away with the towering Thornberg, but the dog… 

The dog seems bigger. 

And tougher..

Much larger than a normal hound.

Objectively massive for its breed.

Over the last few months, Mir Hundur has somehow transformed from merely a big dog into an absolute beast!

Mir Hundur has grown since we started this adventure, from a large, shaggy 2HD riding dog into a physically impressive 6HD unit.

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 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.

Four Seasons in One Day

With one hand grasping the thick, wiry pelt of Thornberg’s huge brown bear; Bamse and the other wrapped in the reassuring, softer fur of his own hound; Mir Hundur, Liga Bur, after what seems like hours of silent plodding through vague, formless, earthy nothingness, follows the towering Thornberg out of the magical ‘Green path’ and feels the gentle rays of sunshine warmly kiss his face.

Unsure what to expect; Liga Bur had agreed to Thornberg's 'price' out of a weird feeling that it was somehow fated to be, as much as a way to save his friends from a potentially unwinnable battle. The bright sunlight momentarily dazzles him, but as his eyes adjust, he's pleased to see the old, winged dog; Dawk and the handsome adolescent fox sitting beneath the arching trees, waiting for him on the path, both of their tails wagging.

After stroking each of them on the undersides of their upturned chins, the big, bearded Druid guides Liga Bur to a beautifully tended glade, with a massive circle of stone Menhir’s arranged like pillars. There’s a small pool of crystal clear water and a comfortable looking thatched, wooden cabin slightly distant. Liga Bur notices the new, small and vibrantly coloured wildflowers freshly emerged from the lush and fertile soil; it’s Spring here… Wherever ‘here’ is?

Looking around, Liga Bur feels no danger. On the contrary, the battle-scarred Halfling has never felt such a sense of serenity. Birds sing in the trees surrounding the grove and succulent fruit hangs from almost every branch.  

It’s only then, that Thornberg finally speaks. His voice is deep and gravelly, like a man who doesn’t speak often and has grown unaccustomed to it.

“This is to be your home for a while. These four animals; my bear, your hound, the hawk-dog and the fox will be your companions and I will be your teacher and guide. Despite your, surprisingly thorough, basic training in the 'Green' arts, you still have much to learn, and although you must forsake your bow and your lance, this is far from a prison sentence. Rather than a punishment, I will share the secrets of our Druidic order and perhaps, over time, we will become friends. I do not say this lightly, for all our obvious differences, I believe in you. I believe in you because of the reports from my Satyr friend; Magritte, the Centaur Prince; Tsigane and the Frost giant; Droofin. I believe in you because this little adolescent fox and this elderly hawk-dog didn't just vouch for you; they championed you.”

The training is difficult but rewarding and as Spring passes into Summer, Liga Bur watches with pride as the little fox grows from cub to bold, young Reynard.

The Summer seems long, but the company is good and the initially intimidating; Thornberg turns out to be a surprisingly kind and patient man.

Summer turns to Autumn and with it the realisation that the grey in the muzzle of the old Dawk has spread all the way down to his rudder-like tail and his movements have become slow and hesitant.

Winter finally arrives and the snow that falls can't mask the sadness as the athritic Dawk finally succumbs to old-age.

Mir Hundur, the now adult fox and the great bear; Bamse all howl in the moonlight, as Thornberg lays the wrapped body of the strange, hybrid creature into the freshly dug ground. Liga Bur can’t hide his tears for this silly, brave and gentle soul. He’d grown fond of the kind-hearted creature and although he understood everything mortal has to die, the pain of the loss takes him back to everything and everyone he’d already lost and his heart breaks anew.

The bulky, brown-robed Thornberg places his muddy but reassuringly heavy hand on Liga Bur's shoulder.

"This is your final lesson. For every summer, there must be a winter. For every day, there must be a night. For every birth, there must be a death. For this is the way of balance and, now a full year has passed, you have finally earned entry into the Circle of the Scale."

One for All

The music and wine continue to flow but the massive figure of Thornberg, standing back in the shadows of the surrounding trees, finally makes his looming presence felt. His voice is both deep and grave.

“I’m glad that The five of you made it back safely from the void between worlds, but I also want you to know, that I know what you’ve done. Three members of my brotherhood have been killed in the last few months and I knew that you were involved somehow. Koenig, the Three-Quarterling and Zephir.”

The monstrous brown bear growls to reinforce Thornberg’s menacing tone,

“However, Zephir of the oasis was killed before you’d even arrived there and I cannot blame you for carving up his mindless, reanimated corpse. You had a hand in the death of the pacifistic Three-Quarterling but not the murder itself, but his father? You are, all four of you, responsible for Koenig’s death. He may have been over-zealous and acting far beyond his remit, but he was still a member of the Circle of the Scale and a price must be paid. Balance must be restored and although our creed is usually a life for a life, many voices has spoken up for you. From the little fox to Droofin the Frost-giant. As such, instead of death, one of your group must relinquish their current life and swear allegiance to our order.”

The adventurers respond very differently to this surprising news. Man of few words; Fortu reaches for the hilt of his indestructible sword, Rifkin opens his mouth, searching for a convincing argument to use in their defence but Liga Bur does the opposite, biting down to prevent himself revealing his true thoughts. It is the Elf; Arowe though, who breaks the silence.

“I’ll do it. To save my friends, I’ll join your Brotherhood.”

The bulky, bearded Druid’s eyes widen in response before laughing it off.

“Tis a surprisingly noble offer Elf, but the choice has already been made. The Halfling has already received rudimentary training and possesses a natural aptitude for our craft. What say you Liga Bur?”

The Final Session

As promised, the warm evening is full of wild music and wilder dance, with Fey wine flowing freely and both savoury and sweet treats laid out on every raised surface. Rifkin adds his voice and music to Magritte’s melodies and the Fey adjacent Arowe enjoys the wanton dancing and uninhibited ‘gifts’ of the Dryad women.

Despite his deep-rooted suspicion and rejection of the aromatic wines, Fortu still finds himself intoxicated by the charm and warmth of these strange woodland creatures. Creatures that he would have considered dangerous enemies just a month ago.

Liga Bur too enjoys the sudden change of pace and environment. Regardless of his ghostly guard; Padrik, the Halfling hadn’t slept easily in weeks, ever since he was first targeted by the nightmare Hag. Here, surrounded by enchanting pixies and nixies, he finally feels safe.

It’s Arowe though, who notices that there’re only three Dryads present, and casting around, he sees for the first time, that one of the four large oak-trees in the glade is dead and withered. He also realises that a new sapling is growing in its shade and beside that sapling is a shy little dryad girl. She appears to be about eight-years-old but Arowe knows well enough to understand the different growth rates and life expectancies of certain Fey.

The three Human mercenaries though are quieter, well aware that they’d attacked their hosts (and killed several of them) the last time they were here. One thing is certain though; all seven of them; Human, Elf and Halfling, are changed men. How could they not be? They’ve explored strange new worlds together, encountered bizarre creatures and discovered new civilisations. They’ve seen horrors and wonders beyond their imaginations and travelled to where few men have ever been before!

Love is in the Air

The octopus-armoured Fortu, eagerly (but unnecessarily) supported by two of the fawning, small but perfectly formed, amphibious Nixies, finds his footing, wades forward up the gentle slope and breaks the surface of the magical pool. Just drinking a mouthful of the enchanted water refreshes him as much as a full nights rest and he feels the aches and stresses from the previous day, wash away as if they’d never been. As the water cascades off of him, leaving him completely dry, he hears the exquisite voices of the Fey creatures singing in harmony. Looking up, he sees three of the Dryads, the smiling Satyr; Magritte and, in the centre, the beautiful ‘goddess’ herself; Estrid. They’re standing in a semi-circle, waist-deep in the water, with their hands outstretched in welcome.

Even as the Four Nixies swim up and down the underwater, hundred foot pipe, retrieving the less submersible Party members, Fortu, despite his distrust, can’t help but gaze upon Estrid. Her beauty is beyond compare, with flaming locks of auburn hair, ivory skin and, her (previously terrifying) eyes are of emerald green. Though not a man comfortable with the ‘gentler’ emotions, Fortu reflects upon the difference between the tall and athletic Estrid’s and overly curvaceous Hetzabah’s beauty; Estrid’s seems to fill his heart, whereas Hetzabah’s seemed to fill an entirely different organ, about two feet lower down.

The heavily armoured, but strangely unencumbered in the water, warrior, accepts Estrid’s proffered hand and allows her to pull him forward. She stands about the same impressive height as him in the water but her kind smile is like a breath of Spring and Fortu, for a moment, forgets why he was so angry with her.

Behind him, two of the Nxies emerge with his Halfling friend and his slobbery dog, before the small, green-skinned women dive back down to retrieve the others.

Liga Bur looks about himself suspiciously, but on seeing no signs of aggression, treads water while holding onto his soggy, doggy-paddling companion. The welcoming choral song the Fey creatures are singing is warm and genuine and even the ever-vigilant, Orc-raised Halfling feels himself lull a little.

Fortu and Liga Bur are soon joined by Arowe and Rifkin and all of them have been guided to the safety of the grassy bank before a coughing and spluttering Henshaw, Barbella and Doberman break the surface of the crystal-clear pool.

Still (mostly) wearing the same uniforms that they attacked the Fey in, the three soldiers weren’t given the magical, water-breathing Nixie kiss and are choking by the time they escape the hundred-foot deep, underwater sinkhole pipe. The four Nixies roughly pull them to the shallower water but their actions are obviously begrudging and Fortu is coldly reminded of the general ill-will felt between the Fey and Humans.

Still, when Estrid finally speaks, her voice is soft, like Summer rain.

“Welcome home my champions. We have much to discuss, but before we’re forced deal with the evil that’s to come, please rest after your arduous journey, share our food and enjoy our music, wine and… our company.”

Fortu feels a wave of confusion wash over him as he battles conflicting emotions. The goddess; Estrid seems so different this time around; kind, generous and objectively, (whatever he may think of her past actions) breathtakingly lovely.

No Choice at All

Emerging out of the vertical watery portal first, Fortu draws his massive sword and, although slightly disoriented from the mind-bending dimensional trip, looks around the Givrad void for potential trouble. He’s not eager to fight anymore of those gigantic Hooked Horrors again after nearly having his throat ripped out last time. Thankfully there’s nothing of immediate concern, other than the disorienting sky, odd gravity, pool of dried blood beneath his feet and the dark crimson trail of it leading away.

Liga Bur and Arowe emerge next, reassured by Fortu’s stalwart presence. The canny Halfling immediately confirms Fortu’s suspicion that it’s the slaughtered camel’s blood and follows the trail until it splits. One bloody trail leads back to the portal to Fissa and Estrid’s pool, the other to wherever Hetzabah has taken her son to raise his army.

Although Liga Bur has no interest in pursuing Sir Briefadel, he still notices the words, scrawled in blood on the path beneath each of the portals. The writing under the one the evil Eldrich Knight and his Mother went through reads, ‘Chase me to Hell!’ and the one leading back to Fissa reads, ‘Run back to Daddy!’.

The astonishingly tall and slender Elf; Arowe smiles. The overwhelming hate that he’d felt for Sir Briefadel has, thankfully, faded to a more rational level and he can see the goading messages for what they are. 

As soon as Rifkin and the others are safely through, they all head to the portal they all first entered the Givrad Void and prepare to swim back. The Bard hesitates for a moment, before Fortu’s about to step in.

“I hope Magritte has got those Nixies in place, otherwise some of us are going to drown at the bottom of that hundred foot, underwater pipe!”

Running his tongue around the circular scar inside his cheek, Fortu merely smiles, confident in his magical armours special ability. He knows that he’s safe from drowning while wearing the helmet and that the armour will allow him to swim upwards as if he were completely unburdened.

Fire and Water

The last few days travel pass uneventfully and the Party finally get to within sight of the doubly-dead; Zephir’s oasis. It’s withered and browned a fair bit since they were first here but, considering it contains their way back home to Fissa, it’s still a very welcome sight.

Scattered prone around the outer periphery are several tall, multi-limbed bodies though. Several dead, tall, multi-limbed bodies. The corpses of about a score of the nomadic, insectoid Tri-Kreen. The skilled Liga Bur initially suspects another zombie trap but, after ‘careful’ inspection with a ten foot pole, he’s relieved to find them merely mundanely dead. Probably innocent desert travellers exploiting the free water supply here and killed needlessly and mercilessly by Sir Briefadel, his Mother and the dark horse they rode in on.

Scouting ahead and grateful to find no opposition guarding the inner oasis, Liga Bur cautiously approaches the top of the central stone well. Once there though, the fiery Dijonn on realising what’s happening, suddenly flares wildly atop his torch perch.

“Oh No, Oh No, Oh No! Please Master, don’t put me down the well! Leave me here; I can guard the oasis for you. I can easily survive on just the dead, dried out bushes and trees. I promise I won’t burn the living green stuff!”

Rifkin’s slightly-almond eyes also flair, but far more subtly as he hears Dijonn’s terrified hisses and crackles. Why hadn’t he thought about this before now? There’s no way that the flame-bodied Dijonn could survive for even a second underwater and there’s no way to protect him from it for anything more than a few moments.

Arowe immediately comes to the little elementals defence and Liga Bur has no interest in extinguishing his spluttering servant. The canny Halfling had noticed that Dijonn always shrank to his smallest, unnoticeable flame whenever Ghostly Pardrik was on guard or when the Hag had visited. The fire elemental was definitely hiding something, but what?

Still, whatever that ‘what’ is, it’s no reason to kill him. The rough Halfling had begun to question his own cynicism of late. He hadn’t trusted Fortu, Arowe or Rifkin when he’d first met them on the road to Scar Borough, and now he’d trust them with his life. He had been trusting them to protect him from the protracted attacks from the Hag and they’d not let him down. Considering his past losses, it’s hard to have faith in people but perhaps it’s time to change that mindset. Perhaps he could have faith in something bigger than himself. Something deeper. Perhaps he should choose to believe that Henshaw and Doberman weren’t secretly plotting against him… Barbella would be more of a stretch though.

After making Dijonn swear on his favourite fire gods not to burn down the entire oasis, Liga Bur frees the tiny elemental by gently transferring it from his torch to a dried out bush on the dead outskirts of deader Zephir’s oasis garden.

Immediately growing larger, as he consumes the dry and brittle bush, Dijonn smirks as he wavers the Party goodbye.

“Good luck skin-wearers!.”

Death Wish

Unimpressed by the impotent threats of the ghostly guard/prisoner Pardrik or the pitiful statues of the teenage Lady Lamenta surrounding him, Fortu instead examines the solid cold-iron door and its full sized representation of, who can only be, the wide stanced, hands-on-hips, eye-patch wearing Lord Urdurel.

Labyrinth of Temptation

With his mighty sword illuminated by Rifkin’s spell, the heavily armoured Fortu leads the way through the dark and twisting labyrinth…

Beware the Blob!

 

Reaching for the Snatch

It's the fifth day of travel and so far, so good, with the Party making fair time and managing to stay on the right desert ‘path'. The repellent nightmare Hag, (who somehow, simultaneously seems to also be the toe-curlingly hot; Hetzabah} has ‘visited’ four times, attempting but failing each time to invade the dreams and corrupt the mind of the phenomenally skilled, Halfling tracker; Liga Bur.

Despite their open space, temporary tent living, their defences are sound. After carefully and evenly spacing Pardrik's (two-hundred-and-six) bones, carefully all around the marquee, the Elven Arowe trances while his companions set up and organise for the next day. This way, Pardrik can roam freer than he’s been able to do in a hundred years and Arowe can stand watch over his Halfling friend, undistracted.

A few hours later, as semi-expected, Arowe feels the, now familiar, twitch of the enchanted, mummified hand draped around his neck, signalling the phantom Hag's appearance. Gracefully, spinning around, he sees the revolting looking old woman and the pitch-black, bat-winged horse drift through the canvas wall, but the (clearer-than-he's-ever-been) ghost of Pardrik is already standing/floating in the way.

"Begone wretched Hag! I won't let you have this one!"

Arowe’s and the ghost guard's echoey shouts rouse the others from their slumber and Liga Bur finds himself awake and instantly immune from the Hag's dream haunting. Poor Pardrik though, is ‘killed’ yet again, but this time by the Nightmare horse’s flaming, ethereal hooves, rather than the terrifying Hag herself.

After this though, something else unexpected happens; something different. Previously the Hag would flee frustrated at this point, but this time Arowe suddenly feels real heat and smells the smoke and fire issuing from the hellish horse, before he even realises what's occurring. Both the Hag and her large Nightmare actually materialise physically within the tight confines of the sectioned off tent, instantly hemming Liga Bur and his riding dog in, as well as Arowe himself. And then they strike! Not at their original Halfling target, but instead at his vigilant Elven guard!

Arowe weirdly feels no rage towards the Nightmare horse or the Hag though; it’s as if every ounce of his anger is still reserved for his ‘oath-bow’ sworn target and he has none left over. The only emotion he can dredge up is disappointment that he’s not facing Sir Briefadel. This soon changes to genuine fear though, as the massive horse's fiery hoof smack down on his shoulder and the hideous Hag's maw widens as she advances on him. The battle is, thankfully for the Elven archer, soon joined by the armed but uncharacteristically unarmoured Fortu as well as Henshaw and Barbella. Flashing sword blades and reckless crossbow bolts fill the crowded, suddenly claustrophobic space.

Unaccustomed to fighting within such close quarters and choking on the acrid smoke bellowing from the black horse's mouth, Arowe only manages to get a few, ineffectual feathered shafts off before he realises that he's in serious trouble! The two powerful supernatural creatures are solely targeting him and they want him dead! Using the slight flexibility of the tent walls, he manages to slide past the constrained horse-bat-thing and flee to the healing, harmonious words of Rifkin in the next tent section, while Fortu, Barbella and Henshaw hold the Hag and the demon horse at bay and continue to defend Liga Bur.

The Halfling's also desperate to flee but he can't easily escape the tent or get past the Nightmare horse or Hag. Mir Hundur finds his natural claws and jaws ineffective against the Hag and Liga Bur looks at his small, silver Kukri with concern. Can he even hurt her with this?

Inspired by some inner voice, Fortu shouts over at him.

"Forget the knife; Grab her magical ruby heart! Snatch it from her!"

Two things instantly happen. Liga Bur, though appreciating the good idea, realises that, although the chain the ruby hangs on isn't that secured, considering the height difference between the Halfling and the Hag, it's a hard ask. The Hag though, still senses the potential danger and fearfully grips the large ruby to her plump breast, before she and her evil mount fade back into the ethereal plane and escape.

The keen sensed Arowe realises that he’d also spotted something odd in the confusion...

"You were right Rifkin. The Hag's precious ruby does contain a Human eye! It’s hard to tell through the red of the ruby but I think it was a blue one!”

Dance of the Mace-Handmaidens