Unkempt Contempt

Liga Bur had encountered several Orcs on his travels since being driven from his Dark-Star clan in the Broken lands, beyond the boarders of so called ‘civilisation’. Young Orcs selling themselves out as mercenaries or guards. In the Human lands, they’d been a surprising number of Half-Orcs, rejected by their tribes or raised by their Human Mothers. None of them were fully accepted by the Humans though. They’d always felt a certain level of fear and distrust.

Understandable, considering the general Orcish reputation, but unfair never-the-less. As a Halfling, raised by Orcs, Liga Bur understood their mindset. He understood their specific morality and the pride they had in their race, their tribe and their emblems.

The seven ‘Orcs’ he’d encountered today though, shook him to his core. He’d always assumed that the silent Red-Eyes that drove his Father’s Dark-Star tribe further and further into the inhospitable Dead-Lands were just one, unwaveringly evil tribe. They all wore the same dark colours with a red circle on their chests. These ones though, they looked and acted so similarly; Silent, fearless and with eyes showing no iris or pupil, just blood-red sclera, but their tribal colours and emblems didn’t match. 

Although he hadn’t recognised any of them, he’d counted at least four different tribal symbols and rather than seeming proud of them, these Orcs seemed less than indifferent to them. Contemptuous even! 

No Orc, not even ones from the lesser tribes, would behave that way.

He’d instructed his friends to dismember the, somehow not-quite-dead-or-alive bodies. Hopefully that’ll be enough to stop them rising again, like the ones who’d attacked his adoptive family so relentlessly all those many months ago.

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!?”

Fairer Sharer

Without the surprisingly trustworthy Henshaw to help him, Rifkin counts out the gold coins by himself into seven equal piles. Seven equal piles for seven men? No, as the Triplets still refuse to accept any extra gold for their service. It still feels wrong to exclude them but he allots, as agreed, double shares to Banaal, Fortu and Liga Bur and keeps a single share for himself. Then, he sorts out the magical equipment. 

The two daggers are deceptively powerful but not really the style of anyone here. They could make useful back-up weapons though.

The glass web-wand is tragically, unusable by anyone here. It’s a bit like the ‘Burning-hands’ wand they got from Sir Briefadel’s fake Wizard squire; Egrow. Only usable by Wizards or those especially skilled with magical devices.

The poison vials are also dangerous to use, unless skilled with their storage and application. 

The twenty-four flaming crossbow bolts though, are usable by Fortu, Banaal AND the Triplets… Could this be another way of ‘sneaking’ them a little more help?

Despite still not using his, potentially cursed, magic ‘Vampire’ sword, Rifkin’s finger trails along Danté’s black, oily Leather armour. It’d helped him slip through Liga Bur’s entanglement spell but it was worthless to his teammates…

(After a few conversations.)

Current gold totals

Banaal:
Gold: 1606gp
10 gems (worth 100gp each)
4 gems (worth 50gp each)

Six +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

Fortu:
Gold: 1934gp
6 gems (worth 25gp each)

Liga Bur:
Gold: 411gp 

Rifkin:
Gold: 1550gp
7 gems (worth 25gp each)
+1 Leather armour (improved Slickness)

Ringo:

Six +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

Locket:

Six +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

Chape:

Five +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

+1 Heavy metal shield.

In addition:

Two +3 medium sized magic Daggers

Five vials of (handily labeled) Blue Whinnis poison

Wand of Webs

Fourteen Masterwork daggers

Fey Contract

As the strange, ethereal songbird disappears in a puff of pale blue smoke, the enigmatic Estrid examines the wax seal on the envelope left in its place. 

‘R’?

Tentatively breaking the seal, the tall and beautiful Fey woman unfolds the letter.

‘For the attention of Estrid; guardian of the pool. I have received your messengers and tasted your magical waters. I’m an old man who did not expect to see another summer but, as you know, war is coming. A war against a shared enemy. I’ve agreed to send you a battalion of my men; they should arrive within the month. Gods willing that it will be soon enough. I also agree to prevent any further incursions into your land from my people. In return, all I ask is that you maintain your current borders and furnish me with an ongoing supply of your rejuvenating waters. Regards, Lord Urdurel.’

The Satyr; Magritte canters over.

“Good news? We certainly need some.”

Estrid smiles reassuringly.

“It’s from the almost-Elf; Rifkin. I’m quite surprised how good his writen Sylvan is. The adventurers succeeded. Their Lord Urdurel has agreed to our request and we shall have our Human guards within one full cycle of the moon.”

The swarthy and hirsute Satyr pulls a worried face. 

“It’s been weeks since the adventurers returned through the pool. Do you think we have that much time? Can we really trust Humans to help us?”

The goddess of the pool smiles cynically and shrugs.

“Alas my curly-horned, cloven-hooved friend; what choice do we really have?”

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.

Danté’s Poisonous Legacy

After using up every healing spell he had on his Halfling and Human friends, Rifkin watches Banaal drag back the lead assassin’s corpse. Up close, the man looks near to seventy, despite his recent movements seeming to be that of a much younger man. His black, leather armour is weirdly oily to the touch and obviously magic of some sort… Probably the reason why Liga Bur’s entangling spell was so ineffectual. Likewise his dagger; the twin of the one Fortu had already retrieved by the waterfront. This one’s a lot cooler though; temperature wise. There’s also, several vials and a translucent glass-like wand. Both of which, because of what he’d seen, the Bard can guess at.

Human sized Leather armour +1 (slick improved)

Two +3 medium sized magic Daggers

Five vials of Blue Whinnis poison

Wand of Webs

160gp

Plus:

Twenty-six +1 ‘Flaming’ Crossbow bolts

Fourteen Masterwork daggers and 140gp combined taken from the Assassin corpses.

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.

:)

Subotage

Coordinating their actions with the sudden snagging of the barge mid-river, the two young Assassins screw their time-release devices directly onto the underside of the Spinning Jenny’s hull. It’s a difficult underwater task, but the Witch bestowed ‘water-breathing’ potions make it eminently possible and they’ve drilled for this mission in more ways than one. The very act of securing these two delayed release items in place, alerts the passengers above but all they need is about half a minute.

The small screw holes consequently allow river water to seep up onto the barge’s flat bottom but at a rate unlikely to alarm or much reduce the ferry’s buoyancy or speed. The screw holes though, are merely a precursor of what’s to come.

After a thumbs up gesture to each-other, the two Assassins release their grips from under the hull and allow the current of the river to carry them clear of the boat. Although still underwater, they can see their Witch air-support exchanging magical bolts of energy with an eagle. An eagle who’s obviously the Halfling Druid shape-changer they’d been forewarned about.

Flaming crossbow bolts also continue to rain down on the barge from their teammates on the Agentian side of the river. Their plan is working, despite a few wrinkles…

The armoured knight is in the water but somehow not drowning and striking surprisingly fast towards the far side, where their leader; Danté is standing.

Exchanging looks, the two submerged young men gesture frantically to each other. Should they continue to drift to safety or chase after the man they know as; Fortu?

Just then a terrific splash pulls their attention. The Druid-eagle; Liga Bur has taken a flaming bolt from one of their teammates’ crossbows and fallen into the water.

Then, just as the timer was set for, the two bombs under the barge explode! Their upward facing charges, momentarily lifts the barge up off the water and blasts two huge holes in the flat hull, sending wooden splinters into everyone standing nearby. 

The horses shriek as they rear and strain against their tethered reins, the two dogs struggle to obey their master’s instructions and Rifkin and the Ferry-woman; Jane are injured. Only the sturdy Dwarf-priest; Banaal, his stubborn Mule and the huge, black Warhorse seem unfazed.

The two submerged Assassins grin and high-five each-other.

Nothing could go wrong now!

The Three Debt Arrears

Gazing at the gleaming longsword in his hand, Chape examines the perfect blade, exquisite hilt and customised blue leather grip. It’s a beautiful sword. A weapon forged by a master craftsman. An artisan working in unison with a specialist wizard. Although he’d seen many magical weapons before, he’d never dreamed of ever actually owning one. 

Tearing his eyes from the fantastically expensive, gifted sword, he looks to the faces of his equally dumbfounded brothers.

“These swords could save our parents’ farm. We could pay off all their debts and have plenty left to replenish the livestock and even buy some extra adjoining land from our neighbours…”

Chape’s words trail off and his brother; Locket takes up the thought.

“The sale of just ONE of these swords could do that!”

Ringo’s the one who finishes the thought though. 

“Selling these gifts would be an insult to Rifkin and his adventurer friends. Our wages are already covering the loan interest repayments and we’ll eventually find a way to cover the original obligation.”

Circling back, Chape, claps both his identical brothers on their sturdy shoulders.

“Agreed. Although he referred to it being a ‘small gift’, we all know there’s nothing small about it. We show our gratitude to Rifkin, Liga Bur, Banaal and Fortu by guarding them with our lives. We’re already keeping the farm afloat with our three regular wages. When one of us eventually gets promoted to Sargent, we’ll slowly, but surely pay back that outstanding balance.”

Smiling broadly, all three of the brothers raise their shiny, new, enchanted longswords into the air and, for a joyous moment, forget about their current responsibilities and shout out their childhood battle cry…

“THREE FOR ME AND ME FOR THREE!”

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!”

The Knot Wave Inn

The austere seeming tavern owner and bar manageress; Miss Smith (Stevie to her friends) watches the seven men leave after an early breakfast. The Captain of their small guard post; Lynchin, had paid for everything in advance; Dinner, drinks, board and breakfast, as apparently, these men were on an important mission for Lord Urdurel himself.

Who were these strange men? The three soldiers were identical triplets. Extremely unusual but not unheard of, especially in this region of Fissa. The neighbouring kingdom of Agentia was as famous for the twins in its royal family as it was for the silver in its mountains. The other four though; a well presented War-priest Dwarf, the roughest, toughest looking Halfling that she’d ever seen, a barely Elf-touched Bard and the darkly-armoured Human. She’d been surprised when Fortu had come down for dinner sans his Platemail. He was much younger than she’d first assumed. Tall, strong and handsome, despite the scars, but somehow… still innocent. Without his black lenses, there’d been kindness in his blue/grey eyes.

Stevie shakes her head, making her short bobbed, grey hair shimmy.

‘Innocent’? That made no sense. From the rumours she’d heard, he’d been a gladiator from overseas. A trained killer from birth and now a merciless, mercenary sell-sword.

Perhaps it’s her old poetic heart? Perhaps it’s just that she’d spent her entire life surrounded by contented, soft-spoken fisherfolk beside the Mar-Gin river with a plentiful, all-year-round supply of fish. Ziner is a blessed place. Beautiful and peaceful. A town that, because of the fifty-year destroyed bridge/boarder crossing, has been sheltered from violence, even through Lord Urdurel’s decades long wars against the bordering realms.

Looking up, Stevie realises that the seven men are already gone and far out of sight, but she calls out to them anyway.

“May the gods of mercy, shelter and protect you.”

Hackers and Stabbers

Almost immediately after leaving through Cottis’ huge eastern gate, Ringo spurs on his horse to close the gap and pulls four heavy money purses from his saddle bags.

“I didn’t get a chance to give you this before we left the capital, but I sold the eleven bandit horses as you asked and here’re your profits.”

Banaal, atop his faithful mule; Murmul, notices that Ringo  is now riding Maurice. The horse that Fortu had previously been riding before being given his huge current one; Night Fever. Banaal had also noticed Liga Bur’s suspicious look but dismissed the similarity between this horse and the description he’d been given of Hetzabah’s flaming hooved Nightmare as mere coincidence.

The other two of the triplet brothers had been given fresh riding horses too but Banaal hadn’t heard their names spoken aloud yet.

Three of the money bags contain 145gp each and these are handed out to Fortu, Banaal and Liga Bur.

A smaller one, containing 72gp is for Rifkin.

Rifkin smiles and thanks Ringo, but in response, pulls out three, almost identical, magical longswords from his own saddlebags and offers them to the three brothers. The only noticeable difference between the swords are the three different coloured leather grip wrappings.

“When I was selling the two tiny magical daggers we took from that Halfling psycho; Marvin, I was offered a much better deal on a trade rather than just straight gold.”

Rifkin looks to Fortu, Liga Bur and Banaal.

“I hope that’s alright with you?”

Locket, Chape and Ringo all initially hesitate but Rifkin does his best to reassure them.

“You’re not allowed to take payment or a fair cut of the reward for Marvin and his bandits. You’ve even just handed over all the gold you got for selling those horses! Surely though, you can’t refuse a small gift? A gift that makes your jobs of protecting us and completing your mission easier.”

The three brothers, then tentatively reach out in turn to take one of Rifkin’s proffered swords and their matching coloured scabbards. Each one is skillfully stitched with the initial of each brother; R, C and L. Rust red for Ringo, cerulean blue for Chape and a lemon yellow for Locket.

“Thanks” they say in turn.

Turning back to Fortu, Banaal and Liga Bur, Rifkin shrugs.

“Turns out that three standard sized, ‘minor’ magical, standard steel swords, cost a great deal less than those two tiny, ‘slightly more’ magical daggers though…”

And Rifkin takes out three more bags of gold and hands them out.

“Here’s another 400gp for Banaal and Fortu.”

Then, with a nervous shrug, he passes over a smaller pouch containing just 50gp to Liga Bur with a slightly worried expression.

“I took what you owed me from Nonogonagal’s magic emporium out of your share. Again, I hope that’s alright?”

Current gold totals 

Banaal:
Gold: 1520gp
10 gems (worth 100gp each)
4 gems (worth 50gp each)

Fortu:
Gold: 1851gp
6 gems (worth 25gp each)

Liga Bur:
Gold: 325gp (All debts cleared)

Rifkin:
Gold: 1508gp
7 gems (worth 25gp each)

In addition:

Locket: +1 magical Longsword with Lemon yellow hilt and scabbard.

Chape: +1 magical Longsword with Cerulean blue hilt and scabbard.

Ringo: +1 magical Longsword with Rust red hilt and scabbard.

Dragon Fang

Despite his advanced years and only having one working eye, Lord Urdurel notices Fortu glancing at the blue hilted, cold-iron Longsword sitting flat in the, perfectly carved out recess in the centre of the square tabletop. A table, small enough, to enable Lord Urdurel to reach its grip from any side. 

“Yes, the table acts as an oversized scabbard of sorts, I’m too old to lug a weapon around anymore. Do you like the sword nesting within it? ‘Dragon Fang’ I call it; I just recently had it commissioned and although not a match for the one you now possess, it’s still a powerful blade and there’s a rich kind of poetry attached to it.”

Leaning in, Rifkin moves to stroke the shimmering blade, but then draws his slender, mandolin playing fingers away before reaching it.

“I felt sparks!”

The old man laughs, revealing a greying, but surprisingly still full set of teeth.

“About a year ago, I was informed that some of the great and terrible dragon; Theranthor’s teeth had been recovered by a group of adventurers. They’d apparently stolen them from the Orcish; Broken Lancer’s tribe, after her massive skull had been destroyed. I managed to purchase several of them and had them forged into this enchanted, cold-iron sword. I found it ironic that my last days, might be spent standing against my second wife’s true Master and I wanted to wield a weapon crafted from the last creature to defeat him.”

The Demi-Elven Bard’s semi-almond-shaped eyes widen.

“That truly would be poetic justice, but surely, a man of your advanced years, doesn’t expect to actually join the fray?!”

With some effort, Lord Urdurel pulls himself up and out of his heavy, throne-like chair.

“I’m nearly a hundred years old. I sleep more than wake and my memory is starting to fade but I’ll be damned if I send another soldier to his death without standing, and risking my all, beside them.”

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?

Hero for Hire

Rifkin can’t quite believe what he’d just saw… Who he’d just seen. That was Quinn… ‘The Mighty Quinn’! Hero of dozens of stories! Lone protagonist of a score of epic songs and stanzas! Still in his early thirties, the man’s a living legend!

He’d been as tall as his reputation had implied and as wide at his white fur clad shoulders. And that smile! The man radiated confidence and joy! When he passed them outside Lord Urdurel’s office, he didn’t just walk, he strutted. That man was so gorgeous and so full of himself, he could’ve probably strutted while sitting down!

The Mighty Quinn; the man who’d single-handedly defeated the Pigeon Queen. The hero who’d beaten the sleeping giants of Cribarth. The lone warrior who rescued an entire town from the evil Wizard; Dizpare!

Despite living his entire adult life travelling. Despite running with dastardly thieves, dashing Elves, brave Human warriors, Halfling druids and, more recently; Dwarven priests, Rifkin had still not seen anything like the Mighty Quinn!

The Horses behind the Cart

Clip-clopping along the wide track behind Cookie’s bulky wagon, the two surviving horses, that the Party were loaned by Sir Briefadel half a year ago, whinny quietly to each-other.

Robin, leans in toward his stablemate.

“I don’t like being tied to the back of this cart but it’s still a lot better than being ridden. My back still aches from when I’ve been forced to carry that music-man; Rifkin around all day.”

Maurice rolls his brown eyes.

“Your back aches? My rider’s twice the size of yours and wrapped in metal! He must think I’m some sort of war horse!”

Robin has the grace to drop his gaze.

“It could be worse I suppose. We could have been forced to haul this huge wagon, like those too big, cart-horse idiots; Burt and Ernie.”

Maurice snickers.

“That’s true but I really wish Fortu would work on his rising trot. He bounces around on top of my back like an armoured sack of potatoes!”

Robin flicks his head to draw Maurice’s attention to the eleven tethered men trudging behind them and their, still saddled but seemingly content, riding horses.

“Perhaps, now that they’ve acquired all these extra horses, we might get a job-share situation going on to spread the load… And by load, I mean; Fortu.”

Maurice & Robin

Light Riding horses

Large but (unsurprisingly, considering they saw their stablemate (Barry) eaten by a Displacer-beast) skittish.

Str: 15

Int: 2

Wis: 12

Dex: 12

Con: 16

Cha: 6

HPs: 27

AC: 13

Move: 60’

Alignment: True Neutral 

Initiative: +1

Attack: Hoof: -2 Damage: 1d4+1 (full attack x2 hooves)

Reach: 5’

Feats: Endurance / Run

Skills: Listen: +4 / Spot: +4

Special: Scent / Low-light vision 

Saves: F: +6 / R: +4 / W: +2

Tricks: Stay / Heel / Come

S-Words

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

“What’s happening?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Vampiric touch!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vampiric touch!”

Recruitment Poster

 

Rifkin examines the recruitment poster with mild amusement. He’d never seen Lord Urdurel in real life, but the face represented in the poster was of a man still in rude health. Perhaps in his early sixties and certainly not the near hundred year old he actually is.

Positive state propaganda he supposes. Better to dupe the people into believing they still have a strong leader, rather than a doddering old man, especially in these terrifying times with a war possibly looming.

The last line is interesting though.

‘Musicians also required’.

A strange addition to an, otherwise standard, army poster…

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