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!”

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 Dead and the Fled

Surveying the score of bodies littering the forest floor, Rifkin feels a second wave of shame shudder through his slightly Elvish frame. Once again, when the chips were down, his cowardice rose up and overwhelmed him.

Many of their ambushers had managed to flee, but they were of little consequence. They’d been terrified at the end and, as much as he loathed himself for it, he understood them completely. After escaping with their lives, they’d not risk coming back.

Glancing over at Fortu, a man who’d fearlessly charged forward and held the line alone against eight well-armed soldiers and battle-hungry Orcs, he sinks even lower.

Inspiring tunes and a handful of minor healing spells; is that all he’s worth? 

As soon as that crossbow bolt glanced by him from the trees overhead, he fled with no thought or concern for anything or anyone beyond his own craven survival.

Never again though.

Pulling Spider Murphy’s magical shortsword out of his backpack, he wraps his slender musician’s fingers around its leathered hilt.

Never again would he allow himself to be so pathetic.

No Honour Among Sleaze

The skirmish is over almost as fast as it began and Spider Murphy and his rag-tag band of mercenaries and cut-throats are either dead or driven off. 

After calming down the over-excited Doberman, blonde mopped Henshaw turns to Barbella.

“Why’d ya do it? Why did you betray your old friend O’Malley? I thought you said that you were only ‘Doing what you were told, for the sake of all the gold’?”

The smaller, swarthier Barbella shrugs.

“You trust the adventurers, so I trust the adventurers.”

Henshaw beams at his old friend.

“You secret softy. I knew I hung around you for a reason.”

Baring his teeth and exposing the occasional gold replacement, Barbella smiles tightly.

“You realise that I did it for you, not them and on top of that, I wouldn’t trust Spider Murphy further than I could throw ‘im’”

Henshaw raises his eyebrows in response.

“That’s fair. Safer to associate with the good you know, than a self-serving psychopath!”

The Wetness Below

As the sharp, triangular, stone slabs of the trap-door slam back into place, everyone reacts at once. Fortu, with a bitter glance toward the now-within-reach exit, instead rolls to his feet and heads back to where Doberman fell through. He knows another iron spear will be coming but, shield raised, prepares himself for it. The Elven Arowe, currently safe under the stone arch at the entrance, anticipates what his Human friend is planning and unhooks the remaining forty-foot of acid-burned rope he's still carrying. Everyone else though, other than the trembling Rifkin, rushes back down the stone steps.

The long limbed Henshaw leads the way, bounding downward but he's soon passed by the smaller but swifter Barbella. Finally Liga Bur, atop Mir Hunder follows them both down but slows when he reaches the whirling, damp vapours of the ground floor. Quick-witted as he is, the grim outrider's already realised that fat Doberman has fallen down through the hollow, wide pillars to the basement level below. The 'certain death' level that flaming Dijonn had previously warned him about. Barbella and Henshaw barge on regardless though, down the second flight of stone steps, disappearing into the dank mist and darkness. Only their shouts and the magical light from Barbella's silver sickle confirming their continued existence.

Although it's only been seconds, Doberman's fingers are already cramping up from the effort of supporting his own impressive weight and fear grips the rotund mercenary. He's a simple man of simple pleasures; eating being his favourite, followed closely by drinking and murdering. He's not often experienced personal terror before, but now, hanging in the darkness, he's mightily relieved to see a small triangle of light reappear at the top of the pipe. His relief is cut short though, as a heavy wedge of stone crashes past, just missing his fleshy shoulder and landing twenty-odd feet below him with an ominous 'splosh'!

Two levels up, Arowe and Fortu work furiously together, disabling the spear traps around them, but not before the armoured Gladiator is caught a glancing blow to his thigh. Despite the keen edge of the cold-iron spear, it's thankfully not sharp enough to pierce his enchanted armour, but he still feels the bruise forming, even through his padded gambeson. Once secure, Arowe beckons Rifkin over to prevent the next slab from falling, but they both underestimate the stone segment's weight whilst vastly overestimating the slender Bard's strength. As Fortu's incredible magical sword cuts, spade-like through the second segment, the kneeling Rifkin tries to grab the falling triangular rock section, but instead, the Bard is pulled over in place, smacking his chin on the stone edge and fumbling the second piece of masonry down the dark shaft.

Coming to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the basement steps, Barbella and Henshaw arrive just in time to see two chunks of rock, smash into the cursing Doberman, breaking his grip and knocking him off of the funnel lip. It's pitch-black down here but Barbella's glowing, silver sickle casts enough light to see their broad-beamed friend land in a wide pool of stagnant, green water. Henshaw grips Barbella's shoulder however, when he notices the 'water' reach up to intercept the falling Doberman.

"It's alive! That slime's alive!"

Screaming up at Liga Bur, the Halfling, unable to pass through the damp mist while holding the flaming Dijonn, passes on their call.

"Rifkin! I need you!"

Their plan an abject failure, Rifkin, followed by the slower Fortu, runs down the stairs behind them, where Liga Bur passes the already-half-used-up torch fueling Dijonn to Rifkin and takes his place, still ahead of Fortu. With Fortu's Bastard sword adding its light to Barbella's, the room becomes much clearer. It's basically a massive, empty cellar, with a double dropped level in the centre making up a large pool about five to ten feet deep. The green, slimy 'pool' though, seems to be actively, if sluggishly, pursuing the three guards. 

Doberman is already caught inside the translucent creature's glistening outer membrane, while Henshaw and Barbella are trying to pull him out without being dragged in themselves. Liga Bur can't help but laugh at their incompetence. He forgets sometimes that they're just... Out-of-their-depth, town guards. Fortu though, does as his instincts command. Slicing through the slime feels little different to slicing through stone with his new sword, but rather than seem hurt or damaged, the separated blob of goo slithers across and up Fortu's steel-plated legs...

And they burn!

At his comrade's yell, Liga Bur's smile evaporates and he quickly reassesses the situation. The slime's alive but not intelligent. It's just pursuing food and, thanks to the training he received from his tribe’s Orc Shaman, he immediately knows what to do. With a few guttural chants and secret gestures, a large boar appears out of thin air between Henshaw and Barbella, just as they manage to heave the acid-burned Doberman out of the living gloop.

The entire Party escape back up the stone steps while the greenish ooze is distracted, enveloping and consuming the poor, screeching, summoned pig. As everyone rushes, wide-eyed past Rifkin, the barely Elven Bard can't help but ask...

"Dear God; What was that thing?!"

Spider Murphey's Law

Lungs rasping, Spider Murphey finally halts his tree-top escape. He must be at least a mile from camp with no sounds of pursuit.

"That bastard Rifkin! The boys were right when they said I was being too soft. I just couldn't stand destroying that beautiful voice of his."

Swinging down from the lowest branches, he spits onto the leaf littered ground.

"I vow though, if we should meet again, I won't make that mistake a second time."

Friendships Forged in the Heat of Battle