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; Banal 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 Banal’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?

Opposing Magic Numbers

In the draped gloom of her heavy, circular, travelling tent, Megarna stares into her crystal ball sat in the centre of the small, round table.

“I’ve been tracking them since they returned to Fissa, as you asked me to, Mistress.”

In the centre of the glassy orb a face can be dimly seen. An ancient, grotesque and evil face.

“And their number remains seven?”

Megarna, her eyes slightly averted from the intensity of the expression on Hetzabah’s true face..

“Yes, despite the Elven Archer leaving them, his place has been almost immediately taken up by a Dwarven Cleric of Moriden.”

Hetzabah spits.

“Four Humans, a Halfling, a Demi-Elf and their new Dwarven recruit. Seven is a bad number for us. A terrible omen. A fated powerful number for the Gods of Law and Good.”

Megarna tries to meet her Mistress’s eyes.

“But our Coven has reached eleven. Only two more recruits needed to reach the equally powerful number thirteen. A magnifier for the powers of evil.”

In the core of the crystal ball, Hetzabah cackles.

“True enough my loyal servant. This game still goes our way. These ‘heroes’ barely comprehend the stakes of their involvement.”

Two out of Six Cats

The two surviving, inky-black, Displacer beasts finally slow their pace.

“How hurt you?”

Growls one to the other.

“About same as you.”

Despite their weird, dimensional-sliding powers, they’re both covered with cuts, scratches and stab wounds from their recent and unsuccessful sneak-attack against the group of two-legs.

“Others gone?”

“Certainly.”

“Even Alpha?”

“Saw her dead before we fled.”

Both monstrous, panther-like creatures stop to consider what’s just happened. Their whip-like tentacles, quivering above their first and second sets of shoulder-blades. 

“We killed one horse though.”

“Good eating and now only split by two.”

A Matter of Wife and Death

Head buried in his hands, Lord Urdurel weeps for only the third time in his life. The first time he was just fourteen, watching his parents slaughtered. The second time at forty-seven, when his beloved first wife; Dulcetta died of a mystery illness and now at forty-nine.

Lamenta is dead. His daughter. The last remaining light in his life.

Looking up at Commander Aglet, his blue eyes burning with tears and anger, his mind finally clears.

Dulcetta’s mysterious death, Hetzabah’s sudden appearance, Briefadel’s birth and Lamenta’s murder… it was all connected. Now, in this moment of clarity, it all becomes obvious; Hetzabah had just used him to gain power for herself and her mewing baby boy but it was Dulcetta and Lamenta who’d paid the ultimate price.

“What do you mean, ‘Hetzabah’s left the castle?’. Send a couple of your men to her chambers and drag her to me!”

Castilian Aglet steels himself before responding.

“We went to her chamber immediately after you discovered her halving of Lady Lamenta’s guard but she’d already left in a hurry. Such a hurry that she’d abandoned your infant son in the arms of his wet-nurse.”

Lord Urdurel stops at this news. His son; Briefadel. He’d strangely felt nothing but resentment when Hetzabah became pregnant immediately on their wedding night and he felt nothing for the boy now. Still, he was an innocent and not responsible for his Mother’s crimes.

His eyes suddenly dry and his voice icy, he gives a new order.

“Select a squad of your twenty best men and have them join me, fully armed, in the courtyard. I’m going to find her myself and make her pay for every atrocity she’s committed against me and our people.”

Four Fatherless Men

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then back at the raggedy, young woman.

“Go on… And do better!”

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

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

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

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

The young woman quails.

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

Megarna spits.

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

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

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

The old Witch scowls.

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

Tacky Cat-Tics

As if moulded from oil and smoke, the six huge, cat-like creatures stealthily flow around the wide rooted trees of the dark Fey forest, in search of their nighttime prey…

A large-ish group of assorted two-legs, alongside a quartet of horses and a stinking dog. Bizarrely, the group seemed to have been attempting to track them, but now they’d pay a price for their temerity.

The pack leader halts and Half-twists in place, her sharp-fanged head, front taloned paws raised and two long barbed tentacles waving above, while her four back padded feet remain firmly planted on the leaf covered ground, long, thin tail quivering in anticipation.

“Quiet. We close. They stopped. But not resting. Not sleeping. Still, plan is good. Ready or unready.”

Her voice is quiet but loaded with barely restrained menace and the other ‘cats’  purr submissively.

“Three pairs. Spread out. Take position in dark. Use cover. Be silent. Stay hidden until my signal.”

One of the other shadowy, deep purple creatures moves slightly forward and growls low; questioning.

“Why hide? Surely dark cover enough?”

The pack leader growls back to assert her dominance.

“Dwarf there. See good as we. Will warn others. Spoil surprise!”

The second in command narrows her yellow eyes.

“Target Dwarf first?”

The pack alpha shakes her boney, fur covered head.

“No. Dwarven meat no good. Too salty. Too tough. Be swift. Go for horses. Kill vile dog if get chance.”

The five Betas nod in agreement before the Alpha finishes her brief.

“Watch for me. I go first. When they move to intercept me. You come from other sides of clearing. Pick off weak.”

Marriage Vows

Eleven months pregnant but still tall (by High-Elven standards) and elegant, Lissomny calls to her chambermaids to have her second-cousin Filigren granted entry to her private chambers.

“Have you read the documents I had couriered to you? Do you agree to these terms?”

The shorter elf sneers in response.

“A marriage of convenience. I gain a sizable share of your wealth and my family name is elevated back into the upper echelons of Glendorian society. What’s not to understand?”

Lissomny Sighs. 

“And in exchange, you marry me and promise to claim this child as your own and never reveal their true origin?”

Filigren scowls. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll pretend your half-cast brat is mine but when his true heritage is eventually revealed and this charade is finally over, I’ll still expect you to continue financing my, soon to be lavish, lifestyle.”

Lissomny sighs again. 

“Unlike you, I’m an Elf of my word but, if my son ever does discover the truth and I find out that it was you who told him or were behind it in any way, there will be nowhere for you to hide and I will have you killed.”

For the first time since entering Lissomny’s chamber, Filigren’s sour expression pales.

“I swear, if and when the time finally comes, it’ll not’ve been me who told your mongrel son the awful truth.”

Innocence Lost

Lamenta’s beloved and kind-hearted mother, Lady Dulcetta had died at just thirty-three years of age. As cruel fate would have it, precisely the same age as Lord Urdurel had been when they’d first met and fallen in love. Since her death though, everything had changed dramatically for the worse.

Life in a cage, no matter how gilded, is mere existence. Since her Mother’s premature death, her Father, Lord Urdurel had cut her off from everything and everyone she’d known, except for her Mother’s now, long-in-the-fang, deer-hound; Belvedere. Her Father treated her as if she were suddenly too delicate to face the world, as if she were made of the fragilest crystal. A situation that had only grown more wretched since her Father suddenly remarried a woman with obvious evil intent, even though he seemed completely incapable of seeing it. He was infatuated with his dark-locked and voluptuous new bride, to the point that he hadn’t even seemed that interested in her newborn half-brother; Briefadel.

Lord Urdurel, under the thrall of Hetzabah, had returned to his warring ways, blind to the objections of his advisors or the suffering of his own people.

Lady Lamenta’s life had been reduced down to that of little more than a prisoner, kept hidden away in her dead Mother’s tower under lock and key. She was sixteen now but there was nothing sweet about her situation.

The Commander of the guard; Captain Aglet had recently halved her protection detail, on the instructions of her step-mother but then immediately reinstated it, on the orders of her suspicious Father, with twice the number of men as before. He’d even stationed an armed guard immediately outside her bedroom chamber door. 

This was the second week and there was a change in soldiers. Her new door guard; Padrik, was fair-haired, fresh-faced and handsome, perhaps only a year or two older than herself. Even though she knew he was instructed to keep his eyes to himself, she couldn’t help teasing him with glimpses of a bare ankle or an, accidentally revealed, shoulder.

That night though, something was wrong. She’d changed into her nightgown and stepped over the multiple, concentric, magical protection circles etched around her Mother’s old bed and wriggled under the silk sheets. With her big, old dog lying at her feet, her dreams were no longer haunted by evil witches or giant, shadowy horses, but Lamenta still felt a cold wave of anxiety in her stomach as Belvedere abruptly twitched awake and started to growl. 

Slipping quietly out of bed and heading to the iron caged balcony, she thought of the young man standing guard just outside her door. She knew he wasn’t allowed to leave his post but she needed someone close. Then, in the darkness of the walled garden below, she saw a flash of a steel blade and could hear someone beginning to scale the wall. The balcony was protected and her windows were barred but certain magics could easily overcome mundane iron, no matter how thick.

Paralysed with fear, she tightly clutches her loyal hound in fear and calls out.

“Guard! Guard!”

Almost immediately, Lamenta sees the shadow of her young protector fall across the frosted glass panels of her bedchamber door and she hears him whisper…

“My Lady?”

Then, before she can reply, another shadow looms up behind him on the other side of her bedroom door, followed immediately by the splatter of Padrik’s dark arterial blood across the glass. 

This is when the sixteen-year-old Lady Lamenta screams, 

Despite his advanced age, the boney but still pony-sized Belvedere stands bravely, fangs bared and hackles raised, between his young Mistress and the door, but when the two black-clad Assassins pass like smoke through the, still locked, barrier, there’s nothing the dog can do beyond dying by their wickedly curved blades.

Lasting barely a few moments longer than her slaughtered dog, despite her pleading, Lamenta‘s pitiful screams are quickly silenced by the merciless killers.

The kind-hearted and innocent young woman’s last words are…

“Father!”

Dulcetta’s Decidedly Deadly Dreams

Happiness is ever elusive and always fleeting and the joy that King Urdurel felt, although sublime, was dependent, absolutely, on the love he felt for his young wife; Dulcetta and consequently, on the love she openly returned to him.

From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, he was a changed man. No longer driven by the need for conquest, his raging heart had been instantly quelled to the point of conciliation with those nations he’d so recently waged war upon.

Despite giving up his rightfully earned, battle-won and blood soaked title, the now; Lord Urdurel maintained his castle stronghold in Cottis and still retained power over Stowan and the surrounding conquered kingdoms but now they flourished under his newly benevolent stewardship. 

Then though, after the birth of their perfect daughter and fifteen years of joy and peace, beautiful Dulcetta fell suddenly ill. It was subtle at first, just fractious sleep and fevered dreams. 

She sought solace in her daily horse rides, walking her loyal hound; Belvedere and spending time with her beloved daughter; Lamenta, but nothing soothed her tortured soul, and then, over the next few months, it became worse. Much worse.

Paranoia, violent outbursts and self-harm. She’d awake in the night, drenched in sweat and screaming, as if pursued by black-hearted hags in her terrifying nightmares. 

Despite all Lord Urdurel could do, all the healers, priests and sorcerers he drafted in to help, his beloved wife lost her mind and her enfeebled, frail body soon followed.

After just a few months of failing health and mental anguish, all that was left of Dulcetta, was her grieving fourteen-year-old daughter and a husband, broken and overcome with rage anew.

The Fifteen Year Onslaught

Sitting tall in the saddle atop his large, heavily barded and well trained warhorse, King Urdurel glances sidelong across the first rank of his armoured lancers. They face the opposing army flanked by hundreds of loyal foot-soldiers and archers. This was to be the last battle in his decade-and-a-half campaign. Five of the six kingdoms along his border had already fallen but this final one had proven to be the most resistant.

After each battle, each victory, King Urdurel offered the best of the vanquished a place at his side. All they had to do was swear absolute fealty to him and, when offered the headsman’s axe as the alternative, most did. And so, with each triumph, his army grew considerably larger and more powerful.

Leading his opposition, less than a thousand yards away across the valley, two figures, armoured in the silver their land is renowned for, stand beside the large tent displaying their colours. Two figures of about the same age as King Urdurel was when he killed King Vagitus. A young man and a young woman. Twins. Their army is impressive and large enough to offer a real challenge to his own armed forces. King Urdurel was confident of a victory, but the lay of the land offered no strategic advantage to either side and, regardless of tactics, hundreds, if not thousands of men would die this day.

Much to King Urdurel’s surprise though, the twins mount their horses and, riding under a white flag, without guards, gallop toward him.

Intrigued rather than intimidated, the Stowanian army part before them and, once dismounted, escort them to King Urdurel’s own command tent.

Inside, King Urdurel receives them with only two of his most trusted captains for protection.

The two nobles remove their plumed, silver helmets in the kind of coordinated motion only twins are capable of. They’re both tall and beautiful, with pale blond hair and eyes as blue as sapphires. It’s the young man who speaks first but King Urdurel can hardly drag his gaze away from the young woman. A woman barely half his age.

“King Urdurel, we are here to broker a peace between our Kingdoms.”

King Urdurel laughs.

“Peace? I don’t want peace. I want to see your parents’ heads on spikes. I want to see your skull crushed beneath my iron heel. I want all the fabled silver in your land transferred to my own coffers.”

Then the young woman takes her turn.

“Our parents are dead. My twin brother and I now lead our people and we would not have them die on this field. Take our silver, make our realm a vassal state and rule over us, but don’t let your bloodlust go any further.”

King Urdurel stops laughing.

“Why should I do that? What assurances would I have that you wouldn’t just plot against me from your position of safety?”

It’s the young queen who responds again, her voice sweet but firm.

“You leave my brother; Lucius here to govern in your name and I will submit to you as your prisoner. If my brother makes a move against you, no matter how seemingly insignificant or subtle, you can have my head.”

Taking her in, from her delicate features to her slender but obviously shapely frame under her ornate armour, King Urdurel stops, amazed with himself that he’s actually considering her proposition.

“What is your name?”

The beautiful young woman, sensing a glimmer of hope, smiles faintly for the first time. A smile so warm, so disarming, that King Urdurel’s heart seems to stop mid- beat within his chest.

“My name? My name is Dulcetta.”

Becoming what you Hate

Holding a bloody crown in his hands and looking down from his lofty balcony, Urdurel takes in the cheers and applause from the chanting crowd below. 

“The King is dead. Long live the King!”

At just eighteen-years-old, Urdurel had already succeeded in the first two of his promises; he’d killed the drunken Captain Glabella while he’d been naked and distracted in a brothel and, after raising a small army, he’d beheaded King Vagitus the IV during a well organised coup. All of the royals in the castle; men, women and children, were given the axe with the surviving soldiers and servants offered a simple choice; Serve under Urdurel or share their Master’s fate.

He wasn’t finished though, not even remotely. If he was going to retain this Kingdom, he’d need to destroy all who would oppose him and that meant any remaining enemies within his realm and the royal families of all six of the Kingdoms along their border. Stowan’s largest boundary though, stretched along the Fey wilds, a land that he could safely ignore whilst warring against all the other Human realms.

Below him the large crowd continued to chant his name.

“Long live King Urdurel! Long live King Urdurel! Long live King Urdurel!”

His expression momentarily souring, Urdurel considers his new title. Would it be so wrong to be called ‘King’? Surely it was different if their King was one of them, one of the common people and not some high-born, inbred and entitled popinjay?!

Urged on by the crowd, Urdurel takes Vagitus’ blood splattered crown, raises it over his head and then pulls it down, firmly into place.

King Urdurel? 

He could learn to live with that.

Way Back When Story

Urdurel was a young man. Barely a man at all at just fourteen, but a man he must be, as his parents were now both dead. Killed by the hand of their King’s chief enforcer, merely because they dared speak out against the ever increasing tax burden to fund King Vagitus the IV’s extravagant and pampered lifestyle.

The Brutish Captain Glabella had spared his life, not out of mercy but as an added insult. As a son of two millers, Urdurel had strength but no combat skill and was easily beaten down by the professional soldier.

Lying in the dirt beside his parents’ butchered bodies, Urdurel swore revenge. Revenge against his parents’ killer. Revenge against his Lord and master. Revenge against all the bloated and self-indulgent aristocracy.

He would recover his strength. He would train with the sword. He would kill every titled blue-blood in Stowan and all the surrounding realms.

Dancing with Death

Back behind the heavy, decorative curtain, the (still-desperately-pretending-to-be-middle-aged) Elven actor blinks rapidly, as if coming out of a deep trance. The applause from the auditorium though is still ringing loudly around the open-air theatre and the curtain rises once more to reveal a rapturous standing ovation.

Automatically stepping forward, his fingers still interlaced with those of the two actors either side of him, Gielgud Beams widely and bows flamboyantly as the clapping continues and perseveres long after the final curtain fall.

Still confused, Gielgud looks to the younger, beautiful actor on his left, who grins impishly in return.

“You were amazing sir! The best I’ve ever seen you! You were truly inspired tonight!”

Visibly shaken, the veteran actor makes his way back to the privacy of his dressing room, leans heavily on the mirrored vanity table and stares deeply into his own, grease-painted reflection.

‘Best they’d ever seen him perform’?

‘Truly inspired’?

He couldn’t even remember being on stage. It was as if  he’d been possessed by something… otherworldly, for the entirety of his performance. From his opening monologue until his dramatic closing speech.

No, that’s not quite right. He can still remember locking eyes with a remarkably tall Elf in the centre of the front row (much to the annoyance of everyone sitting behind him) and holding contact. A handsome youngster who’d caused Gielgud’s old heart to flutter. Sadly he’d been accompanied by a youngish Elven maiden.

And then…

Nothing.

Carefully removing his long golden, pre-plaited wig and starting to disrobe, a shudder runs through his thin Elven frame. A standing ovation is a wonderful thing to receive, but disconcerting when you know it wasn’t truly for you.

Still, the play he’d just performed was lightweight; barely more than an expanded children’s pantomime show really.

‘Dancing with Death - A musical adventure with magic and faries'.

A swashbuckling action story about terrifying, demonic Orcs and beautiful, otherworldly Fey. A tale about a band of steadfast brothers in arms overcoming unimaginable evil.

Gielgud shudders as he tries to pull himself back together. Whatever had caused his uncharacteristically virtuoso performance, be it muse, demon or deity, he’d accept it with unquestioning gratitude. An actor’s fame or notoriety sells tickets and puts bottoms on seats. If he was as good as he’d just been told, tomorrow’s show will be an absolute sell out!

Now though, a glass or five of fine Elven wine in the performer’s bar to steady his nerves is most definitely called for.

…

Far above him, in another realm, a disembodied but melodious Elven voice laughs in agreement.

Which Witch is Which?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bronwen chokes with bitter laughter.

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

Megarna shrugs skeletally.

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

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

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

This time, Megarna’s smile is genuine.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Visions of the Future Past

Looking up, Fortu sees a woman’s face, eyes full of tears, as she somehow passes him to a rough looking, bearded man along with a silk coin-purse and a smallish silver box.

They hurriedly exchange words but baby Fortu can’t comprehend what they’re saying or even the language being spoken. Fortu tries to reach back for her, he tries to speak but his body is tiny, his limbs are weak and his voice a pathetic, incomprehensible wail. 

Struggling to understand what’s happening but instinctively recognising a familial connection, Fortu questions himself…

Who is this woman? Could this wild-eyed gypsy be his actual Mother?

As if reading his mind, the dark-haired woman strokes his blemish free face, plants a gentle kiss on his forehead and whispers…

“Don’t worry Little one. I promise we shall meet again, for I have seen it in your future.”

… ‘Little one’? 

Had he never had a real name? Had he always been just a number?!

Waking with a start, Fortu balls up his fists and flexes his sword-strengthened forearms to reassure himself that he’s back in his adult body. Gazing around Estrid’s magical glade, he quickly regains his bearings, it’s still nighttime and Liga Bur is yet to return with the gruff Druid; Thornberg.

Who, Where, Why, What, How and When?

Who is the physically and emotionally scarred Fortu and what series of tragically unfortunate events led him to a brutal childhood in the gladiatorial fighting pits and whose fevered and nightmarish dreams seem often to be more like confusing and indecipherable prophecies?

Where did Mahd Boss find the baby Liga Bur and why did Hetzabah’s eyes briefly flashing ‘blood red’ make the Halfling tracker involuntarily shudder and remind him so much of the unrelenting and supernatural army that drove his Darkstar tribe into the unsurvivable ‘cursed lands’?

Why does Arowe’s High-Elven Father; Filigren despise him so and why does his beautiful and noble Mother; Lissomny put up with a Husband so obviously beneath her, especially considering that all the prestige, power and wealth come from her side of the family?

What drives the obviously cowardly Rifkin to risk his life adventuring instead of using his natural beauty and musical talent to simply earn a decent living in any one of the Human cities and towns he’d travelled through before his chance meeting with Arowe, Liga Bur and Fortu?

How are any of you going to discover the answers to all these, as of so far, unsolved and unasked questions?

And finally…

When will the Party come to fully trust the mercenary, ill intentioned, take what they want, killers for hire; Henshaw, Barbella and Doberman?

Practice masks Defect

After listening to, and learning from, his friends, Fortu realises that he’s not the only member of their group to have learned a few new tricks during their last few months under the harsh and multiple Calcientan suns. Arowe’s phenomenal speed and accuracy with his magical longbow has somehow, amazingly, incomprehensibly, improved still further and little Liga Bur, even before his Druidic rebirth, had focused on improving his rudimentary, though supernatural, animal summoning abilities. 

Rifkin, Henshaw, Barbella and even Doberman have also noticeably improved their skills, through a combination of experience and surprisingly dedicated practice, during their dead-time travelling with him and his friends. Having watched, gold toothed, Barbella, sneakily sliding around the battlefields, always ‘going for the soft bits’ or  looking to ‘Stab ‘em where it ‘urts’, the ex-gladiator realises that they share a certain understanding of human anatomy and vulnerability.

While he watched them train though, Fortu also noticed that the nimble Barbella mostly just practiced rolling about and dodging with Rifkin. The only obvious difference between the two of them is that Barbella did it with a dagger clenched betwixt his teeth and Rifkin whilst cradling his precious mandolin, as if it were a baby.

Henshaw and Doberman’s mock battles though, have become longer lasting and much more entertaining of late, with Henshaw doubling down on his awkward looking ‘crab-like’ defensive stance. Despite its ridiculous appearance, it’s remarkably effective but at the expense of a shockingly poor, though slowly improving, offence. Doberman, at the other extreme, just batters at Henshaw’s shield with little skill or regard to his own safety but with an ever increasing, bulging-eyed ferocity. In Doberman’s chubby, stubby fingers, Fortu’s gifted, enchanted Bastard sword will always be just a two-handed axe.

…

Actually, Moon-faced Doberman appears to have learnt very little from the last few months. He has however, seemed to have grown even more resilient to food poisoning since his last few bouts of projectile diarrhoea.

Please make the following changes to your henchmen…

Henshaw: 

Gained a level in Fighter:

(4th level Fighter)

4th level attribute bonus: +1 Strength.

+8HPs, +1 to hit, +1 Fortitude.

New Feat: Weapon Specialisation 

(Long sword +2 damage).

Skills: +1 in Climb, Jump, Swim / +2 Ride.

Barbella : 

Gained a level in Rogue: 

(2nd level Fighter/2nd level Rogue)

4th level attribute bonus: +1 Dexterity.

+5HPs, +1 to hit, +1Reflex.

New Class Ability: Evasion.

Skills: +1 in Climb, Jump, Swim, Balance, Hide, Move Silently, Tumble, Escape artist, Sleight of Hand, Use Rope.

Doberman: 

Gained a level in Barbarian:

(4th level Barbarian)

4th level attribute bonus: +1 Constitution.

+12HPs, +1 to hit, +1 Fortitude. 

New Class Ability: Rage x 2 per day

Skills: +1 in Climb, Jump, Swim.

The (Potential) Patron

Lord Urdurel:

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

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

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

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

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

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

The (Primary) Villains

Sir Briefadel: 

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

Hetzabah: 

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

Madame Morgarna:

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