Escape from Valn

Part- 9

The Raid on The Oaken Tankard

          Evening drew on at The Oaken Tankard and the regular crowd began to settle in. The music bounced and trilled as it reached out from the stage to enchant the patrons whilst they laughed, and carried on in communal fellowship. A pair of burly travelers clasped hands across one of the tables engaged in a fierce arm wrestling match as onlookers shouted cheers and placed bets on the table- each hoping to collect a fair bounty once a winner emerged from the struggling pair. The fire crackled in the common room hearth filling the drinking hall with warmth and good cheer as it provided a reprieve from the cold. Every so often the wind from the gathering storm would catch the door just right and blow it open; allowing a chill to sweep through the drinking hall that nipped at many a traveler as if to remind them what was coming.

          Dongan Cardell paused between his latest selections to refresh his pallet with a swig of golden ale. He gulped down the contents of his mug in but a few quick swallows, feeling mildly refreshed as the warm brew settled in his belly. The bard had forgotten how a good long round of playing seemed to drain him, especially the selections that were imbued with their own enchantments. Setting his flagon by his seat, he motioned for a nearby barmaid to refill his brew, and then, as she swept away the wooden mug in a swirl of long skirt and ginger-spiced hair, Dongan resumed playing.

          The door swung open as a raw gust of cold wind howled through the streets of Valn. The wintry air swept through the drinking hall mingling with the heat of the fireplace and lent an icy touch to the otherwise homely feel of the common room. The fire shifted in the breeze, sending a shower of dancing sparks spiraling up the chimney and swirling into oblivion. Night had come to Valn, and with it came the opening flurries of what promised to be the worst blizzard of this age. Although it was the usual chaos of a night in the local tavern, a lethargic sense of peace had fallen over the patrons of The Oaken Tankard. A tell-tale clack of mugs meeting in cheers, accompanied by a resounding “Huzzah” piped up over the din of conversation in a brazen toast as the band of adventurer pledged their swords to another quest, one that would carry them into the heart of the untamed Wilds. Only their big, burly, bear of a companion, Barlough, did not join in on this merrymaking; for he was still indisposed as he had fallen into an alcohol induced hibernation. Even now, the low rumble of snoring contended with the dull roar of conversation, drawing more than a few curious glances and the mirth of those around him.

          Without warning, the tavern doors flew open as though threw back by a savage gust, allowing a blast of frigid air to chill the warm tavern, and a disheveled villager stumbled in, beaten, bruised and looking as though he had been mauled by ruffians. He was screaming at the top of his lungs as he gestured wildly toward the night beyond the open doors- a commotion which brought a curious hush to the drinking hall as everyone turned to see what the clamor was about.

          “Orcs…” he cried between breaths! “They’re attacking the town- killin’ ever’one in sight!” He expressed each word with the thrust of his blood-covered hands toward the still open door behind him. So distracted by the ranting villager were the patrons of The Oaken Tankard, that no one saw the massive black shadows gathering beyond the open portal. “We must go- must sound the al-arrgh-!” His pleas were cut short as a long blade sprouted from his chest. There was a gurgling scream that wrenched its way out of the skewered villager’s mouth as he was lifted from the ground and shaken by a massive form that had appeared behind him. With each shake, the pitiful villager flailed like a ragdoll as the man’s arms and legs spasmed violently in his death throes. From behind the grisly spectacle, a mob of murderous humanoids poured into the tavern as a icy cold gale swept through the drinking hall, robbing it of the very warmth that had provided sanctuary to so many on this coldest winter’s eve. With howls of hatred and bloodlust, orcs and hobgoblins alike fell upon any unfortunate enough to be caught in their path, hacking and slashing at them with reckless abandon.

          In merely seconds, the peace and tranquility of the evening had been torn asunder- replaced in its stead by bloodthirsty war-cries, the screams of the injured, the scared, and the dying. As the initial shock of the invasion wore off, those who could- grabbed their weapons and retaliated against the overwhelming onslaught.

*      *      *

          Sir Errc Rhudven met the attackers with a resistance they were not prepared for. A blur of motion brought the knight’s bastard sword across the belly of a charging orc, stopping it in its tracks immediately as it tried desperately to hold its innards in place. The orc howled in unbridled pain and fury, each breath screaming curses at the human who had hurt him so badly. Errc swept his shield to the side knocking away a bone-bladed sword with serrated teeth meant to rend and tear whatever it was used against as he launched a fierce counter offensive against its wielder- an orc garbed from head to toe in a suit of crude scrimshaw armor. The brittle bone-sculpted armor was no match for the finely crafted steel of Errc’s knightly blade, as he sheared through both the banded bone cuirass and the flesh beneath, felling the porcine humanoid.

          Errc whipped around cutting, thrusting, blocking, slashing, and bashing, each stroke of his mighty weapon felling any foes who dared to venture too close. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see what had become of the young rogue, only to realize his folly in doing so. Not only was she nowhere to be seen, but the temporary distraction had allowed for a savage brute of an orc to rush in on the knight, pelting him with a barrage of attacks with its heavy club. Errc barely got his shield up in time to fend off the initial blows, a feat that left his shield arm throbbing and threatening to go numb.

          For what seemed like eternity, the orc pressed the brutal attacks, with the full intent of crushing through the knight’s defenses. Errc stayed on his heels as he fought to gain some sort of ground with the brutish beast. Only the years of strict military discipline instilled by countless hours of knightly drills and pell training kept him from succumbing to the relentless onslaught. With a battle-cry of pure hate, the brutish orc lunged in with an overhead, haymaker-like blow that glanced off of the knight’s shield as he side-stepped to avoid the full brunt of that devastating attack. The cudgel’s momentum carried careened out of control until it sundered a nearby table, nearly tearing the knotted club from the brute’s hand and pelting Errc’s face with bits of broken wood and debris.

          Though the orc didn’t show it, the impact had all but ripped the attacker’s arm out of socket, slowing its attacks immensely, Without hesitation the orc retaliated with a fierce backhand that the knight ducked more out of instinct than of deliberate action, allowing the heavy club to pass him harmlessly by; however the damaged arm could not stay the heavy truncheon before it crashed hard into its mortally wounded companion with a sickening crack, finishing the job that Errc’s sword had begun only moments before. The brief interlude was just what Errc needed to take the fight to the orc; he lunged in with a crisscross combination that opened the brutes exposed side, before driving the tip of his sword, deep, into the chest of his attacker, tearing through its lung and clipping its heart.

          To the knight’s surprise the vile orc wheeled around whipping the club at him in a move so fast and hard that Errc was barely able to get his shield up in time to avoid being crushed by the might of the blow. He was thrown back several feet and was forced to scramble back on the defensive as the brute rushed him in a burst of raw primal fury. Within agonizingly long seconds the orc’s fatal wounds caught up with him, dropping the savage beast right as he bore down with a devastating smash that would have sundered the knight’s shield and left him broken.

          Errc had no time to thank whatever gods had favored him at that particular moment, for as he scrambled to his feet, another host of murderous humanoids were gathering around him. Winded and his arm tingling as though it were about to go to sleep on him, the knight stared defiantly at the invaders. He renewed his grip on his bastard sword and saluted them as if to welcome their challenge.

*      *      *

          A scraggly-looking orc staggered back uncontrollably into its mates, its nose a shattered ruin where the human warrior’s pommel had smashed it flat against the ugly thing’s face. The orc’s world exploded as a myriad of multi-colored starbursts sent shockwave after shockwave of nauseating pain coursing through the humanoid’s skull. Unable to see or control where it was going the orc toppled over its companions, handicapping their bum rush on the lone warrior that stood between them and the raised stage.

          Cyan Krieger was on the host in a flash, not allowing any a chance to recover. His broadsword became a razor-sharp blur of death and destruction as he tore into their ranks. One orc fell away clutching its ribs where the unforgiving blade slashed through flesh and bone, ripping the lung underneath, another grasped at the gash where its throat used to be. A hobgoblin thinking to slip past the wicked blade found its hamstrings cut from beneath it, before the hard edge of Cyan’s shield bashed the side of its face, caving it in with a crunch of bone against reinforced yew. A second hobgoblin tried to flank the fighter with a short spear, catching him with a glancing blow that raked a nasty groove across his cheek- nearly taking an eye with it- only to have Cyan whip around with his sword, severing the tip from the crude weapon and driving his round shield into the creature’s gut, blasting the air from its lungs. Faster than the hobgoblin could react, the warrior grabbed the back of its head and slammed its face through a nearby, table.

          As Cyan wheeled around to face his next wave of attackers, he saw the knight go down, pursued by a savage beast wielding a heavy club. He wanted to help the noble warrior, but he had his own problems to deal with at the moment. As if to make his point a rowdy hobgoblin with a pair of hand-axes ran up and leaped off of a nearby table with his weapons held high, ready to split the warrior’s skull. Cyan side-stepped to avoid the reckless if direct attack, countering with a swift stroke of his blade that bit through flesh and bone, and left the goblinoid little more than a crumpled heap, lying on the oaken floor. Grabbing a wooden flagon, the fighter dashed its contents into the face of a charging orc, temporarily blinding the green-skinned brute. The brief distraction gave Cyan all the time he needed to deliver a devastating three-stroke attack that opened the orc’s belly and hamstrung it before cleaving the side of its neck. He recovered from the offense, only to be forced into a diving roll to avoid being sundered by a hobgoblin that had flanked him with a wicked morningstar. Pain shot through his side and shoulder as he rolled over a broken chair, its sharpened pieces jabbing him like dull spear points as he passed over them. Thinking that it had the warrior on the run, the hobgoblin pursued- its weapon ready to strike the human down. Cyan came to his feet and thrust himself up, out of harm’s way just long enough to redirect his momentum. Seizing the opportunity, the hobgoblin whipped the morningstar around, pressing the attack. The fighter intercepted the assault with the blade of his sword, severing the hand at the wrist, while delivering a lunging hook that slammed the round shield into the goblinoid’s face that nearly tore its head from its shoulders. The hobgoblin toppled back, its feet struggling to catch its dazed torso as it struggled to remain standing. Cyan rolled his wrist over, using the momentum of his recoil to drive the point of his broadsword through an opening in the humanoid’s armor and into its chest, felling it in a swift well placed stroke.

          Cyan withdrew his bloodstained blade from the spent body of his attacker, to see an inhuman brute of an orc maul a screaming barmaid with its heavy axe, and then cut down a traveling merchant with a fierce back hand. Taking the wooden mug that lay at his feet, he threw it hard at the green-skinned monster, hoping to get its attention away from those who had no means of self defense. The wooden tankard wasn’t heavy, but it bounced off of the big orc’s head with enough force that the burly brute stumbled forward from the impact. The husky beast reached up and rubbed its head, while turning to see whence the blindside attack came.

          “That’s right you ugly bastard,” Cyan taunted the brutish orc with a cocky nod of his head, “I’m the one you want.” With a snort and a howl of pure hatred, the feral humanoid lunged at the warrior with a fierce backhand swipe that crushed the ribs of a terrified villager who just happened to dash between the combatants as it threw the man to the side where he landed in a crumpled mass as he fought to regain the breath that would never again fill his torn lungs. With a kick to the dying man’s injured side, the dark-skinned brute advanced on Cyan, the fires of hate, burning in his primal orbs.

*      *      *

          Falgor was on his feet and ready as the hordes of chaos poured in through the tavern door. His keen sense of smell- honed like that of a wolf by years in the untamed wilderness of Gal-Land- had caught the scent of the bloodthirsty marauders long before they ever breached the sanctity of The Oaken Tankard. Eagle-eyed, he observed as the would-be heroes of the drinking hall rushed forward to meet the invaders, most of them half-drunk, exhausted, or full on meat and mead, but nowhere near prepared to face such a merciless onslaught of murderous humanoids. Most were cut down where they stood, while others took as many as they could with them. From where he stood, there were only a few who had a chance of surviving the ensuing chaos. The Engalean warrior could see the knight, felling his foes with every skilled sweep of his blade. His eyes then roved over to the dwarf, whose indomitable iron will nearly matched his own. The stout warrior of the dwarven folk hewed through the orcs and hobgoblins around him like a woodsman cuts down trees. A movement in the rafters caught his attention as a lithe and limber form moved with the grace of a jungle cat amid the trusses, stalking her prey. Near the stage a stout-hearted warrior cut down every foe that rose to challenge him while upon the stage itself, the bard whose music had soothed so many from the wear and tear of the day, now held his place valiantly as he searched for a way to escape his corner. These, the mighty Northman thought to himself, these were survivors- men and women who stood a chance for getting through this alive.

          With a leap, the Engalean barbarian cleared his table in a single bound as he propelled himself into the heat of battle with a war-cry to Odin that chilled the blood of anyone who heard it over the raging carnage. He hit the floor running and plowed into a throng of humanoids, tearing into their ranks like a ravenous beast. Using the force of his momentum, Falgor thrust his leg up and out, kicking a hobgoblin in the gut with enough force to blast the air out of its lungs. The unsuspecting goblinoid was thrown back into its fellow invaders taking them to the floor with him as several others rushed by him to deal with the large warrior with the great axe. Falgor turned and swung the butt end of his war-axe like an iron cudgel, landing a fierce right hook across the jaw of an orc, shattering its teeth, and crunching the bones therein. The orc’s face exploded into a red ruin as the brutal attack all but tore the bestial humanoid’s head from its shoulders, laying him low and leaving him little more than a crumpled heap on the floor.

          A hobgoblin wearing a dark blued-steel sallet attempted to flank the mighty barbarian with a vicious slash of his messer, only to find that his blade passed through empty air as Engalean warrior ducked the deadly attack. Falgor maneuvered under the blade as he stepped back and wheeled around to drive the blade of his two handed axe into the ribs of his attacker. There was a sickening crack as ribs were sundered by the devastating blow, doubling the hobgoblin over, breathless as wave after wave of mind numbing pain wracked its torso. The barbarian followed through, freeing the axe from the goblinoid’s side as he whipped it around and sheared the hobgoblin’s head from its shoulders.

          A cry of anguish pierced the din of battle from somewhere close by, drawing Falgor’s attention away from the carnage surrounding him. He glanced up to see that an unruly gang of orcs had subdued the fiery tempered warrioress from the boisterous group of adventurers that had been sitting near the bar and had hoisted her up to make a bit of sport with her among the spoils of war; however, her fight was far from over. This was evident as she battered her accosters with the desperate throes of one who knew the wages of war. Falgor’s brief distraction was nearly a costly one as he barely managed to turn aside a thrust with a longsword at the last second. Even in his reflexive defense, he felt the blade bite into his flesh and rake across his ribs. With a wince of pained acceptance, he glowered at the hobgoblin and whipped his war-axe around, to lop off the attacker’s head. He returned the motion with a backhand that crushed another’s face with the flat of his blade, followed by a swift overhead chop that cleft a charging orc from head to navel.

          The mighty Engale cut and slashed his way through his enemies; the burning pain in his side fueled his drive to overcome the black horde. As he laid an orc low with a sweep of his axe, he spared a glance to see how the raven-haired warrioress fared in her struggle, only to see the dire straits that she was really in. In her thrashing and fighting, she had failed to see the approach of a bestial brute of an orc behind her. With a bloodthirsty sneer on its ugly, scarred face, the brutish humanoid drew a long serrated knife and bore down on the struggling woman.

          Falgor knew what was coming and that he had to do something about it or else the raven-haired woman would not live long enough to free herself. He used the flat of his blade to smack away a truncheon meant to crush his skull; he then used the momentum to whip the two-handed axe around in a ferocious chop that split the orc wielding it from shoulder to hip. Another hobgoblin wearing banded armor and a horned helm came at Falgor with a reckless barrage of cuts, slashes, and thrusts, with his messer, not realizing his folly until the mighty barbarian deflected one of the attacks and countered by grabbing the goblinoid by the throat, heaving him high in the air. The hobgoblin gasped desperately for air, before an explosion of pain sent him swirling into a world of blackness as Falgor slammed him head first through a table. Without any more time to lose, the great Northman made his way toward the gang of orcs and the endangered warrioress in their charge.

*      *      *

          As the once tranquil evening fell into chaos, Erolas and his companions joined the struggle. The angular man, Selvis hopped onto a vacant table and began loosing arrows at the marauders breaching the entry. Orc and hobgoblin alike fell before the archer’s deadly barrage, however; in all the carnage he failed to notice the whirling bolas that whistled as their spiked balls tore through the air- launched at him by a bestial hobgoblin somewhere off of his right flank. The corded snare hit Selvis without warning, wrapping tightly around his neck the spiked balls slammed against his cheek with a painful crack. The archer staggered from the intensity of the blow as the room burst into a series of starbursts and then spun wildly out of control.

          Erolas watched in horror as the angular Selvis toppled off of the table, only to have a host of orcs fall upon him with their hungry blades. The elven ranger whipped his blade into a blinding fury as he attempted to get to his fallen companion. There was a guttural cry of anguish as an orc tried to slip past his defenses with the thrust of a shorter sword, only to have his arm sheared from his body just above the elbow. Another orc fell as a swift slash hewed open his leg, with a turn of Erolas’ wrists he redirected the momentum of his blade into an arc that sliced through the humanoid’s throat.

          The elven ranger was momentarily distracted as he heard a familiar scream from somewhere nearby. Narrowly ducking a slash from a heavy flamberge, Erolas plunged the blade of his sword into the chest of a well armored hobgoblin and the spared a glance to see whence it came. Zelinda was being “man-handled” by a throng of orcs who had lifted her aloft and was in the process of carting her away. She bled from countless wounds, yet the strong willed warrioress was far from defeated. As if to prove this point she wrenched an arm free and slammed a hard back-knuckle to one of the orc’s face, crushing its nose flat against its face with a sickening crunch. A thrust of a freed leg collapsed the windpipe of anther, felling the humanoid as it tore at its ruined throat, fighting desperately for the breath of air that it would never get. Zelinda’s body suddenly grew taut as a massive mountain of an orc wrapped his fingers in her hair and jerked her head back into a painful angle. With a snarl of bloodthirsty satisfaction, he drew a serrated dagger across her throat and began sawing it back and forth; cruelly admiring his work as her screams became blood-choked gurgle.

          Erolas caught a brief motion out of the corner of his eye, as he saw the mighty Northman cleave the feral brute from shoulder to hip with a mighty sweep of his two-handed axe. He was thankful for the barbarian’s attempt at a rescue even if he was too late in his arrival, for by the time the elven ranger had mowed a path through the mob of orcs and hobgoblins to reach his fallen comrade, it was already over for Selvis- the orcs had hewn him to little more than a pile of mutilated remains. All at once something struck the ranger as he leapt into the midst of the orcs that had butchered Selvis; in Erolas’ hurry to race to the aid of the fallen archer, he had failed to note that one companion and the elf’s truest friend had escaped his mind. With the sudden realization playing on his mind, he dispatched two of the savage humanoids before they could react. His eyes roved the carnage frantically in hopes that he would spy a glimpse of his halfling friend. “Dunty,” he spat as he realized that his partner was nowhere to be found.

*      *      *

          Beoric spat his mouthful of smoky tasting Grätzer- a shameful act for any dwarf to commit, but there was no other possible reaction to the sudden appearance of the ogrish bugbear that impaled the frantic villager and then dangled the hapless man from its sword like a grisly marionette for everyone to see. He quickly made up for the blasphemous act by quaffing down the rest of the smoky brew in merely a few gulps before setting “The Tower” aside; he then charged almost recklessly into the tide of rampaging humanoids. His axe appeared in his hands, almost as if by magic, just in time to bat aside a sword thrust meant to skewer the dwarven fighter. With a turn of his wrists, Beoric flipped the bearded blade of his axe around and drove it deep into the hobgoblin’s ribs. Yanking the axe free, the dwarf slammed the flat of his blade across the face of an orc who dropped his own battleaxe as the dwarven steel crushed bone and made a ruin of the humanoid’s porcine face.

          Beoric grimaced and a grunt of displeasure escaped his lips as the sharp spiky ball of a morningstar clipped his shoulder and upset his balance. The pain in his shoulder was merely a nagging annoyance as he regained his footing, only to see the feral orc bearing down on him with the wicked bludgeon once more. Years of training with his kin had prepared him for such an encounter- he braced himself and then moved in, bringing his axe up at an angle to deflect the morningstar. As he intercepted the attack, Beoric used his powerful, stubby legs to propel himself, like a missile loosed from a siege engine, into a devastating head butt smashed the orc’s brutish face flat with a sickening crunch.

          Starbursts exploded around the orc as he stumbled back, blinded by the force of the brutal counter-attack. The room spun a his eyes hazed over- he could feel the loose bones of his shattered visage shift in unnatural ways as he grunted mind-numbing pain. Almost as suddenly as he had felt the explosion in his face, he was ravaged by a white hot, searing blast as Beoric’s axe cleaved into his upper torso, tearing through armor, flesh, and bone to rend at the vital organs hidden therein.

          As the orc sank to the gore-soaked floor, Beoric clambered up onto the bar and hoisted his bearded axe high. “Alright ya green-skinned mongrels,” he shouted at the invading horde, “ye come to me favorite pub wanting a fight- well there’s at least one red-blooded dwarf in this place that’ll oblige ye!” With his challenge issued, Beoric ran the length of the bar and launched himself into a throng of humanoids, swinging his axe in deadly arcs as he cut a swath through his enemies.

*      *      *

          From his place on the stage, Dongan could see the terrible scene that unfolded before him. The savage horde slaughtered anyone who could not fend for themselves, and even some who could. As he surveyed the grisly spectacle he witnessed- the fall of a knight whose struggle allowed him to overcome certain doom, the fall of the angular man whose rain of arrows had felled nearly a score of the raucous invaders, and the brutal slaying of the strong-willed warrioress who fought her attackers to the very end. The bard barely had enough time to put away his elven lute before the surge of murderous marauders reached the stage.

          Dongan had just strapped the lute to his back when a hobgoblin whose face bore a terrible scar that cleft its face from the corner of its mouth to the middle of its forehead, rushed the stage, brandishing a wickedly barbed blade. The attacker was repelled as the bard whirled around with the stool, using its heavy seat as an awkward cudgel that slammed into the hobgoblin’s face with a sickening crunch as it shattered the bones and sent bits of broken teeth flying. The sheer force of the blow threw the attacker back, his face a misshapen ruin, as he crashed into several of his fellow hobgoblins, knocking them to the floor as well. The recovering marauders trampled their fallen warrior as they fought and clawed to regain their footing.

          The momentary distraction allowed Dongan to don his sword and brace himself for the imminent assault. The first two to recover scrambled to the stage only to find the bard waiting for them. As they swept in with nasty looking morningstars, he met their advance with a flurry of slashes, cuts, and thrusts that left one clutching its throat, and the other reeling absently as it nursed a punctured lung which quickly filled with the hobgoblin’s lifeblood.

          An orc witnessing the fray from nearby charged the bard with his war axe held high. Dongan tried to prepare for the orcs attack, but the orc seemed to adjust to Dongan’s every move. Thinking quickly, he dropped the stool and at the last possible second, kicked it toward the orc. It tumbled awkwardly into the orc’s path, entangling itself in the brute’s feet. The confident, murderous glare became one of fear and confusion as the stool robbed him of his balance, but not of momentum. The charging orc fell hitting the floor of the stage hard, dazing the zealous savage long enough for Dongan to strike fast and hard, driving his longsword deep into the brute’s eye socket and finishing him quickly.

          It didn’t take Dongan long to realize that he was in a dangerous place atop of the stage, so looking for the nearest person fighting back against the humanoid invasion, he began working his way through the onslaught. From what he could see, the warrior was engaged in an all out struggle against a barrel-chested hulk of an orc that seemed to match the warrior blow for blow as they laid waste to their surroundings. Determined that he would lend the warrior a helping hand Dongan began weaving a web of death and destruction around him as his sword became a razor sharp blur that cut down anything that ventured into his path. Just as he thought he would get to the embattled warrior and his nemesis, a huge club crashed through a table beside of him, knocking one of the visiting patrons through the air to smash into the bard’s side and knock him off balance. As Dongan fought desperately to maintain his footing, he was taken aback to see a massive bugbear tearing through the ruined table enroute toward him.

*      *      *

          Selira’s lithe form glided easily among the narrow tresses above the common room, and the absolute chaos that was taking place below. To her horror, a man and woman were brutally cut down where they stood by a merciless host of orcs, and even as she watched the events unfold beneath her, she was quite aware that her only hope in survival was in fighting her way out. It wasn’t exactly what she had hoped for when she had taken to the rafters, but the steady flood of invaders told her that the raid was more than a rogue group of orc invaders from The Wilds, but something much bigger.

          The young rogue scanned the skirmish below, searching for familiar faces amid those fighting against the humanoid marauders. Near the front of The Oaken Tankard, she spied the knight, Sir Errc Rhudven who had taken her in for the evening, even after she had attempted to pick his pocket; he was facing off against a group of orcs and hobgoblins. At first it seemed that the skilled young knight had everything under control, but then she spied an orc who was slinking up behind the noble warrior with his war club poised to brain the unwary knight.

          Selira moved as quickly as she could through the rafters without revealing her location until she had positioned herself above the orc. Just as the snub-nosed brute was about to bring the club crashing down upon the pre-occupied knight’s head, Selira dropped from the rafters with her scimitar in hand. With expert precision, she plunged the blade down- through the orc’s collar and into the depths of its chest cavity, slicing and tearing anything in its path. The young and agile rogue used the momentum of her fall, as well as the position of her sword to swing her feet around where she planted the soles of her feet into the small of the orc’s back. With a shift of her blade, the nimble lass launched off into a swirling dive that brought the scimitar around in a tight arc which sliced through the exposed flesh of a neighboring orc’s neck.

          The orc squealed as he clutched his cleft neck in order to try to staunch the flow of life blood that streamed between his fingers. Selira landed lightly on her feet and lashed out with a sweeping kick that stole the raider’s footing and brought it down, hard, upon a broken barstool. As the nimble young rogue rose to her feet, she found herself face to face with a well armored hobgoblin wielding a toothy warhammer. An orc who brandished a curved longsword sidled up next to the young lass in an attempt to flank her. Without taking her eyes off of her attackers, Selira surveyed her surroundings in hopes to find some manner in which to even the odds of her situation.

*      *      *

          Mathon used an upturned table to shield himself from the ensuing carnage that was raging just beyond his meager cover as he muttered the vital words inscribed on the half rolled scroll beneath his breath. With the imminent danger that lurked just on the other side of a few inches of hand planed and stained teak wood, the process of uttering the incantation and maintaining his concentration throughout the chant was as laborious as it was agonizingly slow. A thrown axe blade dinged off of the side of the table and careened in an entirely different direction almost as if to remind him of the dire circumstances at hand.

          The mage could feel the power coursing through him as he weaved the primal forces through word and gesture, as they gathered in the parchment in his hands. Arcane energy crackled like lightning over the surface of the scroll as he mouthed the final phrases that would unleash the magic held within. Mathon could not have spoken the command a moment too soon, for just as he stepped away from the table to release the spell, a heavy two-handed axe smashed through the protective barrier, pelting him with splintered wood fragments.

          “…Viztsaldt,” the wizard cried as he thrust his open palm out in front of him, palm open and fingers spread wide. The scroll vanished in a bright burst of light and smoke as several spears of sizzling arcane energy rocketed toward the insurgent horde. The first struck home, as the orc who had sundered the table was blasted backward, the white hot missile leaving a charred black hole where hide armor and exposed flesh had been. The remaining arcane spears spread out. One slammed into the face of an advancing hobgoblin, nearly taking its head from its shoulders with a disturbing crack that dropped the goblinoid where it stood.

          The last two magic missiles homed in on an orc brute who by the looks of him, had some ogre in his bloodline. The barrel-chested beast roared in pain and rage as a fist sized missile smashed into his back, nearly dropping him onto his ugly face. He fought to keep his footing, but found himself spitting dirt and debris as the final energy spear tore into his shoulder.

          To the wizard’s horror, the burly orc clambered to his feet and turned to find him. Winded and battered by the magic missiles, the bestial humanoid roared a challenge as it slammed a ham hock sized fist into his chest. The spectacular display of raw, primal prowess made the blood drain from Mathon’s otherwise cocky face. The orc then hefted a warhammer that was large enough to squash a man like a melon and started toward the wizard. With each step, the monstrous humanoid built up momentum as he charged the smaller man with the force of a raging bull.

          Mathon swallowed hard, tempering his nerves as he pointed his oaken staff toward the raging beast and shouted an arcane command. “Skirrakkt,” he cried as elemental energy gathered around the tip of his staff and arced into a streak of lightning that ripped across the rampaging orc’s arms, legs, and breastplate, leaving a smoky trail in its wake, but if the feral brute felt any of it, it didn’t show. Mathon’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach as the monstrous humanoid bore down on him, his warhammer poised for the kill. The wizard knew that he didn’t have enough time to cast another spell before the ogrish brute was upon him.

          Mathon threw himself behind another table believing he was about to join the ranks of the fallen that now littered The Oaken Tankard’s floor. The wizard’s heart skipped a beat as the hulking orc smashed through the table that stood between him and the massive brute, exposing him to the savage orc’s attack. Just as Mathon saw the massive warhammer begin its final descent, someone tackled the big orc with enough force to knock the bestial humanoid from his feet. The dumbstruck mage could not believe his luck as hurried to regain his feet- it was then he got a good look at his rescuer. To his surprise, it was the same Northman who had bumped him earlier that evening. Mathon was taken aback at the strange barbarian’s actions, but he was far from ungrateful. As a slain hobgoblin collapsed just inches from his feet, Mathon made for the bar, hoping beyond hope that he might be able to find a place where he could stay in the fight, yet remain out of harm’s way as much as possible.

Castles & Crusades, The World of Aihrde, and Troll Lord Games are registered trademarks of Chenault & Grey, LLC.

Escape from Valn

 

Part- 8

The Dwarf and The Tower

          Stolid as a boulder, the fiery haired dwarf guzzled the spicy grätzer of his homeland as though he was merely inhaling the thick brew. The full-bodied taste of oak smoked wheat and dark roasted barley washed over his tongue, reminding him of the brauhauses of Grundliche Hohle, and taking him home, if only for a moment. He lowered “The Tower” wiping the excess liquid from his beard with the side of his arm. Beoric belched and smiled grimly as his eyes roved over the intricate details of the great stein in his hand. “The Tower” it was called, and rightly so for it lived up to its name in nearly every aspect of the word- it stood a full mug and a half taller than the usual flagons and completely resembled the edifice for which it was named. Its lathed form and graven sides were hewn and etched to look like the ivy strewn walls, windows, and arrow loops of an old guard tower- from its bottom all the way to the top where a lid of finely carved oak rested, forming the likeness of the conical roofs which generally adorned such structures. A tiny rivulet of dwarven ale ran down the side of The Tower, its probing fingers tracing the very design as it descended to the large stein’s base.

          Thumbing the lever to the ornately carved lid, Beoric turned the great mug up, gulping down the rest of its dark, spicy contents. As the last drop of grätzer spilled into his mouth, the young dwarf lowered The Tower back to the bar and motioned to Ortuck for a refill. The old barkeep had known Beoric for nearly three years, and had never ceased to be amazed at how much the young dwarf could drink without even the slightest impairment to his senses, speech, or general demeanor, and so, was more than happy to oblige. Grundliche Grätzer was a favored specialty that Ortuck always managed to keep on tap, especially since The Oaken Tankard saw more than its share of stout folk between the clans of Norgorad-Kam, travelers from Grundliche Hohle, and the many other settlements in between. In a swift motion of one who has serviced the people for many a year, Ortuck swept up The Tower and was off to fill it with the prized Dwarven ale.

          Beoric handed the old barkeep a handful of shiny gems as he returned with The Tower, a small stream of the dark, frothy brew trickling down the graven sides to drip onto the floor. The jewels were more than enough to pay for the grätzer, his meal, and the refills of the great tankard for not only tonight, but for every night for the rest of the week; however, the fiery haired warrior didn’t care, for he had been to The Oaken Tankard enough over the last few years, that he and Ortuck had become like old friends. As they exchanged their wares, Beoric offered the barkeep a grim smile, then nodded thankfully and turned to survey the tavern.

          His stern gaze roved over the tavern, taking in the spectacle of events that were happening around him- from the bard upon the stage whose music soothed the crowd, to the wandering knight who had seemingly tamed the petite thief that had been slinking amid the crowd, pilfering whatever items she seemed to find within her reach, his gaze absorbed everything that was going on in The Oaken Tankard. For a moment Beoric’s eyes wandered over to the mighty barbarian seated along the wall, his wolf-faced hood now resting upon his shoulders. The dwarven warrior took a few gulps of his grätzer as he studied the big man. He was nearly as impressed with the Engalean’s resolve as he was the human ingenuity behind the crafting of The Tower. The Northman paid no heed to the events going on around him and he seemed distant, as if lost in a state of reflective thought. Beoric Helmgar could sense a vague state of perplexity in the warrior’s demeanor, something that spoke of loss and determination which fueled the simmering fires in the Northlander’s icy blue eyes. The dwarven warrior allowed his eyes to wander once more, surveying the common room until he met the gaze of an elven woodsman seated at a nearby table. The elf’s calm nature set him apart from his comrades, who seemed to be reveling in the abundance of food and drink. With a grave nod of acknowledgement, he regarded the elf with respect, despite the usual animosity that was rumored to be shared between the two entirely different races. The elf nodded in return, raising his tankard in an old dwarven salute, an act that surprised the stalwart dwarf for he seldom saw that greeting outside of the dwarven realms, and even less from any of the other races that called Ursal home. Returning the gesture in a likewise manner, Beoric turned to face the bar so as to not give away the cheerless, if amused smile that had crept onto his face.

          Beoric Helmgar of the Clan Helmgarad took in a healthy swig of the Dwarven grätzer, swirling it around in his mouth as he allowed the events unfolding around him to mull over themselves in his mind. With a side-long glance in either direction, he homed in on a conversation at a nearby table, where the folk were discussing the weather, certain concerns of the times to come, and the omens that that seemed to be heralding in something that no one could quite put a finger on. Beoric felt it too- there was something in the air tonight… he wasn’t sure what; he could just sense it was there.

Castles & Crusades, The World of Aihrde, and Troll Lord Games are registered trademarks of Chenault & Grey, LLC.

Escape from Valn

 

Part 7

Warrior from the North

          The din of conversation was a dull roar as the giant Northman ordered a stein of porter- a thick brown ale rumored to hail from somewhere far north of Gottland and the Great Northern Forest- along with a hearty meal of venison stew and a bit of sweetbread. A thin cloud of pipe smoke hung lazily in the air, forming a light haze whose scent mingled with the aroma of fresh food cooking in the kitchen, as well as the smell of both fresh and stale ale, adding the sights and sounds that were the life of The Oaken Tankard. Ortuck, the tavern’s owner and general barkeep, mopped the fresh water from the sides of a wooden tankard, filling it with the rich, dark, and foamy brew before handing it to the big warrior, who merely nodded and handed him a fistful of coins to pay for his expenses, then turned and started toward an empty seat in the distance. Without warning, Falgor was forced to side-step to avoid colliding with a drunken patron who had staggered up to the bar for a refill. In the sudden, yet graceful evasion, the Engalean warrior inadvertently brushed against one of the nearby patrons- a traveling mage who had found the brief intrusion of his personal space to be outright offensive to his very being.

          “Confounded oafs,” he spat as he whipped about to see what had drawn him out of his concentration at such a dire time; “can’t a body get a moment’s peace without some brainless idiot knocking him about?” The mage turned to see the mighty Northman eyeing him dangerously and quickly bit his tongue to keep matters from getting any worse, though it did little to quell his ire. Fortunately, the barbarian only glared at him for a moment before he turned to continue on his way through the crowd.

          The skald’s enchanted melody swept over Falgor as he weaved through the mounting throng of patrons, soothing his travel worn body as he ducked, swayed, and dodged those who came too close for comfort while making his way across The Oaken Tankard’s common room to a place at a table, along the wall. He stepped aside, narrowly evading a pair of giggling maidens- too enraptured in their conversation to watch where they were going- only to find himself eye-to-eye with a fiery-haired, surly looking dwarf who was just settling into his place at the bar. The two gazed at each other for what seemed like an eternity, locked in a contest of wills to which neither was willing to yield, earning both dwarf and barbarian a grudging respect for one another. Each accepting the indomitable spirit that burned within the other; they broke away with a mutual nod of approval that defined no amount of weakness in either warrior.

          As Falgor ventured past the dwarf, his gaze fell upon an elven woodsman whose calm demeanor seemed completely out of place among his rowdy companions. The elf looked up from his mug to see him approaching and offered a nod of respect, to which he responded in kind; then continued on toward the vacant seat merely paces away. He could feel the eyes of various onlookers watching him as he passed, some marveling at his size, others wondering where he had come from, or what he was about, but most of those who watched him pass, found themselves drawn to the massive waraxe that was strapped to the Engalean warrior’s back, but if the constant stares of the persistent crowd of gawkers bothered him at all, it didn’t show. Falgor the Fierce- as he was more commonly known among his folk- just continued on his way, leaving them to wonder.

          Falgor reached up and drew the wolf-faced hood back, allowing it to fall upon his massive shoulders as he settled into a vacant seat along the wall, at a table, near the far end of the bar. He released a heavy sigh, thankful to be off of his feet and the long road, if only for the evening. It had been more than two months since he’d left his desolate homeland on a journey south, to the lands of Ursal, where he sought to track down the raiders who had invaded his village, butchered his people, and had taken the healthiest, strongest youths who would fetch a fine price in the underground slave markets, leaving the rest for dead. The mighty barbarian shook his long brown mane free of the hood, allowing it to fall carelessly about his face and shoulders, revealing the chiseled features of the warrior’s grim visage. He raised the oaken stein to his lips and drank deeply, draining the contents in a few short gulps, with only a small amount escaping the sides to dribble down his chin, dampening his forked and braided goatee. As he savored the last drop of ale, Falgor lowered the mug and relaxed, letting the soft haunting melody sink into his weary soul. The music eased his mind, relieved his sore muscles, and revitalized his spirit. He glanced up from his mug to see a young barmaid ambling his way through the crowd, bearing a tray of food in one hand and a pitcher of frothy brown ale in the other. Golden tresses tumbled over her shoulders in a glimmering cascade of purest amber as she leaned over to set both the tray and the pitcher upon the table. Without the slightest hesitation, she set to work deftly placing a bowl of steaming hot venison stew, a chunk of dark brown sweetbread, and a spoon of finely worked and turned iron before the mighty Engale, who said not a word, but offered a solemn nod and a grim smile of appreciation as she ministered to his needs- an act that garnered the big man a flirtatious smile from the young lass as she filled his stein to a thick, foamy head, of rich brown beer. With a toss of her long, deep golden hair, and a swirl of her skirt, the young barmaid was off, scampering back toward the kitchen- ushered away by the beck and call of the growing crowd of patrons.

          Falgor’s eyes followed the maiden until she vanished from sight amid The Oaken Tankard’s many customers, leaving him with the fleeting memory of her lush amber locks dancing seductively along her back. He allowed his gaze to linger in her general direction a moment longer, taking note that the skald had started a new tune that danced and bounced its way along the crowded tavern, bolstering the morale of all who heard its enrapturing melody, then he turned his attention to the piping hot meal whose very aroma tantalized his senses, reminding him of how hungry he really was. The mighty Northman offered a solemn word of thanks to the gods of his people and dug in, wincing slightly as the first few spoonfuls of hot stew stung his mouth. After a moment or so, he grew accustomed to the heat of the robust meal as he washed it all down with a few deep swigs of thick rich porter. As the warmth and satisfaction of the meal spread throughout his body, refreshing him, Falgor gave in to his thoughts and the dawdling melody that danced and swirled in the air, sending him on a recollective journey of the last few weeks.

          Falgor’s search for the invaders that ravaged his land had led him south, through the land of Norwin, and into the highlands of the Holmgrad Mountains where he found the charred remains of what had once been villages, much like his own, among the lands of the barbarians and Engalean settlers of the region. The people had been scattered and what few survivors remained behind were desperate, hungry, and highly distrusting of outsiders- an obstacle that brought Falgor into conflict with many of the warriors of the more defensive survivors. He had no quarrel with these desperate men, yet he could not avoid the confrontation if he was to get any information from the elders. Although the blood of a fierce warrior coursed through the mighty barbarian’s veins, Falgor was also driven by honor, so to keep from leaving the victimized people utterly defenseless, he only beat the various challengers into submission, before pursuing the elders for the insight on the invaders who raided their villages. Once the elders realized that Falgor was of no threat to them, they confided in him the horrors of the invading army and how they butchered everyone who could not seek refuge, taking only the healthy and strong children while putting the others to the sword. When the mighty warrior inquired about which way the invaders had gone, the survivors would always point southward, sending him further into the lands of Ursal.

          Within a week, the signs of the invaders’ passing had diminished, and the trail grew cold, yet determined to find the murderers of his folk, Falgor trudged onward. He soon left the Holmgrad Mountains, exiting just below a peak known to locals as Unklar’s Horn, and traversed the Feador Plains until he came to the shores of the Inner Sea. From there he followed the coastline until he had to deviate to get around a particularly nasty swampland known to travelers as The Drab Sinks. The unexpected detour led the mighty Northman to a seldom used road which took him further south and east until it met with a well used, if poorly tended, merchants’ road that led him south once more, away from the Inner Sea and into the lands of Burneviste before snaking eastward to skirt the edges of a vast stretch of untamed wild lands referred to by some of the other travelers as The Wilds. By his third day within the borders of the untamed lands of The Wilds, the icy cold bite of the bitter winter weather had begun to catch up with the Northman, letting him know that he needed to find a place to rest and wait out the coming storm. Later that day, Falgor had come to a fork in the road, bearing a crude signpost which detailed several locations that lay down each particular path. It was that very signpost that led Falgor to the town of Valn and The Oaken Tankard, where he now sat, pondering where the road might take him next in his search.

          Falgor took a draw from his stoup of ale and rolled it around in his mouth, considering his place and the gathering storm outside. No stranger to the harsh winter weather, the mighty Northman knew that he had a few days to think about his next move- for now, though, he just wanted to eat, drink, and rest.

The World of Aihrde, Castles & Crusades, and Troll Lord Games are registered Trademarks of Chenault & Grey, LLC.

Escape from Valn

 

Part 6

A Gaggle of Boisterous Companions

          Laughter erupted from one of the tables near the bar, drawing the attention of some of the visiting patrons as a hardy band of adventurers reveled in the aftermath of a successful day over a foaming flagon of bittersweet ale. The boisterous adventurers celebrated their triumphant expedition to the Ruins of Chlorn; each member of the raucous group boasting about their particular role in the daring journey or heckling one another about the near death experiences that almost brought their first adventure to an abrupt end. After one such tale of recounted derring-do, a weaselly looking man with greasy brown hair pasted to his forehead that they called Rinzel made a lewd crack about one of the other members- a warrioress named Zelinda Orrlsvane- who hurled a half-eaten turkey leg at the man, forcing him dive for cover and making the group howl with laughter at the poor blaggard’s expense.

          Erolas Tallondil couldn’t hide his mirth as the rowdy members of his troupe hassled and nagged one another about the recent expedition, their peculiar habits, or whatever else just so happened to draw their attention. He and his partner, a halfling rogue named Dunty Mobblestone, hadn’t been with the group for very long, having only signed on with them just before the journey to the Ruins of Chlorn, and so he wasn’t quite used to the boisterous nature of his fellow comrades. Dunty, however, had blended in quickly as was usual for his kin; in fact only moments before, he had taken a keen interest in the affairs of one Barlough Regnar- a veritable bear of a man with a barrel-like chest and long bushy black hair that wouldn’t be complete without the equally thick bushy beard with random braids amid its length which made the man appear more like a giant dwarf than anything save for the great warhammer that he kept faithfully by his side.

          The great beast of a man had imbibed nearly half a dozen pitchers of Kayomaran Lager, becoming so drunk that he had began proposing his love to anyone or anything that resembled a member of the opposite sex. Upon seeing this, Erolas’ halfling counterpart had thought that it would be entertaining to see if he could convince the lager-logged warrior that a certain cloak stand was eyeing him with particular interest. He even went so far as to convince the burly man that he shouldn’t waste this opportunity and that he should try his chances with the ever-so bashful maiden in the hopes that he might just “get lucky”. Sniggers from the others of the group were poorly stifled as Barlough stood up, having to catch himself so that he wouldn’t over compensate for his current lack of balance and fall either on his face, his companions, or land on his arse. With a deep breath to suck in his gut and bolster his shoulder mass, the burly man swaggered and staggered over to the flirtatious piece of décor where he tried to make his move.

          All was going well until the bard’s first song stole over the crowd, filling the room with an invigorating enchantment that soothed the weary and sore, and restored vitality to those who could hear its haunting rhythm. As his mind-numbing effects of his drunken state had begun to clear, Barlough stood blinking mindlessly about his surroundings as though he was lost. He shook his head and squinted as he inspected the cloak stand more thoroughly. At that point, Dunty was thankful that the bard’s enchantment hadn’t fully cut through the foggy chaos of the burly warrior’s enchantment as Barlough Regnar stood, staring dumbfoundedly at the cloak stand as if to wonder where he was or how he had gotten there. With a confounded glance around the tavern, he located his companions and sauntered slovenly back to his seat, giving them the most incredulous look that could ever be spied on such a man’s face.

          “Cans ya beleefth thadt I’s ‘bout ta gedt freshth wit shom cloaksh,” he asked, the heavy slur in his deep voice telling everyone at his table that he had ingested so much liquor that even the mystical healing energies of the music had not been able to sober him completely. Not for a moment did he even realize that he had been put up to it by his companions; nor was he aware of the truth behind their mirth as he continued. “Why I’d bedt thadt shom poor shmop wuz prob…probabab…probly,” he grimaced with frustration as he fumbled to get the word out while struggling with the slur in his voice.

          Barlough’s companions howled with laughter at the burly warrior’s expense as he recounted his utter confusion for the circumstances at hand, knowing what or who had put him up to approaching the cloak stand in the first place. Erolas ran his fingers through his harvest-golden locks as he giggled about the unfolding events, and then, taking a deep breath to suppress his mirth, he took a conservative draw on his stoup of Elven mead. He swirled the finely fermented liquid around in his mouth, enjoying the robust flavors locked and concealed within. The ranger was most thankful for the bard’s rejuvenating melody as its mystic energies caressed his being, easing the chill of the icy cold day from his body and filled him with a sense of relaxation that renewed his spirit. He was momentarily distracted from his train of thought as a large powerfully built Northman ambled gracefully by dressed in buckskins and wrapped in a wolf-skin cloak. Strapped to the Engalian warrior’s back was a great two-handed waraxe that looked as though it could cleave a man nigh in two with a single powerful stroke. The barbarian regarded him solemnly as his hawkish eyes roved over the area- to a nearby table along the wall where an empty seat awaited him. The ranger tipped his mug toward the big Northman; a silent greeting that showed his respect for the mighty warrior. The barbarian offered Erolas a stoic acknowledgement of his greeting; then continued on his way.

          The elven ranger turned back to his mead and the simple meal of bread, fruit, and cheese before him, allowing the music to wash over him once more. The revitalizing melody was soon replaced by another- one that told the tale of the war against Unklar and the battle to free the world from The Horned God’s tyrannical rule. The Anthem of Alderiche bounced, dipped, and trilled along as its powerful melody worked to bolster the morale of the refreshed patrons of The Oaken Tankard. As Erolas’ keen eyes roved over the common room, taking in the scene about him, he noticed the stir as a young rogue tried to rob a wandering knight and was caught in the act. He watched with great interest as the events played out, and was more than a little surprised when the knight- rather than turning her in- offered her a seat at his table and even bought her food and a drink.

          The knight’s general compassion toward the thief both puzzled the ranger and earned his admiration at the same time, for most of the knights that he had encountered in his travels had usually saw themselves as administers of the law. Of all of these, however, only this particular knight seemed to be trying to embrace the code of conduct by which most knights had been sworn to uphold. The clumsy shuffle and collapse of something heavy caught Erolas by surprise and brought the elf back to the events that were playing out at his very table. He quickly surmised that Barlough had once more overindulged in Kayomaran Lager and had passed out hopelessly drunk; upending his chair in the process, and now lay flat-out on the tavern floor. Rumbling snores erupted from beneath the table, drawing hoots and howls of laughter from not only the members of the troupe, but anyone who saw the drunken fighter’s latest predicament. Erolas and his compatriots laughed even harder as fellow patrons and barmaids alike began stepping over the snoring brute as though he was just a sack of flour in the way. Chuckling despite himself, the ranger shook his head at the incredible absurdity of the situation that Barlough had drunken himself into.

          As the laughter began to die down once more, Selvis Berrinhard, a tall man with angular features and hair of deepest auburn hailed to a barmaid who was busy tending to a solitary traveler who was only seated a few tables away, calling for her to bring a decanter of ale to fill their rapidly emptying tankards. It didn’t take long for the girl to minister to their call as she hurried to fill their flagons to the brim and was off to fetch another pitcher or two for the rowdy group, pausing only long enough to shoot the weaselly Rinzel a dangerous glare when he slapped her across the hindquarters, making her jump and squeal at the blatant invasion of her personal being. The greasy rogue’s surrounding companions regarded him with mocking jeers as they goaded him about the lass’ rejection of his advances.

          “Looks like the barkeep’s going to have his hands full with that one,” Dunty commented as he nudged Erolas with the side of his mug and gestured toward the bar. Erolas looked up to see what his halfling partner was referring to, only to find himself staring at the most rugged dwarf that he had seen in many a year. He was grim-faced, cheerless, and looked as though he had been rough-cut and chiseled from the heart of a granite mountain with long fiery red hair that cascaded in a multi-braided tangle of flame and color well below the middle of the stocky fellow’s broad back where a beautifully crafted bearded battleaxe hung, suspended from a hidden baldric which gave it the appearance of being held in place by the very hair of the dwarf’s head. By the length of his autumn hued beard, Erolas could tell that the squat fellow was young by the standards of his kin.

          The stout warrior nodded to Ortuck exchanging a handful of shining coins and gems for a large Foaming stein known to locals as “The Tower” and rightly so for the sizeable tankard was nearly twice the size of a normal flagon and carved into the likeness of a tower. The dark, rich and frothy head of the freshly poured ale had spewed over the side, running down the graven brick and ivy side of the tower to drip onto the worn wooden planks of the floor. As he drained the stein in but a few gulps, the dwarven warrior turned to survey the room. His eyes were deep-set beneath a craggy brow lined by a flaming hedge of ember eyebrows that only added to the ruddy hue of his exposed cheeks; his gaze was humorless and observant as he surveyed the room like an artisan about to take on a new endeavor. His eyes met those of Erolas, regarding the elven ranger with a grave sense of respect even as he nodded in acknowledgement of Erolas’ presence. The ranger responded in kind, and then lifted his tankard in an old dwarven salutation. Had the elf not known any better, he would have sworn that he saw the hint of an austere smile on the dwarven warrior’s hardened face. Whatever it was; was short-lived as the short stocky traveler turned back to the bar for a refill.

          “What was that about,” Dunty inquired as he silently watched the pass between the dwarf and the ranger?

          “I’m not sure, my friend,” Erolas replied studying the dwarf for a moment longer, “but I can say one thing for sure.”

          “That is…” Dunty prompted in return?

          “This night seems to be getting more interesting by the moment,” The elf stated as he regarded the halfling with a wistful glance before embroiling himself back into the revelry of this cold mid winter’s eve.

Castles & Crusades, The World of Aihrde, and Troll Lord Games are registered Trademarks of Chenault & Gray, LLC.

Escape from Valn

Part 5

Ire of the Traveling Mage

          Mathon Hywel swept the dust from his robes as he sat with his arms leaning upon the well oiled surface of the bar while absently sipping at his ornately carved goblet of elderberry wine. A look of utter disgust distorted his features as he followed the brutish Northman, who made his way through the growing crowd to settle in an empty seat at a table near the other end of the bar, with a scornful glare. The mage was completely unable to fathom the incivility of some people- of how they could just barge in, with no regards as to who is there or what they might be doing, only to order a flagon of ale instead of finding a seat and hailing a barmaid like more civilized folk. He reviewed the whole event with a bitter huff that reflected the ire that burned in his eyes, and then placing the oaken goblet back on the bar, Mathon took a long, agitated draw on his long-pipe to relax his nerves and collect his thoughts. The Aenochian pipe-weed, which had been mingled with leaves of cured mint, cloves and a few other, more exotic, herbs, worked quickly to soothe his mind as the warm moist heat filled his lungs and spread throughout his body.

          Mathon had spent the last few days researching the mystic arcana surrounding a spell that he had yet to unravel. He had just come to the brink of a climactic discovery about its inner workings when that oafish beast of a man lumbered into him- invading his personal space and disrupting his train of thought. Still flustered by the brash invasion of his person, Mathon took a deep breath, sharply cursing his damnable sense of luck as he raised the goblet to his lips and imbibed a small mouthful of the semi-sweet wine. As he rolled the liquid around in his mouth, basking in the fine quality of its vintage, it came to his attention that his hat was not on the bar where he had left it. An angry flush rose to his cheeks- which made the frail wizard look as though he had spent too much time by the hearthside- as his eyes roved over his immediate surroundings in search of his missing accessory. He snapped a vengeful gaze back to the now seated barbarian, wondering if the uncultured brute had made off with his favorite traveling hat, only for the notion to be cut short as he caught a glimpse of the wide-brimmed hat leaning against the foot of the bar. With an annoyed sigh of relief, he motioned to the old accoutrement, summoning it to his hand; then dusting it from brim to crown, Mathon placed the old hat upon his head. He gave the burly Northman a sidelong glance for good measure; as if the berating look alone scolded the brute for the momentary damage he had caused by his brash intrusion. Then, with a steady draw from his pipe and a satisfying sip of his wine, Mathon settled back into the thrall of his previous endeavor.

The World of Aihrde, Castles & Crusades, and Troll Lord Games are registered trademarks of Chenault & Gray, LLC.

Escape from Valn

 

Part 4

Cyan

          Cyan Krieger eyed the steaming bread-bowl, heaped with piping hot stew, hungrily as the barmaid leaned over, setting the wooden tray that bore his meal before him. The rich aroma of spiced venison, vegetables, and herbs tantalized his nostrils and made his mouth water with anticipation as he regarded the young lass with a look of gratitude and handed her a small fistful of coins. Tucking the change into a pocket, she smiled warmly and then turned to retrieve the pitcher that she had managed to hoist along with the serving tray. Without missing a beat, she filled the warrior’s mug up to a graciously foaming head of thick brown ale.

          “Thank ye, milady” he said in a voice that reflected the fatigue that showed in his eyes. With a nod of her head and a polite smile she was off, scurrying to the call of a band of travelers who hailed to her for a decanter of ale to fill their empty tankards. Cyan regarded the group with a grudging respect as he fingered the turned, wrought iron spoon by his bowl. They laughed and carried on, after whatever their day had brought them; though Cyan doubted for a minute that they had traveled the long hard road that he had since the sun rose behind the leaden-hued sky this morning. With a weary smile he spooned a heaping mound of stew into his mouth, savoring the thick hearty broth as it delivered a myriad of flavors to his senses.

          The grueling trek from Gaxmoor in the driving wind and bitter cold had left him little more than frozen, starved, and altogether physically drained. Despite the urge he had to wolf the entire bowl of stew down as fast as he could swallow it, Cyan ate slowly and patiently, allowing the warmth of his meal to spread throughout his body as he washed it all down with a swig of a thick brown porter that hailed from somewhere in The Massif. Tearing off a chunk of the bread-bowl’s lid and gnawing on it, he took a moment to look around and survey his surroundings. A tavern boy tended the hearth, stoking the coals and adding another log to the flame when it was needed. His efforts sent a shower of sparks up the flue that seemed to dance and swirl with the rhythm of the bard’s music as they sailed ever upward into oblivion. The tavern’s patrons seemed to revel in each other’s company- even the cutpurse who had been slinking along through the crowd, pilfering various odds and ends as she went, had found a welcome place next to a wandering knight only a few tables away. Cyan drew a deep breath and relaxed- the warm welcoming environment of The Oaken Tankard was exactly what the warrior needed after more than a week on the blustery, frigid, open road. He took another heaping bite of stew while surveying his fellow travelers- enjoying the warmth and flavor of the spiced meal that warmed him inside and out, and gave a silent huzzah to fine food, fine folk, and even finer drink. Without further consideration of the long road that had brought him to Valn and The Oaken Tankard, Cyan allowed the serene atmosphere of the tavern to wash over him; sweeping away his troubles as the graceful ebb and flow of the bard’s pleasant melody trilled over the crowd.

The World of Aihrde, Castles & Crusades, and Troll Lord Games are registered trademarks of Chenault & Gray, LLC.

Escape from Valn

 

Part 3

The Knight and The Thief

         Sir Errc Rhudven listened to the ebb and flow of the music, locked in a trancelike state of nostalgia. He knew the “Anthem of Alderiche” almost as well as he knew his own name, for when he was a boy, his father would often sing it to him as both a lullaby and bedtime story. The thought brought a smile to his face as he recalled the tales his father told of the legendary heroes of old, or the stories of how his forefathers fought alongside the likes of Daladon Half-Elven and Aristobulus the Mage to rid the world of the tyranny and darkness of The Horned God, Unklar. For a moment, he was lost in the images of his past as he took a journey through the memories of his childhood. It was that very anthem, which flowed over the patrons of The Oaken Tankard like a musical tide, along with the tales of his ancestors and other legendary heroes that had played a major role in his life and influenced his desire to become a noble warrior. For as long as he could remember, both as a page, and later after he had obtained the position of squire, Errc would often imagine that he was one of the great heroes of legend as he practiced his knightly training. A whimsical smile spread across his face as he recalled the many grain sacks that he had “slain” in the name of all that was just- enacting various battles with the foul likes of orcs, goblins, and trolls. Looking back on the days of his youth, Errc had always hoped that, one day, he would bring honor and glory to his family name, and that his own deeds would be written in the hymns, ballads, and tales of renown along with the legendary heroes whose very names and deeds inspired such great songs of valor as the one playing now. Filled with pride and swelling with integrity, Errc raised his tankard in a solemn salute to both the song from his past, and to the performer whose magical touch on the lute had brought the images of his youth alive once more, before draining its contents in a long swig of dark, foamy, bittersweet brew. Still enraptured by the epic melody, the knight brought the empty flagon back down to the table with a solid clap and then wiped the excess moisture from his face. A young barmaid sauntered over to his table bearing a tray in one hand and a decanter of frothy brown ale in the other. She set the tray on the table long enough to refill Errc’s wooden flagon before placing a platter with a bread-made bowl full of steaming hot venison stew before him. The aroma of spiced meat and vegetables in a thick hearty broth wafted up, tantalizing the young knight’s nostrils, reminding him that it had been several days since his last hot meal. He thanked the barmaid, who just smiled in response before ambling back off into the crowd. Errc spooned a heaping mound of the aromatic stew into his mouth, savoring the robust flavor that seized his taste buds and held them captive for the duration of the bowl. The hearty stew and foamy ale filled the young knight’s belly and warmed his soul, allowing him to relax and escape from the day’s endeavors- yet not so much as to keep him from catching a movement out of the corner of his eye. In a swift blur of motion, Sir Errc’s hand shot out from his bowl, catching the hand of a thief who had thought to relieve him of his coin purse.

          “Hey,” the would-be thief protested as she wrestled and tugged against Errc’s vice-like grip, “let go o’ me, ya’ filthy son o’ a goblin’s arse!” Errc eyed the girl evenly, giving her a casual once-over. His trained eyes carefully took in every detail about the rogue- she was small and lithe as a ferret, with eyes that sparkled like emeralds, reflecting the fiery spirit held within, and hair the color of deepest chestnut, that even though it was pulled back, draped gracefully over her trim, well toned shoulders like a silken cascade. Although the young rogue was barely sixteen years of age, she could move with all the skill and grace of a panther skulking through the shadows. Judging by the scarred leather cuirass that she wore, along with the scimitar and dagger that was cinched at her waist by a sturdy leather belt, Sir Errc could tell that the slender thief was no stranger to battle. She continued to wrench and pull at her captor, creating a scene that had begun to attract the attention of some of the nearby tables. “I mean it ya’ bullheaded oaf,” she demanded as she struggled fiercely to free her captured hand; “let me go!” As she spat the last words, her free hand shot to the handle of her dagger, only to be restrained by the knight just as her fingers brushed the pommel. Flustered by the sudden turn of events, she renewed her efforts, twisting, turning, and pulling to escape from the knight’s grasp. When it was clear that she wasn’t going to free herself anytime soon, she ceased her struggle and regarded the knight with a scornful glare that told him that she would not be easily broken.

          Sir Errc returned her gaze with a stern look that said more than it needed to. “It seems to me that your luck has run out, thief,” he declared flatly- his voice leaving no doubts to his claim; “but perhaps not entirely.” The knight watched her for a moment to see if anything he was saying was getting through to the headstrong youth. Whether it did or not, he couldn’t tell for sure, but he continued on anyway; “I’ll let you go this once; however,” he emphasized with a stern expression, “do not try to rob me again; are we understood?” The young rogue glared at the knight disdainfully as she stood there, trapped within the warrior’s grasp. A pouty look of defeat had begun to cloud her otherwise pretty face as she accepted the circumstances of her position. “Are we understood,” Errc reiterated with an uncompromising glare and a matter of fact tone that let her know that he was not to be trifled with?

          “Oh alright,” Selira Luran responded with an exasperated huff that seemed to deflate her already petite form. She allowed her arms to slacken a bit to show that she was willing to comply with the knight’s demand; however, as soon as Sir Errc relinquished his grip on the young rogue’s arm, she snapped them away with a swift, fluid motion that betrayed her true skill. Selira eyed the knight disdainfully as she rubbed the feeling back into her wrists. “Ya’ didn’t have to be so rough, ya’ know,” she scolded him sulkily, but if Sir Errc felt any remorse from the sting of her words, it didn’t show.

          “Well, in that case,” he responded- his face softening to once more reflect his more amiable nature, “maybe you shouldn’t try to take things that don’t belong to you, hmm?” His witty retort earned him a flustered scowl from the young rogue that invoked an inward chuckle that Errc could not easily resist. “Come;” he invited her with a chortle as he slid out an empty chair and motioned for her to sit, “join me for a drink, if you like.” He watched as her pouty, disdainful expression softened, melting away to form a warm, if slightly defeated, yet accepting nod. “Great,” he continued as Selira slid into the offered seat, “what’ll you be having?”

          Selira raised an arched eyebrow as she regarded the man of whom she had just tried to rob and his strange sense of generosity with a certain amount of curiosity. “Ya’ buyin’,” she inquired as Sir Errc summoned a barmaid with a wave of his hand?

          “Aye,” he replied with a polite nod before taking a swig from his wooden tankard, “I’m buying”. There was a particular sparkle in the knight’s eyes that Selira instinctively liked, even if she couldn’t understand the motives, if there were any, behind his actions.

          “Well then,” she said with a wry grin that revealed much about the young rogue’s spirit, “in that case, I’ll have a mug o’ Elven Mead.”

          Sir Errc accepted her request lightheartedly as the barmaid approached the table, ready to fetch whatever the youthful knight needed. “Bring a mug of Elven Mead and a bowl of stew for my guest, if you will,” Errc requested as he dropped a few silver coins into the maid’s hands. She looked at the coins for a moment, and then back to Errc, giving him a courteous, if quick nod before turning to make her way back to the kitchen. “So,” Errc said as he turned his attention back to the young rogue, “what brings you into town on this cold winter’s night?”

          Selira was dumbfounded as she sat, staring at the knight- unsure of how to answer. She considered his question for a moment; then responded. “How do ya’ know I’m not from around here,” she inquired, her brow furrowed as she tried to figure out how the knight knew that she was a vagabond? At that moment the barmaid returned, placing a flagon of mead on the table before her, taking her from her thoughts long enough to regard the woman, who was probably only a couple of years her senior, politely. “Thanks,” she said, offering a solemn gratitude to the barmaid as she offered a simple smile.

          “Ye’re welcome,” the barmaid replied; then glancing to Sir Errc, she asked, “anything else while I’m here?”

          “That’s all, for now, thanks,” Errc replied returning her smile with one of his own. With that she turned and disappeared among the gathering patrons of The Oaken Tankard once more. Errc cast a glance toward Selira noticing her baffled expression in response to his inquiry. “Well,” the knight responded with a nonchalant shrug and a knowing grin that was only hidden in part by the rim of his mug as he lifted it to imbibe another mouthful of ale, “for one, no one seems to notice you, recognize you, or even know you; yet even a rogue like yourself is often recognized in their hometown.” He watched her response as she mulled over the knight’s general observation, taking special note of his precise attention to detail. With a glance that shifted from him to the table, the rogue’s face darkened into an expression of thought.

          As the implications of the knight’s revelation sorted themselves out in her mind, Selira looked back up, from the table to the knight sitting before her. A hundred and one questions swirled like angry hornets in her mind as she pondered who this peculiar traveling knight was, and moreover, what he was about. “Ah,” she replied thoughtfully as she took in a mouthful of mead and began rolling the semi-sweet liquid around on her tongue, “I see. Well, it seems I’m a bit o’ a wanderer and needed to get out o’ the cold for the night.”

          “There’s more to this knight than meets the eye” Selira thought as she considered her circumstances, “things could be much worse, though.” She took another drink of her mead as she accepted the hand that fate had dealt her. “Oh well, whatever happens, happens; the night’s still young after all.”

The World of Aihrde, Castles & Crusades, and Troll Lord Games are registered trademarks of Chenault & Gray, LLC.

The Oaken Tankard

 

Map by

W. R. Frady

Escape from Valn

Part 2

The Oaken Tankard

          The Oaken Tankard bustled with activity as patrons from all over Ursal wandered in, out of the bitter cold in search of a hot meal, a tankard of Ol’ Ortuck’s finest Dwarven Stout, or a bit of both to wash away the chill of this coldest of winter’s eves. A roaring fire blazed in the open-faced hearth, spreading its warmth and comfort to the many men and women who had gathered in the tavern’s common room, to eat, drink, or just share in the tales that were brought in by travelers just coming in from the road. Everything from bawdy guffaws of laughter to the heated discussions and rumors about the possible meaning behind the weather’s brutal swing filled the pub with a dull roar as what seemed to be hundreds of conversations were being carried out at once. Above the steady din of the crowd, one could hear the random thrum of a lute as a visiting bard adjusted the tuning knobs of his ancient elven-crafted instrument- jarred out of tune by a hard day’s travel on the open road. The young bard paused long enough to take a quaff from his tankard of Bergrucken Pilsner before making the final adjustments on his instrument. With a slow, attentive strum, he tested the strings to be sure that they were fully in tune before beginning to play.

          Within moments, a soft, haunting melody drifted from the stage, washing over the crowd- easing the cares, troubles, and worries of the day from their weary bones. Dongan Cardell worked the strings of his broad-necked elven lute with the care and precision of a master; though he had barely seen the better of two decades. Throughout his life, Dongan’s love for the melodic beauty and enchantment of song had only been rivaled by his love for adventure and his good-natured, well-loved demeanor which often allowed him to be openly welcomed into places where others would be turned away. As the music danced along his fingertips to be released by the well timed pluck of the strings, the bard gazed out over the crowd to take in the scene that continued to gather in the tavern before him. From his vantage point seated atop of the raised stage near the fireplace, Dongan could see nearly everyone between him and the crowded bar across the tavern where Ortuck passed a frothy stein of ale to a powerfully built Northman who accepted the flagon stoically- then turned to find a place to settle amongst the many inhabitants of the old pub. The large barbarian drew many curious stares as he made his way from the bar, many of which were aimed at his tanned and cured buckskin garb, or his hooded traveler’s cloak of finely worked wolf’s pelt draped over his shoulders with the wolf-faced hood pulled up over his head to stave off the cold air. Aside from the venomous ire directed in his general direction by a traveling mage of whom must have been put off by the Northman’s presence, most onlookers were drawn to the massive, double-bladed waraxe that was strapped across the big man’s back- a weapon that looked as though it could cleave a man in two with the least possible effort. Dongan allowed his gaze to follow the large man, noting that he moved with the non-deliberate, unbridled grace of a jungle cat as he nimbly side-stepped anyone who inadvertently ventured into his path with surprising agility and poise for a man of his size while he passed through the throng of patrons on his way toward a table near the bar. The barbarian paid no heed to the gawking patrons or the hushed whispers of the crowd as he settled in to place. A barmaid scurried toward him through the dense mob of customers, brandishing a tray which bore a steaming bowl of venison stew and a chunk of dark brown bread. She placed the hot meal before the Northman, and then spoke a few words to him, flashing him a flirtatious smile before ambling back through the crowd to tend to other patrons.

          Dongan wrapped up the first song of the evening, using the final chords as a flawless transition between it and the next- an older tune whose buoyant rhythm told the tale of The Winter’s Dark and the fall of The Horned God, Unklar; knowing that its message of hope would do much to bolster the morale of those whose body and spirit had been eroded by the steady, harsh, and relentless onslaught of the cold blustery weather. The music danced, hopped, bounced, and trilled as the melody depicted the crucial battles which were instrumental in the bringing of the light back into the world. He shifted his pace to a slow mournful part of the melody that bespoke of the fall of a great hero who sacrificed himself so that the good people of Aihrde might live free. As the bard played on, the hails for ale, mead, and wine increased, letting Dongan know that he had chosen well, for the spirits of The Oaken Tankard’s patrons had begun to lift- if only just enough to make them more comfortable for a little while. Dongan smiled, allowing himself a moment of pride for a job well done, and then he set to making the instrument sing for one and all to hear on this coldest eve of eves.

Castles & Crusades, The World of Aihrde, and Troll Lord Games are registered trademarks of Chenault & Gray, LLC.

Escape From Valn

Part 1

The Approach of Impending Doom

         A thick, heavy layer of frost blanketed the Great Lothian Plains for the third day of what had been one of the bitterest, if not the bitterest, cold snaps since the time of The Winter Dark. A frigid wind swept out of the northwest carrying with it the threat of an impending snowfall that would likely suspend travel for no less than a week once it set in, forcing anyone caught abroad to find a suitable place to batten down for the duration, lest they be stranded out on the road without access to food, shelter, water, or warmth. Thick leaden-hued clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, blotting out the cerulean sky and casting the land in the somber monochromatic shades of twilight, though it was merely mid-day. Amid the harsh whispers and hissed threats of the icy gusts that whipped mercilessly across the land- snatching up stray grasses and leaves to send them into violent devils of swirling debris that danced and whirled across the open plains before disappearing into the blustery chaos- a thunderous rumble echoed along the borderlands of The Wilds; its growing fury speaking doom for any who heard its distant call. So profound was the ominous thrum that, a lone wild dog, whose bared ribs reflected the dire scarcity of food during this forbidding time, was momentarily distracted by the approaching ruckus, allowing its prey to escape into the low-growing shrubs that dominated the area. Dismayed by the loss of the meager hare, the feral hound turned its attention back to the rumbling chaos that seemed to be growing louder with each passing moment; however, as the wind shifted carrying the scent of imminent danger to the canine’s sharp snout, its hackles rose in fright, and the feral hound bolted for the safety of the brush, abandoning all thoughts of food or curiosity for the sheer notion of survival.

          Though the bone-numbing cold gnawed at their exposed flesh, a sense of blooded thrill coursed through the beasts of the bloodthirsty horde as they marched relentlessly along the rolling hills which served as the southern border of The Wilds. Made up of mostly orcs and hobgoblins, the inhuman host was led by an imposing warrior who sat astride a fierce wyvern, which did as much to keep the legion of chaos in order as the mighty warrior himself. Already the fell beast had devoured several orcs who had been unfortunate enough to dare venturing too close. Upon seeing this example made of their numbers, none of the others had desired to tempt their fate.

          The leader, a menacing warrior whose suit of plate-mail armor and great helm- with horns that sprouted from the cheek plates and curved around to protrude like the tusks of some ravenous beast, that gave the fierce warrior an appearance likened to that of some nameless fiend, summoned from the depths of The Abyss; looked out over the invading horde, his ember-like eyes glowed, smoldering with battle-lust as he observed the inhuman host at his disposal- Ogres lumbered amid the ranks of orcs, occasionally belching out orders in guttural, primitive voices that said much about their bestial, if bullyish nature- Bugbears filed in amid the hobgoblins; their immense size and barbaric nature setting them apart from their more militaristic kin. As for barbaric, Lord Rechtlar looked at his second in command, though not by his choosing- Vorlagg Blackskull was indeed the most vicious and vile creature that he had seen, but he was far from reserved as it was witnessed when his mount, Semnothis, had dared to snap at him as he did the orcs. The fierce barbarian felled a blow on the wyvern’s jaw with his hammer that nearly unseated the death knight and prompted a silent reprimand that warned Vorlagg of attempting such foolishness again. Semnothis, however, wouldn’t so much as look at the vile barbarian again; a minute observation that Lord Rechtlar found rather impressive.

          “Onward you pathetic pawns;” roared the daemonic death knight as he spurred Semnothis into a quickened step, “daylight is fading fast, the storm gathers on our trail, and our destination lies ahead! Whet your appetites and rally your thirst, for with the coming nightfall, chaos shall ensue and blood will flow in the winepress of your fury; now onward!” Rechtlar’s eyes ignited with a battle-born sentiment that border lined ecstasy as he urged the vile horde into a bloodthirsty frenzy that boosted their morale and hastened their march. As if to agree with the Darklord of Shadivel Keep, Vorlagg raised his mighty hammer and issued a bloodcurdling battle-cry that was felt by one and all members of the fell host. “Maybe,” Lord Rechtlar thought as he saw the barbarian’s effect on the mass of inhuman savages, “having Vorlagg Blackskull as his lieutenant wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

          The gently rolling hills of The Great Lothian Plains stretched out before the horde as they rapidly continued toward their destination. Their passing was like the rolling thunder of a violent storm as they crossed over hill and through dell throughout the rest of the day- their feet pulverizing the thickly packed and frozen earth into a trampled chaotic mess of thawed and stinking muck that would scar the land for many months before the spring rains and warmer weather would ever get the chance to repair the damage of their abject violation its natural beauty. As the diffused light of day faded and drew on into the monochromatic shades of evening, the invading horde came to a hill among the hills that allowed the host of Shadivel Keep to see their destination- a small town nestled in the small hollow between a set of knuckle-like hillocks. Smoke from the various chimneys drifted lazily into the air until it was unceremoniously snatched by the icy cold wind and pulled mercilessly to the southeast. Lord Rechtlar’s eyes narrowed as he felt the presence of the item he had been ordered to retrieve by Xalik. The death knight shifted his gaze from the quiet town in the distance to his legion- seeing the bloodlust in their eyes, he nodded his approval.

         “Soon, The Circlet of Askovar will be ours,” he said aloud, his eyes burning with the fires of chaos, “very soon.”

The World of Aihrde, Castles & Crusades, and Troll Lord Games are registered trademarks of Chenault & Gray, LLC.