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.

Concerning “Escape From Valn”

          I am pleased to announce that I will be bringing you a story from the World of Aihrde. The homeworld of the Castles & Crusades Roleplaying Game.  I feel very fortunate to be doing so as this required me to get in touch with the Troll Lords at Troll Lord Games.  Tim Burns accepted my inquiry and responded with a green light, giving me the go-ahead to write this tale.  I have been both excited and anxious to step into the light, and do a tie-in fiction that is more than just playing around with various characters, and so with the release of this story, I hope to gain a new level of growth in my budding career as a writer.  For this I offer the Troll Lords my many thanks. 

          Now, about “Escape From Valn”.  “Escape from Valn” is essentially a tale that characterizes the circumstances which can be used to bring a group of adventurers together.  Most often, in the games that I have seen, partaken in, or GM’ed, everyone somehow managed to know one another even though their backgrounds were as different as fire and ice, that was how things played out without any question as to how it came to be that way.  In this tale, we will see a group of absolute strangers, each from varied backgrounds, thrown into a situation where their survival depends solely upon whether they choose to place personal and cultural prejudices before their own safety, or put aside their differences and fight with one common goal in mind, survival.  Due to the many interruptions I have had in writing this story, I will be putting it up in parts, with the whole story entering the Ebonstone Tower once the whole story is complete. 

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy the story;

W. R. Frady

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