Ernodal nodded softly to himself as he completed a final circuit of the room while counting the ring of spears. Satisfied that everything was ready he paused to lay his palm on the crude granite block at the head of the circle.
“Don’t go getting a big head. This isn’t all about you.
Oh I know what you’ll say. Poor Ernie, gone nuts without me. It’s been one week and he’s already talking to himself in a fucking playhouse.
But it’s like I told you when we walked to Vicetina. Family is important to mortals. So is memory. This should be marked properly.”
He grinned.
“Clink wouldn’t like me spending money on a bigger memorial. But this will do for now.”
Returning to the centre of the room he turned to address the granite block.
“Once upon a time there was a king who lost his kingdom. When the usurper had secured the throne his first action was to move against those who had placed him there. His former general fled across reality to Vaul, where he took refuge among the elves to lick his wounds and plot. An elf named Chirolan was chosen to be the instrument of his revenge. So Chirolan became the first elven Navigator.”
Ernodal moved to the spear closest to the crude throne.
“Chirolan was manipulated into the path of the fallen king, who unwittingly recruited him to help reclaim his throne. They failed.”
Ernodal slammed his open palm onto the speartip. Winching with pain he dragging his hand along the edge of the spear, tearing the wound wider until the flowing blood reached the haft. As the flesh warped and knitted back together he clumsily removed a candle from a satchel at his side. With a whispered word the candle flared to life.
“Chirolan fell in the Abyss. May his spirit find peace.”
Gently he set the candle onto the bloody spear head, warm light reflecting off dark blood and cold metal. He paused for a moment before moving onto the next point in the circle.
“Before he died Chirolan had a daughter named Gadiron. She became the second Navigator. She too fell on the path to the throne.”
Ernodal opened the edge of this hand on the second spear, lit a second candle.
“Gadrion fell in the Abyss. May her spirit find peace.”
Again he paused for a moment before moving along the circle. By the time he reached the eighteenth spear the room was bright with candles and heavy with the smell of blood.
“Fionnleth was the eighteenth Navigator, and my father. He fell in the Abyss. May his spirit find peace.”
Ernodal paused here for a long time, remembering his father’s slack face and empty eyes. Then he moved back to the centre of the circle of spears and lowered himself to the floor.
“And with my father dead, I became the nineteenth Navigator. I walked the path to the Throne. And there…
*****
Ernodal fell to his knees, blood hissing as it poured from his ruined chest onto the burning rock. The smell made him gag and he lifted his tearstained face to watch his death approach. The Sovereign barrelled forwards but suddenly Camelot was between them, duelling with the enormous demon while calmly explaining how swords were superior to claws. As if to illustrate his point he parried a slash from an enormous claw and flowed into a riposte which took a chunk out of the demon’s forearm. Ernodal screamed as the same cut opened on his forearm.
It was hopeless. He had hoped that his stolen power would be stronger close to the source but instead it was slipping away. Whenever he tried to draw on his magic his ears filled with a chorus that made it impossible to focus.
…Ernodal…
…Navigator…
…Beware…
The Sovereign backhanded Camelot across the throne room and turned his dead gaze back to Ernodal. He tried to focus on a spell but the voices intensified into screams.
Ernodal, beware the Navigator!
The warning in Ernodal’s head were drowned out by an ear-splitting roar as Clink dropped out of the sky and crashed into the Sovereign like an angry comet. Ernodal’s ribs cracked as talons tore into the demon lord. The magic he was weaving whipped free and something awful formed inside his skull. The new presence spread like a flood of bile, crushing Ernodal’s psyche as it seized and remade his body. Organs and bones burst through his skin, flexing and thrashing as he was twisted to suit a new purpose. He tried to scream, but what burst from his throat was a roar of triumph…
*****
Ernodal opened his eyes in the circle of spears. The flagstones beneath him glowed with a twisting lattice of light. His blood throbbed in his ears. Something was watching him from behind his eyes, preparing to tear him apart from the inside. He choked down the fear.
“I remember what we did. What you thought…”
*****
The Usurper sent a blast of disintegrating force towards him but he was already moving, whip coiling out to lash around his enemies’ neck. Reality flickered and he was behind his target. Bracing his feet he pulled the whip taut, snarling with savage joy as the line of lightening bit into the Usurper’s neck and dragged him down onto the spear. As the speartip burst through the false kings’ chest he yanked the whip backwards so he could speak directly into his ear.
𝔑𝔬𝔴𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔏𝔲𝔠𝔦𝔉𝔲𝔤𝔢ℜ𝔬𝔣𝔬𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔢.
The death scream of the Sovereign shook the foundations of the Abyss. As his foe dissolved he reached out along the Winding Path, drinking in a rush of possibilities that even his fractal mind couldn’t fully comprehend. The throne stood empty before him and when he ascended nothing would be beyond his reach. His triumphant gaze swept the throne room, focusing on the pitiful thing that had once been Demogorgon. The maggot was dumbfounded, still trying to understand what had just happened. Had he honestly believed that all this was his doing?
The mortals mewled as he turned his gaze on each of them, dismissing them with a glance. They were of no consequence. This one was time looped, that one might someday craft a genocide… they were nothing he had not seen before and would not see again. One was already starting to rot… but a node of possibilities was forming around the corpse.
“Camelot isn’t moving”.
He paused at the whisper in his head, explored the node further to see the potential futures it promised. The mortal whose meat he wore was still aware. That was impossible.
Unless a mortal had been bred for generations to conceal and carry one of the Neverborn.
Unless the one who wore his flesh had been weakened by centuries of hiding away from the Abyss.
If the mortal had sufficient motivation to wrest back control…
“Why isn’t anyone helping him?”
Unable to believe what was happening, he spread his wings as the work of centuries started to slip out of his grasp. It was the Navigator who took to the air. It was Ernodal who landed and ran towards Camelot.
*****
Ernodal opened his eyes. The room had disappeared and the ring of spears floated in a field of darkness.
“Curiosity. Not rage. Not disappointment. You could have taken the throne but you stopped to explore a possibility just because it was something you’d never seen. You’d rather see one new sight than rule the Abyss.”
The darkness exploded into light and violence. The spaces between the spears became a kalioscope of portals, each opening onto a battlefield or torture chamber around the Abyss.
An army of Chort tore each other apart on a field of crystal.
Stone ships crashed together in a sea of acid.
Men screamed as they fell through an endless sky with skeletal crows tearing at their flesh.
Green flames enveloped a huddle of blue creatures with too many arms.
A wave of alien anger washed over Ernodal as he felt something probe his mind to find his fears.
“If I die you’ve got nowhere to hide. Tarnik isn’t in a forgiving mood.”
The scenes faded into darkness. Ernodal rose and paced the circle, trying to shake off the emotions that coursed through him from somewhere else.
“What’s done is done, so enough of the tantrums. The throne is beyond your reach. You betrayed Tarnik, Lucifuge betrayed you. I was dragged into the middle. Now he’s dead, my family is gone and we’re stuck with each other.
You know what’s coming to Vaul from the moon. I’m going to try and stop it. You keep me and my friends alive and I’ll do what whatever I can to plead your case to Tarnik. At least give you time to plan your next move.”
The darkness faded and Ernodal was back in the room. The spear had disappeared and the entire structure was buckled and twisted. He rapped the cracked walls with his knuckles and a portion of the masonry crumbled to dust.
“I’ll take that as a yes then. We’ll talk again soon. Though I may need a bigger room next time I try to talk to myself.”
He grinned. Clink would have to find the money somehow.
Greeting stranger. The name’s Pete – Scurvy Pete. But please, no need for formalities. You can just call me “Scurvy”. Take a seat stranger. Share some grog.
Did you know that I wasn’t always “Scurvy Pete”? No, that’s not the name my parents gave me. I was once “Peter Longfellow”. Peter Longfellow was a merchant. A good one too. I sailed with my crew including my beloved first mate Martinsson. I loved that man like he was my own brother.
You ask why I speak of my beloved Martinsson in the past tense? The story will get there stranger, don’t you worry. We sailed under the Vicetina flag. We served the duke. We were hauling a shipment of tobacco to the new world that month. It was midwinter – a dangerous time to sail – no sane man would cross the sea in midwinter. But very lucritive. So Martinsson and I sailed with our cargo of tobacco.
Don’t interrupt me stranger! I’m getting there. Have more grog. It was a dark and stormy night. “Lower the sail Martinsson!” I shout to my beloved first mate. He was on top of the mast when it snapped.
“MARTINSSON” I shouted and ran. He was broken when I got to him.
“How do I look Peter Longfellow?” he asked me.
“You look good Martinsson. You’ll be alright.” I turned his head so that he couldn’t see the broken leg “You’ll make it Martinsson, I promise.”
You’re asking if the wound got diseased? No, the gods were kind to us there. The wound healed even. It was the hunger that got us in the end. Without the sails, we floated aimlessly. We shared the biscuts, but they ran out in a month.
We sat there staring at the last biscut.
“We’ll make it Martinsson. I promise” I told him cradling his head. He breathed his last breath. I buried him at sea of course.
I became delirious after his death. The sea was rough. It was stormy. I welcomed death. Death came as a school of eels.
That’s right, eels. Majestic creatures. They surrounded us. I prayed to the eels in my fever. I prayed for safety. I prayed for food. I prayed for my beloved Martinsson back.
Don’t laugh stranger. My prayers were answered! The great Sea Serpent spoke to me then for the first time. Don’t. Laugh. He offered me everything I asked for. And more.
Don’t laugh at me. More grog! I was sated instantly. I don’t eat anymore. I survive on seawater alone. It’s true. The eels pushed us to land. And Martinsson. Martinsson is back with me now. He was given a second life as an eel. Yes, an eel. He speaks to me often. You see my left arm stranger? No, these are not tattoos. This is Martinsson reincarnated as an eel. He speaks to me. What’s that Martinsson? I shouldn’t kill the stranger yet? I should give the stranger time to repent and worship the Great Sea Serpent? As you wish, Martinsson. Yes, the Sea Serpent speaks to me through Martinsson. It was he who told me to come to this island. It was he who told me to come to this Scumm Bar. It was he who told me to become a pirate.
You’re laughing at me stranger. But it’s true. All true. It all happened exactly as I described it. Why would Scurvy Pete lie to you? It’s all true. The Great Sea Serpent gave Martinsson and I a second chance in this life. In return, Scurvy Pete shall serve the serpent in the next.
“I’m going to go check on the guards!” Camelot stood and exclaimed. Some of the other council members looked up.
“You’re going to go start training them?” Clink asked.
“Oh uh yes, yes” the dwarf nodded. “The Pretorian Guard.”
“Good. You should teach them that move. You know – the spinning one.”
“Definitely.” Camelot scurried out of the council room. But he didn’t head for the guard room. No, he went via his bedroom. The backpack and rope were neatly prepared on his bed. The pack clanked loudly as the dwarf lifted it on his shoulders. He tied the rope to a bedpost and lowered the other end out the window.
“God I hate ropes” Camelot thought as he slowly rapelled down the castle wall “They are so weak, and can snap at any moment. Like a neck.”
This rope held out, and the swordmaster thanked Namthar as his feet touched the ground. He raised his hood and looked around. His window led into the small rose garden reserved for private occasions and weddings. It was quite empty now. The dwarf sighed, tightened his hood, and headed into the city.
He knew the way to the marked district from the gang’s latest adventure. It wasn’t hard to retrace their steps. He wrapped his cloak tighter, hoping that the clanking pack wouldn’t attract too much attention. The market was bustling so being unnoticed wasn’t hard.
Pomu clutched the rake more tightly as he picked his way through the woodland. The nights silence was vast and almost taunt him as he snuck through the trees. It was inviting his mistakes. He quivered silently as he held his breath, placing each foot carefully. Waiting. Testing his footing before committing. With each step he would wince and wait for the snap of a dried branch or loose stone to betraying him. He sighed as his foot found soft, silent, yielding moss. He exhaled slowly and continued onwards.
_____________________________________________
“Look, I’m just saying, I don’t think we are really sowing an
appropriate level of terror on this farmstead.”
“Why do say such things bloodkin, this is most unwarrior
like of you”
“She offered us tea”
“Tea is a noble drink, and hydration is important to all
champions who walk the path. Your enemies will be well hydrated. Their urine
will run clear – the colour of freedom and victory, and yours will be a mustard
yellow, the colour of cowardice.”
“Point taken about yellow, but I don’t think the colour of
victory is “clear”, I think you made that up. I don’t even think “clear” is even
a colour really. You can’t paint a war-shield “clear” brother. But what about
the biscuits? The little wafer ones with chocolate on one side. Every day we
stray further the hoofspringa.”
“… The great Khan and the heroes of suboptima need us
fighting fit. That includes maintaining our blood sugar”
“blood sugar … that sounds …. Suitably … barbaric ”
“I think it’s a type of hero-drink, created from fallen
enemies and sweetened with the tears of their keening women folk. I think I
heard Gritgoz mention it.”
“And its in these biscuits”
“I think so brother, the main ingredient after chocolate.”
Bathed in the blood red light of the moon, the centaur encampment lay at the edge of a tidy grove of pine trees, overlooking the old cottage. Only a few hundred feet now from him.
_____________________________________________
Pomu had grown onions predominantly (protip: they would grow in just about anything but thrived in owlbear dung. Expensive, but worth it.). Award winning onions at that, until his title had been robbed by previously unheard-of grower, known only by the mysterious moniker “Farmer Baggot”. Pomus heart pounded in his ears at the thought of the pimple faced weasel … he knew he was cheating but each time he confronted him at the annual fair he was laughed off and suffered a barrage of abuse and onion shaming. This year he was mounting a comeback, he had a secret weapon. Oh yes. He was going to beat Baggot at his own game. Or that was the plan. Until he awoke yesterday morning to find 30 steaming centaurs standing in his vegetable patch arguing about the best way to torture him. After a few minutes of cowering under this bed, he had mustered up the courage to open the door only to be promptly lifted clean off the ground by the scruff of his neck and placed back inside by an enormous trunk-thick hand. He was told to wait patiently as they decided the best way to interrogate him. He screamed in terror at them, explaining he had nothing to hide and would gladly talk at length on any subject but was silenced immediately. This had nothing to do with him apparently, he had best keep quite while they worked out how to make him talk. After some time, the consensus emerged that it might be more effective to break his limbs first to prevent escape, but the counterpoint was raised that he may not have had the constitution to maintain consciousness and answer questions. As Pomu finished his second breakfast ( toast and onion jam, he hadn’t the stomach for his usual onion omlette) the herd found itself at an impasse – split between a) breaking one hand to demonstrate how serious they were about extracting intel, or b) some gentle rough housing instead to get his adrenaline going and warm him up, so that he would be better able to withstand to impending broken feet. He was silenced again when he volunteered that he would in fact, tell them everything they wanted to know, and he was once more placed back inside his kitchen. After a handful of duels and three races to determine the new leader of the herd, they broke for tea and biscuits and retreated back to the forest. His onions were ruined. His life was over. As he sobbed in the mud, a familiar caring voice began to comfort him. Pomu grabbed his rake.
_____________________________________________
“Look brother, I strongly disagree. The orders were extremely
explicit – soften the place up for the impending invasion. We take this land by
force of arms”
“Respectfully bloodkin, I think silver tongued Clink will
have planned something a bit more subtle than that. We are reconnaissance, not
a vanguard”
“You would say that, you’re a total Clink fanboy. Mes is the
real powerhouse and if she decides to unite the workers here and build
affordable housing then were looking at a popular uprising”
“ Listen, I don’t want to get political. Im just saying that
Clink is alot more interesting than that walking sword rack”
A spearpoint flashed in the moonlight
“You take that back, Camelot has a singular focus and deep
passion, I respect him as a professional, nothing more. His looks are
irrelevant”
Sensing the changing mood and
impending arguement, the youngest of the centaurs carefully adjusted his
pauldron to obscure his Ernodal tattoo and attempted to wipe away his eye
liner. As he adjusted his officially licenced replica “Ernodal cape” he felt a surge
of pain race down his left arm. In a flash he span and ripped the rake his shoulder,
whipping an arc of blood across the campfire. His scimitar was in already in his
hand in and he instinctively flung it at the shadow as it crashed away from him
through the undergrowth. There was a thick meaty crunch it found its target.
The phalanx had already formed around him, a wall of spears unified and facing
the darkness.
“We all miss sometimes bloodkin. Even Ernodal.”
“I didn’t miss”
The scimitar was buried deep into the earth admist a patch
of delicate white flowers, like tiny cotton moons themselves. The young centaur
reached down and pulled the scimitar free, uprooting the plant. Something was
stuck to the blade. He lifted the steel to his face to inpsect, and his eyes
began to water.
Congratulations on your appointments all, Hellhest welcomes you. As dictated by the Kaiser, you are all granted the titles of Baron or Baroness under the peerage of Numburg. This is a slightly unusual situation I must admit, as we typically have had a ruling family rather than a .. erm.. band of… Ahem. Regardless, in his infinite wisdom, the Kaiser (praise be his name) has a rather excellent solution to this novel complication: You are to be a ruling council. This is particularly excellent sires, as following Godsfall, many of our experienced and well-regarded experts were assassinated by that traitorous Mario. Thus we have a number of key positions that require immediate attention and crises to be dealth with. My undersecretary shall explain. I would request that you pay attention closely, as these are decisions that will affect not just this council , but all of the subjects you now rule over.
Hellhest:
Read your strongholds and followers supplement to see your unique benefits – what exactly does the warlocks Thane provide? And the Druids grove?
Rules for mass combat exist now, and shall be provided by your faithful DM if/when required. They are ultra-streamlined and one page thankfully. It is very difficult for a single hero to kill a unit. Even you guys. To fight an army, you will need an army.
Hellhest has Stats! These are summarised on the Barony page in roll20, and below
A number of key positions are now available to be filled in the barony.
General – in charge of military
Master of coin – in charge of economic affairs
Magister- in charge of arcane matters
Regent – in charge of maintaining order and stability
Grand diplomat – in charge of foreign relations
Curator – deals with cultural matters
Decisions will need to be made by the responsible council member as issues are raised. Thanks to liberal use of the “message” spell this information can be relayed to you as you gallivant around Vaul and your decisions implemented in your absence. Thus these will predominantly feature on whatsapp as a “minigame” so to speak. The format will be roughly
The problem is presented to the relevant duke
Your advisers may suggest possible solutions. This will require a skill check if you are in the barony as you can see to it yourself. Failing this, you can assign one of your followers to perform the skill check if you are absent. If your followers are off adventuring, its just a straight d20
You can suggest your own solution, and the DM will generate appropriate reward/penalty/DC depending on the solution and proposed skill
The skills required will broadly align with the council position ( so military roles may require martial and strategic skills, arcane roles require more arcane , intelligence based skills) but if you can justify your skill of choice, its all fair game. If Camelot wants to be the cultural light of the barony, its entirely possible.
Huddled on the deck of the airship, the grey clouds rolling beneath you, the capital was still a days flight away. Teach pulled up a stool and passed around this hipflask. Somewhere in the hold below, clink toss and turned in the sweat soaked blankets. Irdizavonax cleared his through and began to speak.
Key pints:
There are an unknown number of these scholars, who travel between planets, harvesting the living, its unclear where they come from.
Following a harvest they then sow the seeds for the next harvest – each time a little different, with different variations. Tweaks. Maybe this cycle, there are no elves. Or perhaps no magic, or too much magic. Dwarves are 10ft tall with skin like ebony next, only to be covered in leaves in the subsequent cycle.
At the end of each cycle, as the world grows and begins to blossom and look beyond its skys, they come. They feed. They grow. We are at one such moment now.
The gemstone dragons fled from these scholars as they consumed their world many millenia ago, and scattered throughout the stars.
They tried to stop the scholars last cycle. They managed to make it to the moon. No easy feat as you cannot teleport or shift there, due to the surrounding barrier. You need to physically pass through it.
When they arrived, the found to their horror, that their psionics were useless. While a few arcane spells were known by them it was woefully insufficient and they were ultimately defeated in their neutered state
The moon itself is a vessel for travel, a fortress and maybe more. While inside the moon, a scholar can respawn or regrown after defeat. Like a gargantuan phylactery. This is the reason Moros trapped his younger brothers Namthar and Kossos on the surface of Vaul. Unable to simply die and respawn anew they were trapped in a limbo of sorts – one petrified in stone, the other, harpooned to the ground.
For this reason, the gemstone dragons had planned on destroying the moon to stop Moros returning, but were unable to venture beneath the first layer or so. Each layer was a period from Vauls history, a challenge, almost a dungeon itself to traverse. Moros lay at the centre. Most of the Dragons were defeated, some fled, and hid around vaul to escape the coming harvest.
You won’t believe it barbarian, but I’m writing from atop a monastery, its literally shrouded in actual mystical mists and I can hear the clacking of the staff kata below me in the training yard. Its almost straight from one of your books, has a few bald headed fighting monks and even an ancient wise greybeard who guides them. They allow booze to a degree, which got me thinking about how much you’d like it here, which got me thinking about how long its been since I wrote to you, which got me writing.
I hope youre well meathead and the axe is still hanging from the wall and not your belt. To be honest, this might not be the place for you – you might find their demeanour is a little lacedaemonian even for a hard nut like you. They call themselves “irlandi” and ive travelled long way since my last letter, and I know it has been a few years, so please forgive an old bitch for her rudeness. Ive had a few adventures along the way – I was “kidnapped” by minotaur raiders last summer and ended up needing to sail a ship back to port all on my own – I had to prop up and animate their corpses with the ropes and pulleys of the ship to make it seem like a functioning crew as I slipped passed the rest of the raid at dusk ( I was basically copying your kobald puppet trick from Natiri ! )
I have a brief foray into the feywild soon after, due to losing a bet with a rather stubborn water nymph who’s suitor just happened to be a mantis knight who thought they would teach me a lesson and impress their lady. They “invited” me along after they could not best me and I provided entertainment with my blade for a whole season! (I enclose an undying oak leaf which I won in a game of dice during their summer plum wine festival). Im looking forward to telling you the story of the sand-drake in person – think bobsledding down a sand dune, but the bobsled wants to eat you and your only weapons are his broken wings.
Oh Conan, not a day goes by I don’t wish you were all still
here with me, the gang back together, but I know how naïve that is. I know you
had to stop, just like you know I had to leave.
Anyway, I need to go, these irlandi are a bit odd and
starting to ask a lot of questions. I don’t really know what they actually do
here, but they seem to take it rather seriously, and disappear on “patrols” and
“expeditions” but I cant learn much else. It’s a bit of a mixed bunch I have to
say, it seems like they come from all over, but they were happy to take me in
and share their food with me. Ive got dinner with the high chilera today, he
seems to want to ask a lot of questions about our previous campaigning.
Probably more political bullshit.
I still havnt found a path forward, but Im told there are a family of trephination loving mystics called “Goran” nearby. I know Fionnlath thinks he can handle this himself, but I cant just wait around for them both to be taken from me. Fionnlath knows whats coming and wouldnt talk about it to me – says he signed up for it with his eyes open. I felt I had to help my boys the only way I know how – go searching for answers, and hopefully solutions. Leaving was the hardest thing I ever did, but it’s the only way I can think to help him. Anyway, look at me, writing sentimental crap like this . There must be something in the water up here.
Ill be back eventually, Give my love them both if you ever
cross paths again
Miss you.
R
(P.S if Etricht comes by again, tell him to go fuck himself in his Pious ass.)
2235 65th Winter
Conan,
Apologies its been so long – did you receive my parcel last year with the smokeweed? It was grown entirely under magical light in a wrecked galleon towed by the flotilla, one of their “floating farms”, hope you enjoyed it. Im currently about to leave Tamshaven, ive heard theres a traveller aboard an outbound ship that knows a bit too much about the winding path than is healthy. I cant seem to work out exactly who he is quickly enough ( sailors are surprisingly tight lipped under beatings, I suspect they might not even know themselves), but I think 2 months at sea is ample time to weed him out and learn what the hell a “navigator” really is.
I have been writing to Ernodal but have heard nothing back – do you know if all is well in the village? ( I would rather not mention any specific place names here)
Ill update you soon, I think Im close.
R
P.S. The beer here is complete pisswater, and they havnt had a decent brewer in a generation – there is no hope for this place.
2240 44th Summer – exceptionally calligraphic hand writing
Dearest Conan,
Apologies for leaving a note like this, but you weren’t in when I called and nobody as seen you for a week. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough time to wait for your return on this occasion, but I do sincerely hope your book tour goes well. I have taken the liberty of helping myself to two of your rather dusty tombs (“Of roads best forgotten – Journeys to the Abyss”, and “Phalanx Doctrine”), one of your daggers ( the black handled one ) and a modest portion of your ale ( 2 quarts), all are much appreciated.
Rosalynn has written to me last month that she has found a way to extricate us from a rather complicated and difficult family situation, but alas time is not on my side and I may need to execute contractual duties expected of me before we can be reunited. While I am eternally grateful of your offer of stewardship in my absence, I have left my son at home, hoping to spare him the trauma of difficult travel ( he is a rather special boy , and I don’t wish to remove him from his many close friends – I think the traveling would perhaps upset him some). My expectation is for all to be well, but I may be travelling a great distance and in unsavoury company, and it is an experience a father would spare his son of for as long as possible. I worry that should things take an unexpected turn for the worst, he yet may be following in my footsteps.
Regardless, I look forward to seeing you again soon and attending “the gun show” when youre next exhibiting your talents.
The face of the city has changed profoundly in the last few weeks: the great colossus has left smoldering crater, hundreds of meters wide, opening into the badly damaged sewer system. Guards are posted 24/7 now around the perimeter to protect the citizens from the subterranean monstrosities that intermittently emerge. Sometimes they successful in this endeavour, sometimes tragedy strikes as some sewer beast manages to gain access to the streets.
Much of that forsaken battle area is off limits now as the palace studies and removes any dangerous magical energies and materials. The remains of Namthar have burned continuously for weeks, bathing the city in a deep orange glow. A haze hangs over much of the southern city, limiting vision to a few metres during the dawn and dusk, and fraying the nerves of travelers on the streets as figures seems to shift and dart just beyond focus through the har. Between this ever-burning torch and the malignant red moon- now seemingly larger than ever (is it closer? Fuck I hope it’s not closer) -the city seems constantly bathed in a sickly amber light. Animals snap and bite at their owners, people have taken to hanging double sets of curtains to try and get some sleep behind the deadbolted doors ( keep a dagger under your pillow they say, not for the intruder, but for yourself). Some have taken to wearing coloured lenses in their eyeglasses so intense can the glow become. Plants and flowers seem to be blooming constantly. The streets around the fallen colossus are generally empty, and a self-imposed curfew exists for many other districts. A child hasn’t kicked a ball in an alleyway for weeks.
Large tracts of residential areas are now unliveable and reamin as rubble, the city’s homeless population has exploded and crime is rampant within the foggy maze of streets. Several business and shops suboptima visited in the past no longer exist.
Security
The craburai, Mario, Radokaf are in jail awaiting trial. Much of the Road was defeated at the castle, it was almost as if the soldiers and judges had been tipped off. (DM note: they had been, by Mario – the Road were going to be the “fall guys, along with suboptima once it became clear you weren’t cooperating – around the time you murdered Sofia”) The remaining resistance fighters are being rounded up and executed with extreme predjudice.
As Marios contacts were interrogated, and notes gathered during the post-ball clean-up, it became clear he had been planning the night of the masquerade ball for perhaps a decade or longer, the full extent of the evidence against him to be presented at his trial. Learning of the true nature of the twin moons and the “Gods” he had decided it was an opportunity both to seize power on Vaul, but become a hero, and if possible a God himself ( its unclear how he proposed to do this from notes, he has not buckled under interrogation as yet).
He had
used a number of adventuring parties to execute his plans, most of them unwittingly.
It seemed a particular speciality of his. On meeting the zealot Etricht (later
known as “the herald”), he saw an opportunity to finally access ashenkirk and
set things in motion, where so many parties had failed. Needing some way to
neutralise his unhinged new friend once he had served his purpose, he used
Fleetflesh his doppleganger ally to guide Sub Optima to cross paths with
Etricht, who assumed the form of a budding young adventurer (who he had
murdered and buried in a forest, later unearthed by Etienne) named Alistair
Bentbuck to help them on their way ( including bringing an essential key to
access ashenkirk with him lest they couldn’t do it themselves).
Evidence
of the enormous bomb he created in the sewers seems to show a plan years in the
making ( DM note: In episode 1 or 2 Ernodal found a merchants note with Aurite
being shipped to the capital in it, and later Throkk encountered the Road
moving barrels north on a cart ( see also the luca/donkey boys fiction), as
well as the red dragons mountain being a source and the miners shipping it
north etc). Palace experts suspect there were at least 1000 barrels of
explosive only a few inches below the statues feet when it was detonated,
although at least 100 were moved to the dragon wagon station at the last
minute. Its unclear to the investigators why Mario did this.
Some
felt the empire under Mario was more powerful, and there are voices of support
for him, saying he was betrayed by sub optima ( some even whisper he was framed
to cover up the campaigners antics), and his supports claim his vision and
ambition would have saved the empire, and Vaul.
The
castle itself is somewhat weakened, mainly via fire damage. It will take months
to repair.
The imperial airship fleet was badly damaged as the Black Flags stole the flagship. It is currently moored in the oilstains for minor cosmetic repairs and recalibrating the big gun, the tracking of which appeared to be off by a factor of 10, and the flags are … mandatory guests of the Kaiser. They may not leave the castle and are under 24 hour surveillance. Their fate remains unclear, it is something that needs to be discussed at an upcoming meeting.
The
Flagonborn Inn, and Taahirs tower both have a fulltime squad of Imperial
soldiers stationed outside for protection. The former has been closed for
business for weeks. The crowd constantly outside is a mixture of adoring fans
and bloodthirsty zealots who blame suboptima for everything that has befallen
them.
Attracted
by the destruction, minotaur raids have increased slightly in the northern
provinces, but none dare approach the capital, even now.
Economy
Supplies
are limited, and many luxury items and magical supplies due to be shipped to
the capital have been delayed, as the main route into the city for such
products is the dragon wagon. As a result, what supplies are arriving are by
land (a slower, and more dangerous route), and as a result, prices (especially
for luxury items) have almost doubled.
Medical
and healing supplies are exceptionally rare and sold at a premium. A black
market has sprung up for such items, as well as a vibrant and successful
counterfeit market. Some estimate that 50% of all the greater healing potions
in the city are fake right now.
Masons
are suddenly the most in-demand worker in the city, and everyone is claiming to
have extensive stoneworking experience as demand rockets.
House
Prices have crashed however as the middle class flee the city for now, and
nobody wants to purchase property admit the uncertainty.
Social
The causalities
were in the thousands. The graveyards were unable to cope with the influx, The
Kaiser has designated the slapclay as a mass burial site, all bodies are being
taken and interred there. Those unidentifiable (of which there were many ) are
added to an everburning funeral pyre at the mouth of the quarry. The mourning
line the street to the slapclay weeping at each passing body, lest it be their
loved one.
While it
might appear to be business as usual at first glance, unrest and fear
characterise the gossip of the capital now, many taverns are struggling as
people save what little coin they have or leave for safer lives to the South.
Frequent statements from the palace and tepid speeches from The Kaiser (whose
strength appears to be returning now he no longer drinks soup) and his son
Wilhelm go some way to ease the masses. But not entirely. Their brutal
treatment of the road after the failed coup was unpopular amongst the many who
supported the rebels, and their attempts to push the church out of much of the
politics of the city is unwelcome from the religious. While broadly speaking, they
are benevolent, they lack the charisma of Mario and the sense of fate and
grandiosity the church wielded. They maintain a tenuous power, but mainly
though their legal and inherited legitimacy, and crucially because no suitable
alternative has arisen. Yet.
The
Kaiser has dispatched multiple messages and missives to his few remaining allies
in Salt and Wounds that had survived Mario’s assassinations and is attempting
to establish peace talks. No response has been received yet. The Palace remains
hopeful, but this has understandably generated quite a bit of discussion on the
streets.
Given
that the defeat of Namthar has weakened the clerics and judges of the imperium,
it has allowed Salt in Wounds to claim a number of key victories, and he is
parleying at a distinct disadvantage now. Many may see this as weakness, and a
surrender to the enemy before the war had even really started.
Adventuring
parties have flocked towards the capital, and what taverns remain open are
usually full of all manner of sword wielding, magic slinging fly by nights. Opportunity
is in the air (or perhaps blood is in the water?) and there are contracts aplenty
for the industrious campaigner. Minor nobles consolidating politic gains, private
protection, searching for missing persons and academics searching for artefacts
amidst the beast stalked rubble, or tentacles of sewer dwelling beasts. When street
fights break out these days, they are swift and bloody affairs, with a tendency
to leave a few scored craters behind.
The church after Namthar: Rhea
She wrapped the child tightly under her woollen blouse as she huddled outside the infirmary, pressed up against the others. She could feel the heat of the fever, burning into her breast even through the damp rag she had carefully wrapped over the boys face. She glanced around at the crowd in dismay as the haggard faces stared blankly into the smog. Some sat silently, staring into the distance, hands clutched around grubby knees, the horror of the events having robbed them of words, or even sanity. Others simply groaned, the anguished guttural whine of those left behind. Woken in the middle of the night to a nightmare, their broken limbs twisted and gnarled like winter branches as they rolled over to find crushing loved ones beside them, pasted across floorboards in chunks, blood and shit seeping through their nightgowns. The loudest voices had fallen silent as the days went by. She began to see the pattern. They start loudly enough, shouting in pain or despair, calling for vengeance against the church, or the moon, or the adventurers. As the hours passed by, they became silent, as the wounds robbed them of strength and voice. Finally, they said nothing at all, and just waited for the end – in whatever form it would take. Jessop had not spoken in days. Rhea coughed violently into her sleeve and stared down at the mucus, dreading what she would see there. Amidst the blood floated the coal black globs of pigment, swirling in the phlegm as if alive. The air around the slapclay was still thick with ash as the godbody burned continuously for weeks now, an neverending bonfire that showed no sign of diminishing, and coating the district in a thick, oiling smog. Rhea guessed this wasn’t particularly good for her health.
A hush fell over the assembled peoples as a figure appeared in the church doorway, a thin and bleary-eyed priest of Namthar, his beard unkept and stringy, his robes stained with the blood of his patients. Rhea had never seen that before; healing spells were relatively bloodless she knew.
“We are full tonight my children, we do not have space to even lay a blanket down for you. I will send out our nurses with food and water and what medicines we can spare…”
An elderly man pushed forward, peering out from under his hedgerow of charcoal eyebrows as he swayed against his makeshift crutches. His right leg was heavily bandaged; the dried blood had turned black now and was crusting along the thin wooden splint that had been poorly bound across the joint.
“Please… Its just a broken leg brother, it wont take you long….. please, I have prayed everyday since I was a boy, and always pay my church dues. I know you to be a kindly cleric and a man of Namthar. Ive broken this leg before when I fell from my horse as a younger man, and you were so kind as you wove your magic to bind the bone. I know how quick it can be, please, heal me one last time – for I cannot rebuild with my …”
The old man fell silent as he looked at the cleric, tears streaming down the priests face as he stood infront of the crowd. He could not look the broken man in the eyes.
His silence told
them all they needed to know.
The child
whimpered in Rheas’s arms. They were on their own.
Intell:
Clerics of Namthar
seem to have lost their powers, and a judge was taken down by a group of angry
Road sympathisers. This would never have happened before, and rumours abound
now that they have lost some of their fighting prowess. The church are
attempting to keep this all under wraps it seems, statements released have
attempted to distract and claim the enormous creature in the statue was in fact
the work of the demonic allies of Kossos, as everybody knows that Namthar has
no material form. The cathedral was uncharacteristically empty for worship this
week, and churches around the city are having windows broken in and obscene
graffiti painted across their doors. Loyalist groups are taking shifts to
protect the buildings.
Some splinter factions have already formed, The “Church of Namthar Reborn” for instance claim his death was part of his divine plan to save his followers, and we must follow him. They indulge in ritualised suicide as a result, often taking their less enthusiastic families with them. In contrast the “Sacred order of the true Namthar” feel that all statues contain some element of Namthar now, and have taken Colossus-gate as sign that all statues should be destroyed, as is his divine will.
A small but
increasingly vocal cohort of Namtharites have petitioned to the Kaiser to have
sub-optima tried for treason (they are unwilling to use the term Deicide)
The
weaker judges have allowed some incursions from the sewers, for instance a
Malboro was sighted and engaged in lowtown, but thankfully a low level campaigning
wizard was able to assist 2 squads of soldiers in securing the street.
The Wider World of Vaul.
Vicetina is a free city, with a proud history of neutrality in wartime, but under Sofia’s rule had suddenly become exceptionally friendly to the empire, sending troops and signing a number of generous trade deals. Now however, Vicetina is a rudderless, ruler less city, the entire Ordelaffi family slain. An interim group have taken over for now, “Vox populi”. They are comprised of nobles and local tradespeople, but their ultimate power and direction are unclear.
Some
of the centaurs insisted on telling the Khan what they had seen, claiming their
Hoofspringa demanded it, and this unit is temporarily at half strength until
they return.
Porta Verde
has not responded to a formal request to send aid and financial support to the
capital – It is also an independent city, but has been a traditional ally of
the empire in the past
The
rain of objects from the moon has increased exponentially since godsfall and a
number of towns an cities have fallen silent, EMAIL no longer reaching them,
and wizards casting routine military message spells to watchtowers finding no
targets.
Power Vacuums: Tilly
“Im
sorry, it seems youll just need to kill yourself”
“What?”
“Yes.
If youre a traditionalist I would suggest chopping your own head off, but I
think we accept being hanged in section B15 as an alternative.. let me see..
yes, hanging is fine. So you could hang yourself too. But not both obviously
hahaha”
The prisoner stared at the woman in front of him. A simple pony tail, plainly dressed in a neat clean tunic, her thick glasses gleaming in the torchlight as she stared over her clipboard. She chewed a pencil nervously as she continued to study the execution form. It was a first draft but she didnt want to let him know that.
“I
have rights you know; I have a legal right to a proper execution”
“Yes well all the executioners are dead. They were having a moon party on. you know… that night.”
“What?! They all just happened to have a fucking party, in the rfucking capital, on fucking Godsfall?”
“Yes. And I think that’s an insensitive term for many Sir, and please dont curse so much in our dungeon”
“Right, so they are all dead. fine. Look, its not hard to cut a head off, just get somebody else to do it. I killed a man you know! His Lordship Hryon Ardeth personally sentenced me to death”
“Yes. Well, Im his steward, and unfortunately for you, that means I get to decide who does the beheading and when. And we are all out of executioners.”
The young woman was not prepared to be thrust into such a role. She worried she had no aptitude for running a barony and had shielded herself with the armor she wore best – impenetrable paperwork. Studying as a legal clerk, Tilly was a bright woman, a little bookish some said and really wanted nothing better than to keep her studies and office in tidy, well organised, highly structured (possibly alphabetized) manner. Lots of right angles and muted colours please. There was not a full stop out of place among her immaculate study notes, and her idea of a good time was a glass of wine and working through her tax returns with a really nice pen, maybe a high flex on a medium nib and expensive nicely flowing ink. Her thoughts wandered to the smooth scratch of the nib as it is dragged itself languidly self across the naked paper, like a finger tracing the outline of a lovers body, dribbling its stream of dark rich ink as it….
She shuttered as something shot up her spine and tickled her brain a little. She refocused her attention. The massacre at the ball had been ruthless and efficient. Lord Hyron lay dead, his heavily pregnant wife was in the royal infirmary, wounded but alive. Having no children, the stewardship fell to the commander of his guards, who was halfway through his seafood bisque when he was halfed himself by a craburais pincers in an act of cosmic poetry. Third in command, the head of estates was having an affair with the fourth in command, hyrons armsmaster. They were found in a closest, burned to an intimate crisp. Her own father, the master of letters, had managed to duck out of the fray and dash to the stairs only to slip on bat droppings and fall 3 stories into a fountain. So here she was. She wasn’t the only one suffering such a strange fate. Some great houses had been completely wiped out, and the baronies returned to the Kaiser to administration and redistribution.
“Anyway, times are tough. I cant afford to hire more executioners, so you’ll need to do it yourself im afraid. If you’re really good maybe Ill hire you, who knows? ahahaha. Thats just a little joke of mine.”
“Wha…
bu.. bu But I killed a man!”
“Wonderful,
you’re an expert, you can do it again. How did you do it exactly?”
“It was brutal your ladyship, I bashed his head in with a club for a few gold pieces, I deserve nothing but death” howled the prisoner.
“Wonderful
thank you. Now , can you sign here please? How does 11:00 tomorrow sound?”
The men the next evening would whisper of their new ladyship, “Tilly the Terrible”, and tremble as they though of the rein of blood that could follow. Their pints sat untouched on the table, flat and warm. Few would ever forget the image of their new Lady, calming filling in official paperwork at the pulpit as the prisoners were marched up one after the other and forced to mutilate and humiliate themselves infront of the agast and silent crowd. She seemed more interested in her documents and her penmanship as the landsmen watched a man beat himself to death with a club. Tilly refused to help or let him stop, explaining that appendix 4 was very explicit that nobody would help. It was a “unions thing”. He took 4 hours to die as he lapsed in and out of consciousness from his own blows. Tilly smiled absentmindedly, this was much better from a paperwork point of view, and really was more efficient and economical. She chew the back of her pen and smiled.
Crime
in the Ardeth lands dropped to zero almost immediately.
Bonus social Intel:
With the nobles of the empire dramatically diminished, many baronies lay weakened and power vaccums exist throughout. Mario had intended to commandeer and seize all such lands to extend and consolidate his personal power, but now many are in disarray. Recruitment to the army from the townships has almost vanished under the circumstances, and the borderlands to the west are losing ground rapidly to advancing armies of Salt in Wounds. Soldiers and Battle clerics are ineffective following godsfall, and the lack of magical artillery is sorely felt on the field.
“You are permitted in time of great danger to walk with the devil until you have crossed the bridge.” ― Balkan proverb
The lone traveller was making Gunther nervous.
They were far from any town or village worthy of a proper
name and the local hunters were the only group who spent any time in these
hills. Boredom and poverty meant most were happy to dabble in banditry when the
opportunity arose, so outsiders usually curved south for several days to follow
safer paths. On the rare occasion a group needed to travel in a direct line
from Namburg to Vicetina they did so in large bands. In 40 years he’d never seen
anyone walk this route alone.
At his side his eldest son already had an arrow notched but
Gunther waved him down. This didn’t feel right. Travellers normally dressed in
plain practical travelling gear but this one wore a red silk cloak which danced
in the wind like a flag as he gestured and argued with the air. Worse still, as
he drew closer it became apparent that the air was arguing back.
“… Clearly don’t give a shit about your promises. We could
have hopped in your tower and been there and back in an hour. Any one of your
fancy friends could have sent us there with a click of their fingers. But
instead I get a front row ticket to watch weeks of
Ernie’s-go-fuck-yourself-Tarnik walking tour, just to rub in how little this
partnership means to you! At least now…”
“We’ve been over this Tarnik.”
“Well excuse me for bothering you with my petty grievances!
If it is not too boring for your worship, can I just say that the only
consolation I can see on the horizon (and it is a very small consolation,
considering the magnitude of the distain which you are currently showing after
I have done so much to help you) is the prospect of upcoming entertainment.
There’s a band of losers lurking on that ridge about to jump out and attack us.
So do you want to take a break from your relaxing stroll to boil their blood,
or do you want me to start ripping off heads?”
Gunther and his sons were already sprinting away from this
madman who walked with ghosts. Tarnik spat.
“See how I still have your back in spite of such rank
ingratitude? Where would you be without me? Trying to fight them off with a
frying pan as you try to wriggle out of your bondage gear.”
“Tarnik prodded the dimaterium chains draped over Ernodal’s
shoulders for emphasis.”
“C’mon boss. Enough of the shackles and mud look. The only
Navigator of his generation doesn’t need to crawl through this shithole like
some brokeass farmboy.”
Ernodal sighed.
“Tarnik, my mind is made up. I am walking to Vicetina to
talk to Conan and see what he knows about my parents and the Herald. I have not
forgotten my promises to you. This is something I need to do.
I am walking because it is a normal thing for a mortal to
do. I need remind myself that’s what I am. I need to feel tired at the end of a
long day, feel hungry and foot sore. I need to feel like myself to face the
night. I don’t sleep anymore, not really. I just drift through his thoughts.
And that’s seeping in.”
“I know you hear his voice, but that’s only for a little
while longer. Once he’s gone, no more voices.”
“It’s not his voice. It’s me, thinking like him. You know my
first thought when Willem reported on the food shortages? Cull the weak, plenty
of meat for the strong.”
“Hey it ain’t pretty but sometimes you gotta…”
“People don’t think like that! I shouldn’t be thinking like
that! And it’s not just the thoughts. Do you know that I don’t bleed anymore? I
ooze. I cut myself cooking and the blood slithered back in!”
“Oh geez Ernie. Look, these changes you’re going through,
these urges you are having, it’s just something that happens to kids at your
age. It’s perfectly natural. Well, more supernatural I guess. But perfectly
harmless unnatural changes are a part of life.”
“I’m slipping Tarnik. Can’t concentrate. Can’t taste food.
The chains stop the minor demons getting through and running riot. They can feel
how distracted I am and they’re getting out of hand.”
“Okay, fine. We’ve been working hard, you need a break. But
all the way to Vicetina?”
“Truenames are important to demons right? Family is
important to mortals. The past is important. Conan might not have all the
answers I want but he can tell me something of my parents. Trust me on this.
I’ll speak to him and get my head straight. We’ll meet the others back in
Namburg and then get back to work.”
“That’s the other bit I don’t like. Why couldn’t your friends
come? What am I supposed to do if you have another one of your late night
visitors?”
“That’s why you’re here, right? To watch my back.”
The falling rubble
from the red moon had buried half of Namburg. Survivors crawled through the wreckage,
heads bowed to avoid looking at the ruined palace floating overhead. Black
blood flowed in a steady stream from the palace dungeons, polluting the ruined
city further. Demons capered in the falling blood and drank from the pools of
gore in the shattered streets. At the highest point of the palace a single
figure lounged on a throne made from the skulls of gods.
Ernodal’s vision kept
shifting. He was huddled in a shattered slum hiding from the demons. He was on
the throne, sneering down on the vermin that fled from his gaze. He bled in the
dungeons. He hunted through the streets. He writhed in pain, impaled on an iron
spike in Wilheim’s throne room. He bowed low to the massive figure of Tarnik,
the imp so bloated and swollen from a never-ending stream of sacrifices that he
had to squeeze into the throne.
Ernodal snapped awake, disorientated in the darkness. The
chains across his chest were red hot. Tarnik flapped around his face in a
panic.
“Oh shit Ernie oh shit this is bad you gotta hold him off
this is a big one Ernie just hang in there he can’t get through those chains
yet WHAT ARE YOU DOING DON’T TAKE THEM OFF!”
Ernodal could barely hear the imp. His ears filled with the
bellows of the manifesting demon as it battered against the exit of the Winding
Path. It hadn’t expected to find dimaterium chains barring the final step. He
could let it scrabble there on the edge of reality until the force that
propelled it was spent. But this challenge was the other reason he had come
alone to the middle of nowhere. He wanted to break this creature that dared
attack him, make it beg under his boot. A few weeks ago he might have pretended
to himself that this was vengeance for his village, or the voice of his patron
tempting him to disaster. But he wanted this fight just to prove to himself and
his rebellious demons where he stood in the infernal hierarchy. After a
lifetime of knowing his birth made him inferior the demonic system was darkly
appealing. The strong rose and the weak fell.
He unslung the chains, ignoring the searing heat blistering
his hands. He hissed a challenge in Infernal words he could barely understand,
harsh syllables of contempt and defiance. Something huge erupted from the earth
in response, massive horns and slabs of muscle fused with chitinous claws and
shell. Grass withered and died as the demon infected the air. Ernodal balled
his fists, his lesser demons tense and ready behind him. Before he could move
the bull demon spat a word and Ernodal’s vision went blurred. He couldn’t move.
The tip of a huge claw stabbed into Ernodal’s chest and
heaved him off his feet. The serrated edge caught under his ribs. He tried to
scream but it came out as a bloody cough. The demon’s breath burned his face.
Pathetic. All this
trouble from one little mage? So insolent and fragile…
The pain was horrendous but the feeling of helplessness was
worse. The demonic element growing inside him railed against the notion of
defeat. He welcomed the surge of arrogance, felt it swell into a torrent of
defiance. He could not die like this. The world snapped into focus and he spat
a command to his choir of demons. A glittering spectral serpent yawned out of
the night, swallowing Ernodal whole and dropping him on the ground clutching
his ruined stomach.
He rolled to the side as an enormous hoof pounding into the
ground by his head. Before the second blow descended he gasped another command,
the serpent demon flickering him out of existence for another instant. His
wounds were already closing. The Bull demon seared the earth with a burst of
hellfire but Ernodal was already behind him, power flaring from his fingertips
as a trio of golden demons wearing the faces of dead friends streaked towards
the bull demon. Staggering from the impact the enormous demon spun around to
face his foe but the half elf was a blur, winking in and out of existence in a
widening circle. Snarling golden demons streaked in from all sides, repeated
impacts cracking demonic shell and scorching flesh.
The serpent demon slipped away as the spell ended,
depositing Ernodal on top of a nearby hill. The bull demon had been battered to
the ground but it rose slowly, purple ichor dripping from terrible wounds. His
eyes still burned with defiance.
“Run all you want little
mage, you might as well try to flee from your shadow. I’ve tasted your blood
and will pursue you across all existence if I have to. Mortal magic cannot harm
me. Best me now and I will be reborn in my homeland to come for you again.”
Ernodal started to walk down the hill.
“I’m not running. And you will kneel in my presence unless I
give you leave to stand.”
A swarm of feathered gargoyles appeared around the bull
demon, swooping down to perch on his shoulders and tearing at his wounds with
hooked claws. He swatted the first few aside before the flock dragged him to
the ground and pinned him there with sheer numbers. Flat on his back he
continued his stream of insults and threats as Ernodal approached, lighting
arcing around the warlocks’ fingers.
“I don’t know anything about mortal magic. I draw this power
straight from the one you serve. I hear his thoughts. Some of his memories too.
I can remember him sending you. I can almost remember your true name… but I
don’t think I need it to harm you.”
Ernodal reached down and pressed his finger to the
struggling demons’ chest. Massive muscles sizzled and dissolved into oily
smoke. The demon screamed in pain and confusion. Ernodal ignored him.
“Interesting… It seems I can destroy you here. Not just
the shell you wear on this plane, but your trueself. Or I can diminish you.
Demote you down through the ranks until you are a crawling maggot for the imps
to hunt.”
Mercy great one!
Anything but that!
There was genuine terror in the demon’s voice. Even Ernodal’s
gargoyles were cowed. Demotion to the rank beneath them was a constant fear for
all demons. For a creature like this, losing multiple ranks would reverse millennia
of unending toil and scheming to get ahead. It would mean an eternity of
torture as thousands of enemies and former servants sought revenge.
“Since you have learned humility so quickly I am inclined to
be merciful. I shall give you a chance to consider the error of your ways. You
may yet be of use to me.”
Ernodal reached inside his cloak and removed the Chalice of the
Void. A dull moan echoed from the cloud of swirling liquid as the trapped
spirits struggled in vain to escape. The Bull demon tried to protest but the
words slurred as it melted into a greasy stream flowing upwards into the chalice.
The moaning from the chalice grew slightly larger as another trapped joined the
chorus.
The lesser demons were frozen in place around Ernodal. As his gaze washed over each of them they
bowed their heads or slunk to the ground baring their throats in obeisance.
This was the moment a demon lived for, servants cowed and enemies destroyed.
The sense of complete power was intoxicating. When he spoke his voice was thick
and harsh.
“Tarnik.”
“Yes boss!”
“I walk to Vicetina.
Then my path leads back through the swamps and on to the Dreadfort. I will
learn his truename and I will destroy him with it.”
“Yes boss!”
“Ernodal exhaled and his shoulders sagged. His voice
returned to normal.
“But I am still myself. And you, all of you, are free to
leave if you don’t want to be part of this. This is a partnership and you
aren’t slaves.”
“Yes boss!”
“…At some point you are going to stop agreeing with me and
snap back to complaining, right?”
“Yes boss!”
Ernodal shook his head and looked away to hide his grin.
Power was still worryingly tempting, but the prospect of demons fawning over
him like this made him want to run for the hills. He might be going mad but was
nice to know he wasn’t cut out to be a tyrant.
Sitting at the bow of the ship sharing the first watch, the moons in the sky sank slowly, Throkk and Deruzz gazed upwards sharing a tankard. It always refilled and the thick beer was growing on Throkk. “Needs some blood” muttered Throkk. Deruzz leaned across and took the tankard as a distant gull cried out in the twighlight. “My friend, you do know we don’t do that, we haven’t done that for years!”. The boat listed further to the port side. Throkk gave a long inhale, flaring his nostrils. The air was heavier, more moisture in it. He knew instinctively he was nearing his destination. He raised his hand to give the signal to hoist the jib. He needn’t have done it. After all this time at sea the crew had a finely tuned sense for what Throkk wished for. This suited him, he was a man of few words and the crew of the Santoku had grown around him. He took a quiet satisfaction is the discipline he had instilled into the crew and the respect that he had earned. Throkk’s massive bulk had grown more lean these past weeks at sea and his thigh still ached from where it was pierced by a length of the ship. His blood had poured out from the artery nearly killing him, that very blood know stained the side of the Santoku. The crew were sure it gave the ship preternatural strength. The quartermaster took a long draft from the tankard and pointed to the horizon. “You’re tense Throkk, you’re clenching your jaw. We’re still two days out, are you sure you want to go through with this”. Throkk forced himself to release the tension in his muscles and turned. “Yes Deruzz, there is a great need. We must go. The Armada is no longer trapped but we cannot rest in Porta Verde. Not now”. Throkk cast a glance upwards to the third Moon, now alone in the sky. Closer it seemed. He didn’t dare tell of his visions, his nightly communications with his ancestral spirts, he didn’t want to believe it himself.
Deruzz broke the long silence, “Throkk…” he paused “we never discussed your… skill. We saw what you did to the Kraken it was godlike…”. Throkk snorted, “I nearly died. It died first though”. Deruzz paused, drawing closer “We have lost this ability. Please, tell me. Tell me about your rage. Where does it come from? What does it feel like?”. Deruzz trailed off under Throkk’s gaze. The grim redlight flickered and cast shadows over the two unlikely friends both mentoring the other, one on the Orcs of the modern age and the other on the Orcs of the past. The waves in the dark sloshed against the side of the ship as the sounds of a muted bell rang out marking the chage of the shift. Throkk picked up the stick he had been whittling and shaved another careful slice; the beginnings of a spoon. Deruzz lost hope of an answer and stood in the comfortable silence, he had grown used to this.
“It starts with a drumbeat.” Throkk paused for a moment and sighed, staring into the distance at something only he could see. His gaze lifting to the moon now, the light of it always reminded him of battle.
“It starts with a drumbeat. I can feel it in my chest as my heart increases, not panicked but steady, almost deliberately, like a drum, like music, beating out a rhythm, it calls to me. I feel it in my chest and it grows. Harder, louder, trying to rip out of my ribs, like being lashed with a whip there.” Deruzz, held his breath, not wanting to break Throkk out from the distant stare and his uncharacteristic talkative mood. “I can feel my blood thicken and my arms and lips go cold, the music rises to my ears, it sounds like a river in a cave pulsing. I feel a hunger and sickness deep in the pit of my stomach. My mouth dries out and I can taste metal. I can hear a song in the music, a beautiful note driving through me, ever movement feels like that of someone elses. Then darkness descends, the world turns to shades of black and white, the only colour is the deep red of blood.” Throkk looked up at Deruzz who couldn’t help but shift uneasily under that intense glare and step back as Throkk approached him.
“Everything is heightened even the pain, the pain is the most glorious of all. It drives the music to new heights. It is like being underwater and all I can hear is my breathing and my heart growing faster, more urgent. I can feel each sinew and fiber of my muscles and above it all is the hunger, that dark hunger that can only be satisfied by driving my spear through the heart of another foe.”
Throkk now towerd over Derruz grasping him by his shoulders, squeezing too tightly. Throkk blinked and pulled himself back from the edge of the black rage, taking a staggering step backwards and stared off into the distance once more, as if willpower alone could make land appear. Deruzz could feel his own heartbeat growning and swallowed.
“You appear to have broken your spoon dear friend”. Deruzz gestured with the mug. Throkk looked down and unclenched his fists to reveal the shattered remains of the spoon and shook his head slowly.
“It was to be a gift for some old friends.”
Deruzz smiled, “never mind, around you there are always more splinters in need of carving to be found”. Throkk grimmaced darkly and looked up once more to the lights of the moon.
In the back of his mind he could still hear the distant sound of the drums.
