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Vaul Episode 11 – To Sleep Perchance to Dream

13.01.2250 NG

ThruthStag. Raining Heavily.

The party drank the dreamstalkers brew (despite the multiple warnings on the labels) and entered the Dream Eaters dreamscape. Throkk stood guard over their sleeping bodies.

During the battle the beast summoned crystals which seemed to materialise from the substance of his dreams, and in doing so weakened himself slightly with every new crystal. Noticing him weakening, and thinking back on the poem the party realised

“…the world he shapes is his quarrys soul ,

and when stalked within his own domain,

 he consumes himself, his powers drain…”

Likely referred to the dream eater using their victim’s own essence as fuel for its powers, allowing the creatures to control the dream they were visiting. When attacked in their own dream however, the only fuel must be the creatures own essence. The party emerged victorious after the gods of random numbers smiled gently on them and both 3d6 breath attacks managed to cause 5 damage in total.

Before waking the party found themselves standing in a woodland glade, witnessing a dream of Celestes. They were invisible spectators, unseen by Celeste, but aware of each other. An enormous bark covered humanoid figure, easily 60ft tall approached Celeste and asked her to try to remember who she was, and to remember her Oath. He seemed familiar and friendly to Celeste, as if they had known each other for a long time and acted concerned about her lack of memory. Celeste seemed somewhat defensive however and accused the figure of not helping her enough and claimed her power didn’t come from him. This comment seemed to amuse and sadden the creature slightly. As celeste began to ask more questions she was woken by Throkks bell ringing and the ceremony of the severed heads.

Celeste didn’t seem keen to discuss this dream and Ernodal and Gritgoz seemed to both acknowledge they were present to witness this. The party harvested scales from the creature and took a horn as proof of the kill. They explored the temple to find a room of debris and loot (see update log). The final room contained a sculpture at an ancient altar- a vile and misformed horned face, which had more than a passing resemblance to one of the two figures on the ripped parchment found earlier ( in journal). The party were not able to decipher the runes surrounding this face.

Leaving the temple, the party encountered a deranged old farmer, quite mad but friendly – the party then identified themselves as the “Walrus Tusks” and learned this farmer was the original owner of this land and excavated the temple. He had warned the family that the party encountered in episode 1 (whos journal Erndodal still has) not to sleep near here due to strange deaths in sleep. The family had seemed to be taking a strange and circuitous route around the area when Ernodal asked about their travel. The party learned a mysterious hooded figure with grey hair, claiming to be a water diviner had passed through some months back and offered his services for free – and advised to excavate at this exact spot. The farmer claimed to have no way on contacting him and promised to fill in the site when he had enough coin. Celeste cured his sciatia.

At Vicetina the party received payment from Tilda (1000g) who was deeply grateful and exhausted after days of not sleeping and promised Ernodal to help fill in the excavation site. Luca happily nodded off knowing he was now safe to do so.

A visit to Lorenzo found Gritgoz explaining his theories of skulduggery and deceit and the Goblin advised the leader to stockpile fire weapons and be wary of the Church of Namthar. It seems Lorenzo has no love for the church and didn’t invite them here – they had arrived en mass under the pretence of discussions for troop movements/ security due to the increasing tensions between Namburg and Kossos. Gritgoz asked that Lorenzo tell his niece Sofia(guard captain) of the suspected “Fake Dave”.

Lorenzo brought the Tusks into his confidence and asked that they help him track down a very close friend – Denis the Alchemist. Lorenzo felt Denis would know what to do about these Risen, as he was a colourful man with a checkered past (a supporter of the anti-Namtharite group “The Road”, something of an arsonist, a trader in illegal antiques, illegal potion (A glamour potion for the potions shopkeeper for example but a good man Lorenzo insisted). His only leads were that he is missing some weeks now, he gave the location of his house (which Gritgoz has previously pillaged) and said he was close friends with Gregory the Baker also.

Erndodal enquired with the city steward about the Grave-Digger pay offs from last night, to learn that the shift pattern is a week on, week off (6 staff). Thus, it seems likely only one was paid off to allow the graves be disturbed shortly before the Throkk + co disturbed things.

Tulip asked around about the disturbed graves and learned they belonged to a middle aged couple who had died separately some months back, and the other 3 were unrelated to them. Nobody seemed to know or care much about them.

Finally Gritgoz, confronted Max, the doctor in the royal infirmary. Terrified of the Goblin, Max revealed she knew quite a bit about RedRot – she helped create it. She had help – Denis the alchemist and a strange robed man who used bring her reagents, decoctions and specimens. Goblins. She was tearful and remorseful for creating the plague, and claimed she had only done so as a means of creating a weapon against the Elves. The figure had convinced her such a weapon would save thousands of lives by avoiding an all out war, and the elves needed to be eradicated – she babbled about gateways and daemon armies in her fear, and indicated she thought that stopping this was a worthy goal. When pushed, she told Gritgoz there was no cure, and the plague was certain death … except for one atypical case. Specimen no.59 had seemed to recover and cure himself somehow. When she prepared to attempted further inoculation he escaped and fled. She wasn’t sure where he came from, but suspected he was from a Goblin Tribe in the South.

 

Bestiary updates: Dream eater, Carrion Crawler.

Important Character updates: Max

Materia arcana updates: Varaks ring, Gauntlets of the Emerald Brawler, Cu Chulainns revenge.

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Fresh Trials

The horned slug appeared to glare eyelessly for a moment up at him as Gritgoz resealed the gourd and replaced it within the folds of his clothing.

‘So much more work to do with you yet little dark one’  he muttered to himself

‘Not just yet though’

Gritgoz still had plenty of ideas to try out on his new slimy friend, but that was a task for another time. He turned away from the window which looked out on an alley behind the Jolly Cockle and refocused on the three containers he had placed to cool in the middle of his room. He observed them left to right, in order of increasing interest. Each experiment contained a mixture of a sample of contagion and a second unique ingredient.

First the mutant Sköll blood. No interaction with the Redrot. He poked at it with a long wooden rod he kept about his person at all times for all his poking needs. Dried together in a mostly solid clot, no synthesis or viable interaction. Not interesting on the face of it, but it could imply that Redrot was unable to infect other sentient races. Not conclusive, but a useful possibility to keep in mind.

Next, Jek Jek’s venom. An interaction between both components appeared to have produced a dark crimson ichor. In a practiced movement, Gritgoz transferred a few drops of the solution between two panes of specially designed glass and held to up to the light to peer at them. 

‘Still looks like poison… but pattern of the lattice is not quite typical…’  he murmured to himself.

The spider toxin had not killed the growth, but seemed to have morphed into a strange hybrid. Making an educated guess it appeared likely the mixture would kill a host and leave the Redrot essentially unharmed. Not useful as an antidote but perhaps…Gritgoz eyed his scimitar at the foot of the bed… useful as something else.

Finally Gritgoz approached the yellow musk concoction, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he did so. The most curious result of all, pollen retrieved from the creeper appeared to have absorbed all Redrot particles within the gourd container and had become swollen and slightly soggy in the process. Fermentation was occurring slightly at the edges and its luster implied an active chemical process. If the Redrot could be absorbed by another compound, perhaps it could be drawn out of the body entirely? Not with the sample in this state though…the possible side effects could be devastating to a Goblin colony.

He needed to learn more about the Yellow Musk Creeper. What were its known properties? Where could it be found? What medicines could be formulated from its pollen? A late night trip to the library was in order. Gritgoz replaced his leather hood to hide the growth on his forehead, grabbed his weapon just in case and headed downstairs.

The inn had grown busier during the few hours he had been working. The townsfolk had begun to filter in larger numbers to spend another evening unburdening themselves of their hard earned coin. He weaved his way through the throng of legs and managed to avoid Throkk. The last thing he felt like having right now was company. That said, the half orc did have such an admirably direct way of dealing with things it was reminiscent of the great Broklug. Gritgoz was going to remember fondly the look on Morkubb’s babbling face the moment before Throkk knocked him out. Pity he hadn’t been conscious when he went over the cliff, the baby killing k’gratk…

He left the inn unnoticed and stepped out into the main square. The sun was starting to dip in the sky as he crossed the plaza on his way to the library. As he had already done the necessary by informing Luca of the company’s qualified success he was now at a loose end for the rest of the day. He was still fuming at the lack of urgency the party had shown on the bridge and needed to clear his head by being by himself for a while. Research always helped him see things more clearly.

As he walked he sniffed the air and grimaced at it’s foulness. He had no patience for cities at the best of times, and today Vicetina irked him more than usual. The people seemed more on edge, and the Namtharites walking about in shiny armour radiating smug confidence made him want to pack up and return to the mountains. However this was not yet possible. First he had to finish his task, then he could leave the humans to their scheming and power games. The letter he received in the woods made it seem even more likely that Max knew something about Redrot, and if she possessed the knowledge he sought he might yet be able to save his clan. He would visit her in the morning, but first to the business at hand.

As he approached the library, he beheld a faded poster newly pinned to the main entrance’s door-frame. Dozens of small holes showed that it had been used as a makeshift noticeboard many times before. The poster bade passers-by to…

“Join us tonight for the weekly Vicetina book club! This week we are reading ‘Orious Quickblade. An Autobiography. The Sage, the Mage and the Rage!’ we would love to hear your thoughts, join us late into the night for a city funded community outreach discussion and a small supply of complementary beverages!!! – Conan ‘

He was in luck, the library would be open for some time yet. He padded inside, closing the door behind him, his ears twitching as the sounds of a merry conversation echoed from a small room to his left. Two figures were slumped in leather armchairs around a large pile of books which acted as an improvised table. One was the librarian Conan, the other a ginger haired man Gritgoz didn’t recognise. In front of them were two tapped ale barrels and on the floor a small forest of mugs and tankards. The sound of in depth literary analysis could be heard throughout the library.

‘Y’see….. some people prefer Orious the barbarian *hick* But me? Wos’name…I prefer… Or -e-us the mage!’ Declared the man Gritgoz didn’t know.

‘Y’should stick to that blacksmithing….he was at’is best when….. when-hewuza-sage’ came the slurred reply from a gently swaying Conan.

This exchange was accompanied by the sounds of tankards being refilled.

‘S’good point’ replied the first bookworm, and the pair clinked receptacles to emphasis this elegant and considered reading of the text at hand.

Gritgoz smirked as he quietly made his way upstairs to the section he needed, no sense in disturbing this productive debate. A drinking night disguised as a book club. Of all the tall folk he had met, Gritgoz found Conan to be the most pleasing. He would bet money the scoundrel hadn’t even bothered to change what book they were pretending to read in years.

His thoughts returned to the letter as he searched for a book he knew on exotic plants. So Max was on edge after hearing a Goblin had been asking about an obscure disease at the infirmary? Strange. Was she concerned for his safety, or worried that a Goblin was on the trail of a cure?

Perhaps he should bring one of his companions with him tomorrow in case her intentions were malevolent? But which one of them could be most trusted to remain discrete? What of the diagram of a goblin he had discovered in her study, apparently bearing signs of Redrot. His left hand idly traced the leather covering his forehead. So many questions, but answers were coming…he could almost taste them.

Eventually he found the codex he was looking for. Voynich’s Flora and Fauna of Vaul, 13th edition. Depositing himself in a secluded nook behind a staircase ,he lit a nearby candle set in the wall and settled down to read. He mumbled to himself as he searched the index at the back and stifled a yawn. By Skrak’s teeth he was exhausted from the walk today.

‘Yaga-Shura Sheep… Yanglot (Bladed)….Yellow Bull Goblin…There you are…. Yellow musk creeper… page 812…’ He thumbed the dusty volume to the entry and observed that the accompanying illustration appeared speculative at best. 

Ignoring the drawing, he began to translate as best he could, all the while doing his best to keep his eyes open in spite of the tiredness. Frankly the text in front of him didn’t help.

Take heart young quaking acolyte! Ye olde yellow musk creepers be not indigenous to Vaul anymore, but old records and descriptions exist from eras past. Lo when the twin gods Namthar and Alastor did walk amongst primal races. Nay records exist of them since and they be named as “extinct “ or “legendary flora”. The mystics say the biggest could grow large and sweet enough to intoxicate and enthrall (Here Gritgoz has difficulty translating the old common) the giant ones who walked on their hands and …..cave painting of ….winglizard. It doth have some similarities to a much smaller less vicous…. planting ……east known as the dogcharm (poor translation)….. farmers burn to prevent their livestock……acting strangely….. guarding the plant rather viciously. The pollen of which can be ….. wolfsbane and strong alcohol solutions then….. sunlight to create a powder…. have a similar effect.

He put down the book, closed his eyes and thought deeply, halfway between sleeping and awake. An ancient plant not native to these lands found in the heart of the emerald wode. Was this the dryads doing? Or something else? Either way this was not good news for his experiments. If the creeper was thought to be extinct he would have to be careful in how he intended to use the remaining sample. Though this ‘Dogcharm’ the book spoke of might prove a possible substitute if he failed to…For a brief instant he felt hot breath on he back of his neck, and a flash of insistent hunger washed over him. His red eyes shot open as animal panic rose in him and he spun around, scimitar in hand, but there was nothing there save a dimply lit wall and a few rogue volumes. He scanned the darkness for any sign of a living creature but there was nothing there, nothing at all.

But there was no mistaking that sensation. It was as he had feared. The watcher he had felt stalking him in his slumber had not been a figment of his imagination or a dream conjured up by a piece of rotten mango. What had the poem called the thing? Gritgoz had worn the bodies of many animals. Rabbits, wolves, even an earwig once. He knew what the mind of a predator felt like, and he felt one now. Hungry, focused and wilful. 

A burst of jovial drunken laughter downstairs helped ease his terror, but not by much. He needed to return to the others. Max might be a good lead for discovering a cure but it would do his tribe no good if he was dead. He sheathed his scimitar, crept downstairs and exited the building.

As Gritgoz recrossed the plaza he glanced up at the city walls. They were tall, thick and strong, but they did not make him feel secure in the least. He turned his gaze to the Jolly Cockle and hurried towards its inviting doorway. The name of ‘Iron Stars’ was outlawed now was it? No matter. Whatever name they would go by now, he knew what their next job was going to be. He hoped Tilda was still at the inn…

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The Lore of the Gritgoz’s Totems

The Wolf Totem of Skrak

“If they are stronger? Be quicker. If they are quicker? Be smarter. If they are stronger, quicker and smarter? Bring friends”  – Translation of early maxim of the Skarsnik clan, generally attributed to Skrak

The goblins rose as a powerful civilisation later than the tall folk. The stories of their shamans claim that this was because the creator observed the world that she had made, and decided to make Goblins from her favourite aspects of the kindred races. The grace of the elf, the toughness of the dwarf and the adaptability of the human. If any greenskin has ever exemplified that third quality it was Skrak.

Skrak was the runt of his litter, bullied by his broodkin and his proper place was to learn to live with the scraps they deigned to leave him. However Skrak refused to play the role of a cringing scavenger. He knew that although he was weaker than his brothers he possessed courage that they did not, and that this could be a path to glory.

He left his clan and its territory to toughen himself and to sharpen his wits. In the course of his wanderings he used his fearlessness to befriend a group of wolves and developed a special bond with the pack leader, Fenrik. In hunts or in battles Fenrik would allow Skrak to ride her, and as a pair they were deadly and terrible to behold.

It taught him the power bestowed by a limitation overcome, a lesson he imparted to the tribe he founded by a coastal inlet in the west thirteen centuries ago. Thus was Clan Skarsnik born.

The Bear Totem of Broklug

“Stick wit me boyz! Let’s peel dese tin soldiers‘n water de ground wit der blood!” – Eloquent Words spoken in common tongue by Broklug of the Skarsnik clan, at the Battle of the Bad Moon

As the upstart race grew in strength down through the centuries, the tall folk began to grow nervous that the rising power could threaten their interests and disrupt the balance of power between the great cities. Under such circumstances war was almost inevitable.

The Goblin clans were forced to unify under the banner of a single high Chieftain and set out to defeat the combined might which sought to grind them to dust. Surprisingly a small clan by the coast provided one of the greatest heroes of the vast host. Broklug, also known as the Bear of the West.

He was a giant for a greenskin goblin, standing just under five and a half feet tall. He carried a rough-hewn stone shield and a spiked club he called ‘Ole Mummsie’. Some tales say he had bugbear blood in his ancestry, though the clan’s elders scoff at this as being an old gobbo’s tale.

‘Furst in, last oot’ was his motto. Words with which he would often angrily chasten those under his command if he felt were not pulling their weight in the melee. He is most revered for his actions at the Battle of the Bad Moon. During this bloodbath his warband slew two companies of armoured knights and Broklug himself is said to have killed a Sentinel Swordmaster with his bare hands.

History tells us he died in the final battle of the goblin wars six hundred years ago, where even his strength was not enough to turn the tide against the alliance his people faced.

The Hawk Totem of Gruzzok

“If you cannot stand, you can fight.
If you cannot breath, you can fight.
But if you cannot see? You cannot fight”
    -Saying taught to the young of clan Skarsnik.

In the aftermath of the Goblin war, calamity after calamity befell the greenskins. The loss of High Chief Riznarax, the fall of Zerul Guhk and widespread famine were devastating blows to the hard won progress built over the generations. Furthermore, Imperial Goblin hunters pursued them as their unity disintegrated. They harried the clans as they retreated to ancestral homelands. Sometimes forcing them to abandon territories held by green-kin for centuries or cutting them down by the thousand, young and old alike as entire tribes were destroyed. In so doing companies of knights or common sellswords could claim great renown and fat purses of gold.

During the height of these raids over three centuries ago, a strong young hunter name Gruzzok scouted ahead to guide what was left of her people towards a mountain pass. They had been forced by the armoured tall folk to flee the coastal inlet where Great Skrak had founded the tribe in the distant past. Now in desperation they were making for a remote cave refuge they hoped had remained undiscovered.

As the clan rested at midday, Gruzzok ascended a hillock to survey the path ahead, but without warning a giant black hawk swooped down upon her and snatched her up with it’s talons. When the tribe saw this they were aghast. Their lands were forfeit and now the strongest of them had been taken. All seemed lost.

But the hawk did not kill Gruzzok. Instead it rose to a great height, circled overhead three times and then returned her to the spot where she had been snatched. For a moment it leaned in as if to whisper something to the hunter and then with a beat of its great wings, it was gone. Later the tales would recount that this was no mundane raptor, but an emissary of their ancestors sent to guide their path.

Gruzzok had seen and learned much during this brief aerial journey. The most immediately useful thing was a column of Imperials tracking the tribe from a safe distance. Forearmed with this knowledge she commanded her people to wait in ambush and by heeding this warning they were able to surprise their pursuers, who were slain to a man and had their horses taken as stew meat.

The clan eventually arrived at their destination and proceeded to burrow deeper into the mountain, multiplying through the generations and regaining much of their former strength, largely cut off from the wider world

As for Gruzzok, she later became clan Shaman and passed what the emissary had revealed to her acolytes, so that her people would never forget the wisdom of foresight. To a few select favorites though, she left the hawk’s deeper wisdom and parting words…

“Goblins must bide their time to reclaim Zerul Guhk. Clan Skarsnik shall reforge the city”

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Of Maps and Murder

Euan picked his way carefully through the shattered planks. His well-oiled leather boots sank slowly into the wet grey sand and the slow, thick squelching sound of his footfall gave him a childlike sense of satisfaction. He stood silently on the quiet beach, staring at his feet the sand slowly enveloped them, watching as they sank slowly beneath the surface.

After a few peaceful minutes he remembered himself. He reluctantly pulled himself free (not without some minor difficulty) and straightened himself up. He finally allowed himself to fully observe the splintered chaos of the wreckage. It was a war ship alright but now only the shattered and skeletal  hull of a warship, this hidden cove to be its graveyard. Those traveller’s had spoken true. He congratulated himself on his gut instincts, he had known his new friends wouldn’t have sent him astray. He smiled, as he opened his leather bound sketch pad and made a shorthand note of the broken vessels location. He would later transfer the details carefully in indigo ink  to the vellum parchment he had carefully wrapped and holstered across his back. He guessed he was likely the luckiest journeyman in the guild. First slipping through the blockades in the North unscathed, then avoiding the roving Griffon the farmers had warned him of, then, within days, meeting such an interesting group of new friends! It was likely all downhill from here he thought, grinning wryly to himself. He didn’t believe that. Not for one minute.

He thumbed back over his coarse yellowed journal pages, pausing to admire his portrait linework. He had captured the essence of those impossibly high cheekbones, the lean flowing lines of her stance and even some of her main feathers. He would work on the shading later tonight, just the base tones and a few choice highlights – he wanted to capture the way the sunset was playing off her eyes as she walked through that waist-high wheatgrass. While it was still burning in his memory. Smiling even more broadly now he stowed the book carefully in his inner pocket, and he stepped forward into the ships carcass. He counted the bodies that were strewn across the strand, the red cloaks of Namburg now a dark maroon, soaked by blood and waves. Forty men, Fifty perhaps? Soldiers all.

The smell of the softening, rotting wood and brine wafted into his nostrils as he dipped his head under an overhanging plank. There was shade here from the sun and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he made his way through the timber maze. He stopped to run his hand over the enormous, hull spanning hole, its edges jagged and warped, as if ripped from their place be a giant club. He shuddered as he wondered what could cause such damage.

Wading now through with the water lapping around his thighs, he made his way to the back of the ship. He gingerly plucked up a bobbing spear shaft and prodded a bloated figure out of his way and guided it gently into a far corner. He pushed past an gilded oaken chest as it floated past him,  and clambered up the rear stairs into the Captain’s chambers.

The stench was intense, overpowering almost and Euan covered his mouth with his sleeve as he advanced into the hotbox. The figure of the captain lay slumped over a desk, a chandelier embedded inelegantly into his back. The floor lay blanketed by assorted parchments, maps, letters and books, some damp, others tattered. Some papers never made it to the floor and  were pasted with blood to the Captain’s longcoat ,clotted into the fibres. Euan picked up blood-soaked map and frowned as he skimmed it. Thoughtful for a few minutes, he shrugged and folded them into his inner pocket. Every little helped.

_____________________________________________________________________

“Suicide Pact”

“Hmmmmm”

“Open shut case Sarge. See if all the time”

“You think so?”

“Oh ya. Trust me boss”

Mario leaned against the cool stonework of the alleyway and gently massaged his temples. He tried  to massage away the drudgery. Tried to massage away the stupidity. It wasn’t working.

“Look I know you’re new Sarge, but this alleyway is famous for suicides. I once saw two people stab themselves in the back here , then hide their own bodies in the shit-wagon”

“You mean to tell me, that four men independently gained access to the roof of four different buildings, and despite no believable motivation or suicidal indication prior to this, all  independently decided to jump to their death.”

“Well yes”

“Simultaneously.”

“uhhh.. yes… Sarge”

“With their weapons drawn. With a slashed-up net on the ground beneath them”

“ Well.. uh.. I guess they… “

“ And this guy set fire to himself, while his friend appears to have punctured himself multiple times with a sharp object before jumping from a roof with a sword in his hands, backwards and landing on his crossbow.”

“Who knows the minds of the religious zealot , eh Sarge?”

Mario restrained himself. He had preferred working with Dave, but Ignatio was his man now, so he was going to have to learn not to run him through with his rapier every time he spoke. He picked his way through the wreckage, looking at the torn segments of rope. He ran his fingers along the charred wall, and positioned himself until he could take in every line and angle of soot, every scorch-mark. He looked down at the net he was standing on. He checked his sight-lines. He had seen this before.

“There was a mage here” he said, pointing to the ground beneath him.

“Are you sure sarge”

His sword hand twitched imperceptibly..

“Ingatio, a mage stood here and incinerated that man, he was either under … wait.. ”

There was no charring on the netting.

“He had avoided a net, something his companion had not managed. The gentleman in the south was attacked by an unconventional thrusting weapon from the rooftop and most likely was pushed while he faced down his assailant. As for those two in the north.. I have no idea. One may have slipped. Two? I know not yet.”

Ignatio stood saucer eyed looking at his new Sargent.

“ You .. you sure? Wow.. that makes a lot of sense really. So this Mage and his friends, attacked these four men on the roof top? I’ll let Captain Sofia know. ”

Mario squinted down the alleyway at the trail of blood leading to the North. Somebody escaped the carnage.

“ No need Ignatio, leave the rest to me. I will report to the captain personally.”

 

 

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Tulip’s saga, part 1

We sailed with Captain Luca Blackwell,
A boss, a fighter, a father,
The proud owner of a caravel,
A good man and gentle lover.
His caravel was called The Walrus —
‘Twas there that Luca introduced us.

Six mercenaries Luca hired.
First came the goblin named Gritgoz
He joked a lot and owns a spider.
Then Ernodal who I think was:
Some sort of magical messiah
Just like our wizard Jerimiah.

Then came one with feathers of a hawk
She was a human named Celeste.
Then there was Throkk — a stoic orc
He spent his time in the crow’s nest.
Lastly me — an elven orator,
Meet Tulip — your humble narrator. Continue reading “Tulip’s saga, part 1”

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The Saga of the Rhode Crew

Inscription on the Runestone of the Rhode Crew in the Stahlmehz clanhold.

 

These words were carved that the dwarves might remember

Until the end of time

The heroes of the Rhode Crew

The slaying of the dragon Iymrith

And the repayment of the Great Debt by Rurik Oathkeeper Stahlmehz

 

 

 

Hearing I ask | from the holy races,

From Heimdal’s sons | both high and low.

Thou wilt Valfather | that well I relate,

Old tales I remember | of days long ago.

 

I would tell of | the giant’s war,

The empty throne | the fighting tribes.

Axe-time, sword-time | shields are sundered,

Wind-time, wolf-time | ere the world falls.

 

Now high and low | does Uthor hunt,

For Hekaton | true giant king.

Without him none | of Annam’s sons

Know or obey | the Ordning.

 

Whom shall you trust | in Maelstrom now,

Where sisters smile | and whet their knives?

Woe unto those | wrapped in the web,

As wicked Iymrith | spins her lies.

 

On mountain high | the Oracle grieves,

How might wise Grimnir | right this ill?

When giant bands | ransack the land,

Which wise words might | wild warhorns still?

 

Warrior whet | thy weapon’s edge,

Of such foul times | are heroes forged.

In shattered Nightstone | oaths are pledged,

The Rhode Crew rise | to meet the storm.

 

Grimnir go forth | fain to befriend,

These heroes who | have saved a town.

Give council good | that they might seek,

To save a king | restore a crown.

 

Much hardship shall | this quest entail,

Skuld measures out | each hero’s skein.

Valhalla bound | is brave Harshnag,

Defending friends | he dies in flame.

 

Sorrow and pain | shall only serve,

To fuel the Rhode Crew’s | righteous rage.

Relentless on | their worthy course,

They reach the king | and break his cage.

 

Now vengeful as | the Valkyrie,

To Anauroch | Hekaton flies.

Iymrith to slay | for her base crimes,

With the king’s host | the Rhode Crew rides.

 

Verthandi weaves | their lives together,

Their wyrds are one | for weal or woe.

As one they must | this lightning weather,

United must | they fight this foe.

 

Through tunnels dark | does Gilly tread,

A route to scout | round Iymrith’s maze.

With stealth and skill | she steals unseen,

Beneath the dragon’s | baleful gaze.

 

But giants lack | such grace and guile,

Iymrith has heard | and lies waiting.

Her strike is swift | royal blood is shed,

Terrible claws | tear at the king.

 

Iymrith has set | her ambush well,

Sentinels stand | nearby, unseen.

Stone dragons stir | and spring to life,

In shrieking swarm | to serve their queen.

 

Falvyar is fastest | no fear does he feel,

From death he has risen | to fight on again.

First blood is his | fine blade deeply drinks,

He swears this time | he will see Iymrith slain.

 

Next Varak charges | savage with wrath,

He owes the drake | a debt of scars.

Wild magic burns | within his blood,

It speeds his step | strengthens his arm.

 

Shaldoor springs forth | to shield her lord,

She scorns the cost | her oath to uphold.

Nine blows she lands | nine strikes for her king,

And slain by the serpent | fearless she sinks.

 

Noble Nimir | is next to die,

Vaasha lies broken | barely alive.

The blood-stained beast | bears down upon,

Duke One-Eye | and the weaver’s son.

 

These two are soldiers | tested and true,

Well have they learned | the shieldwall’s ways.

When one is wounded | the other steps forth,

To shield his brother | and avenge his hurt.

 

Yet Guy is with them | servant of Ra,

Through dragon roars | his prayers ring clear.

Beloved of the light | his lantern aloft,

Allies invincible | while he is near.

 

Rurik runs toward | the dragon horde,

Endures the burns | from acid breath.

He throws his hammer | thunder tolls,

Fresh sacrifice | for Lords of Death.

 

Willow loathes | these lifeless slaves,

Her power flows | from living land.

She calls a Xorn | from stone below,

The earth erupts | at her command.

 

In battle din | Tanga stands still,

Target at last| within his sight.

To Casper’s soul | he commends the shot,

Thanks his brother | as barbed shaft bites.

 

A howling wind | Willow invokes,

Caught in the storm | golems collide.

Then slump to earth | by arrows slain,

Gilly’s shots pierce | through granite hide.

 

How does Rex now? | No hedge mage he,

Nor youngling | yet to win renown.

Great in magic | grey of beard,

The secret shapes | of runes he knows.

 

A beast he knows | a behemoth,

A form which dragons | fear to face.

A word he knows | which spoken well,

Shall grant him such | a savage shape.

 

The Midgard serpent | scarce could seem,

More terrible | than mighty Rex.

With whiplash tail | and crushing maw,

Short work he makes | of Iymrith’s spawn.

 

Now base Orlekto | breaks his oaths,

Iymrith would grant | Mirran the crown.

For her he wields | his wicked knife,

The scoundrel strikes | his liege lord down.

 

Tanga marks well | this treachery,

To king’s defence | the Chultan flies.

As murderous | deathblow descends,

Two shots, two strikes | the traitor dies.

 

Go swift Gilly | for time is short.

Be quick of finger | deft of hand.

A master thief | might steal the soul,

Of dying king | from death’s dark land.

 

Now wields Guy well | the Wyrmbane wand,

Cut from the corpse | of Iymrith’s kin.

Scales crack and fall | away to ash,

The spears sink deep | in dragon flesh.

 

As enemies on | all sides draw near,

Iymrith lets loose | her lightning breath.

Divine grace saves | Rurik and Guy,

The Gods shield them | from certain death.

 

As they surge forth | the Rhode Crew roar,

For Rhodey, | Casper, Petrichor!

Bongo, Zephyros,| Harshnag, Grimnir!

Their names the last | words Iymrith hears.

 

On mountain high | the Oracle smiles,

As Urth cuts through | the serpent’s thread.

In Iymrith’s halls | a hush now falls,

The deed is done. | The dragon dead.

 

 

 

 

* Inspiration, meter, obscure references and several lines taken from the Voluspo – the Norse legend of the creation and destruction of the world.

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Welcome to Vaul

 

 

These are troubling times indeed.

The priest and prophets wail of the coming of another century war. The great empire of Namburg raises an army in the far north, soldiers churning the earth of their ancestral farmlands as the regiments assemble, parade and drill. Lancers of Namburg ride abroad once more, recruiting where they can, intimidating where they can not, and destroying where they must. Some whisper the Judges move again, emerging from the history books to hunt down the enemies of Namthar and purge the lands of any who would move against him.

Meanwhile, Kossos trembles with the roars of the great behemoth, furious and powerless, chained to the Eastern capital by their Deity to feed, defend, and perhaps control the Federation. The chieftains and generals pour over wargames and battlemaps, as the Godbutchers continue their sacred and grizzly duties behind the blood drenched walls.

It has been almost 3000 years since the world shattering clash between the twin gods Namthar and Alastor, a conflict that left Vaul a broken and shattered world.

The battle left a magic-scared and desolate wasteland in its aftermath, the God-brothers fighting to a bloody stalemate with armies of primitive men, elves and orcs under their command. The “century war” created that ancient bleak and barren world, and it took the survivors hundreds of years to rebuild any semblance of civilisation.

Few records exist, and only scholars and poets speculate as to true cause of the war. Fewer still speculate as to who really won, or how.

And so…the Doomsayers bellow still louder. Rulers and peasants alike bristle and balk at the idea, but in the privacy of their own thoughts, many prepare for the coming conflict, extra mercenaries, a packed backpack by the door, and shadowy alliance in a smoky tavern backroom, or a lonely, whispered prayer in the dead of night. The tension grows, and the noose tightens around everybody’s neck, as the nations stare each other down. The fresh-faced young soldiers of Vaul stand shoulder to shoulder with its grizzled mercenaries dulled blades sharpened once more. If this is to be another century war, all are determined to emerge victorious, or the very least, emerge alive.

But our story begins somewhere much humbler

Our story begins, off the coast of the Silver Strands, aboard a cork-oak Caravel, the Walrus. From a distance, only the bright white sails can be seen, glowing brilliantly against the deep blue ocean breakers that bounce around her. The Walrus skims across the waves, hugging close to the coast, always keeping in sight of the towering grey cliff faces, the imposing wardens and watchers of the rolling meadows and vineyards beyond.

The Sun is now past its zenith and as it lowers itself across the western sky, the Walrus’ shadow grows, stretching languidly towards the beaches.

The days chores are being done, the hempen rope has been coated and tarred, and your arms ache from hours of Whipping, splicing, and reeving the running rigging. The brass fittings gleam, and the chipping hammer must surely be a few pounds lighter so often has it been swung these last few weeks.

Your watch has ended, and you sit in the darkness of the crew quarters with your fellow travellers, thankful for a little shade.

A motely crew, Ernodal, Throkk, Gritgoz, Tulip. Strange bedfellows, but then, these are strange times.

You’re due to make landfall tomorrow, and should arrive in Vicetina within the day, to what purpose, your captain Luca still has not revealed. Buy as he says –Coin is coin and orders are orders.

As you stretch out your stiff muscles, you listen to the slow creak of the wood and lapping of the waves only to have your thoughts interrupted by a high clear tolling of the main bell.

Time to assemble on deck

.

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Luca Blackwell- Episode 0

Captain Blackwell slowly folded the parchment into a neat half page and gently slipped the letter back inside the envelope. He reached for his sealing wax and carefully held the wick of the small red stick over the flickering flame of his desk light.

As he waited, he listened to the woody creaks of the ship, as it flexed and stretched out its great length along the waves like a beast awaking from slumber. The Walrus was a good vessel, sleek and fast, they should make Vicetina by the third day. He wondered if he would rather the journey took a bit longer.

The letter of introduction left him ill at ease. It wasn’t like Dominic to dispatch the Iron Stars without a proper briefing.

Worse again, these were barely Iron Stars. A good group, some had proven themselves in a brawl already back in Fairharbour,  but his hold ship hands had done most of the actual sailing.

These recruits were a green and motley group ( He chuckled to himself at his inadvertent cleverness… at least two were literally green… )and he worried he wouldn’t have enough time to train them properly before their first proper fight. He reflected that a few looked like they had seen their fair share of violence, but fighting battles does not a soldier make. He didn’t want a repeat of last time. Dammit Dominic, what the hell was going on? He was much more comfortable with straight forward objectives. Drive away the bandits from here, clear out the ancient cathedral there. Simple and clean, in and out. But the world was going to shit these days and he was being thrown into the middle of it. He was arriving to Vicetina blind. He felt his heart begin to quicken and he suddenly felt very small indeed. The oppressive vastness of the ocean around him made itself known to him and Luca was becoming increasingly aware of his own breathing, sounding laboured and brittle in his ears. He was a speck now, nameless, and he wondered if the vast unknown oceans around him could somehow suffocate him simply with the pressure of too much space, just crush him like an ant through the greatness of it size and his powerless.

The wisps of smoke caught in his nostrils and brought him back to his senses. Shaking slightly, Luca slid his hand on the underside of the mahogany desk until he felt a familiar indentation. He pushed gently and caught the brass seal as it rolled from its hidden compartment. Dripping the wax over the now closed envelope he waited until the shimmering globs formed into a tiny blood red hillock, before plunging the seal down hard into the body of the wax, enjoying the squelch it made as it billowed, swelled and hardened around the seal. He removed the seal and looked down proudly at his handiwork. Wouldn’t have be able to tell the difference himself.

Well, he was none the wiser after his foray into amateur espionage. He knew that Lorenzo Ordelaffi was expecting them, and recruited them for an unknown reason, and for some reason Dominic hadn’t wanted to include any further details in the letter. He wondered who else would read this letter. Perhaps it was the omissions that were most significant. Perhaps Dominic knew he would read the letter. Perhaps he wanted him to.

Staring thoughtfully at the closed envelope, Luca stood up slowly and reached for his pistols lying next to the stack of yellowed maps and parchments. Sliding the ancient weapons into their leather holsters, he tightened his belt and straightened his jerkin. He began to stride towards the door.

The sunlight illuminated the tall, lean shape of the half orc at the prow,  propped against the foremast and staring and the cliffs as the slowly passed by. He had stood silently like that for many hours today. Luca sighed. He was easily the strangest orc Luca had ever met, and that was saying something.

 

He walked slowly to the half-orcs side , as the breeze picked up  and ran its salty fingers through his beard and hair, cool and refreshing and awakening his weary mind. Throkk tipped his head slightly to acknowledge the captain but otherwise remained motionless. Luca wondered why a gesture of borderline insubordination in a regular crewman felt strangely respectful from the half orc.

Luca said nothing and stared into that same distance alongside his companion. He stared unseeing at remains of the rocky , gorse topped highlands gave way to the richer, softer pastures and croplands of the northern meadows of Vicetina.

He felt the letter sit heavily in his pocket, and wondered what lay ahead.

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Tanga

His wooden scabbard bounced lightly against his leather trousers, sitting empty at his hip. Tanga had refused to replace his blade. He wanted to remember everything. He had left his father’s Shotel buried to the hilt in the great beast’s throat, and he felt wielding another sword would somehow rob him of something. The memory perhaps, or maybe simply his revenge. He wasn’t ready to move on. And yet… In his dreams he saw her. Her great skull crushed beneath the Dwarves hammer, caved and broken, eyes comically askew with clumps of pink tissue oozing out of the long, scaled ears. He woke time and again, sweat-slick in the moonlight, and shivering with the cold, her laughter in his ears. The laughter of a dead thing. A laughter tinged with malice, and with pity.

What was left undone he wondered. When would he sleep again. He lay awake, motionless and clammy, and stared at the stars. They blinked and flickered subtly as they taunted him with their permeance, their eternal, distant indifference. He wondered what had become of the Rhode crew after they parted. He often thought of Varak, who had grown increasingly cheery in the days following their victory. It unsettled Tanga to see him so, the fighters wild eyes flashing every shade of green, like a passing forest while on horseback. To the Chultan, he seemed to grow ever taller and bolder with each day.

Tanga still remembered the red glowing embers of his oaken pipe as it emerged thoughtfully from the haze of sweet smoke.

“I need to leave I’m afraid Tanga. I have some…business to attend to”

The Tavern was noisy, a clatter of glasses, raucous laughter and rasping manic shawm. But the words echoed slowly through Tanga’s mind. He was right. It was over. They were no longer campaigners, no longer brothers in arms. They were now just friends. He looked to Guy, calming sipping his ale, breastplate gleaming in firelight and eyes burning with conviction. A trustworthy and true friend. But while they drank the same ale, they all sat with such different paths ahead. Tanga finished his drink in one long swing. He did not enjoy goodbyes. But he had been robbed twice with Casper, he would not be robbed again. He grabbed Varaks hand tightly, and leaned forward, touching his forehead gently off Varak’s scarred brow. He stood and grabbed Guy affectionately by the scruff of his golden curls, falling soft between his callused fingers.

“You know Varak… so do I”

******************

The waves lapped along the shore as Tanga walked the beach, picking his way through he driftwood and bleached shells. He wondered often about his old companions, breathing deeply as briny spray filled his nose, carried along the warm sandy breeze, thickened with the palm-baked  oils and the blue eucalyptoid haze from the southern mountains.

As the water washed over his bare feet, he raised his eyes he saw the crowds of Brynshander, applauding and hooting with glee as Rhode tossed another string of oily sausages into the air, only for them to vanish seconds later into his grinning mouth. Their astounded gasp chorused around him in the evening air and gently mingled with the slow crash and roll of the ocean breaking against the dark Chultan sands. He blinked back the stinging in his eyes as saw Varak’s broad shoulders heaving in the rain, slick leather sliding under glistening chainmail as he shovelled the grey-wet clay in thick sods on the tattered form of Rhode. The dragon bones shone like silver birches in the dusk as the earth slowly covered them, each spaded grunt punctuating his heartbeats.

A shadow melted from the tree line as he moved passed. Tanga eyed the swaying palms, as he silently unslung his bow. He reached over his shoulder smoothly to draw arrow, only to meet instant resistance, the feathers unmoving as he strained quietly.

“Leave it where it is” came a calm female voice behind him. She held the arrow where it was, and her mechanical advantage was complete. Tanga sighed.

Every damn time. Perhaps he needed to start wearing his quiver on his belt he wondered.

“Those are strange looking clouds to the east” the voice mused.

Tanga relaxed his grip on the arrow, knowing Gilly had the best of him. He turned to squint at the horizon, the distant sky illuminated by the setting sun to the west, throwing great arcs of crimson and citrus red across the world like a spray of rum washed blood.

“Brethren, those are remarkably sail like, as clouds go”

He counted carefully the white squares as they chopped and broke the waves in the distance. Six ships. A well-funded venture south this time. Perhaps Amn had decided to restake her claim on the timbers of Chult. Her claim on the temple-riches and secret history of Chult. Her claim on the proud peoples of Chult. Her claim on Tanga’s People.

But Tanga was their chieftain now. He had stalked the greatest quarry, and this time he would not be the hunted. The Amnite ships may crash and break across Chult like great waves, but the people of the coast were the impassable cliffs, they were the ancient rock, stretching up to the heavens to protect this land. When the wave mist falls back to earth, he will remain, standing tall amongst the ruined and broken invader.

Although he had learned a thing or two from his old friends about warfare. And cunning.

“Gilly”

He knew the silence was listening.

“You’ve stolen a lot of things over the years Gilly, of this I am certain. But tell me this brethren…. Have you ever stolen…”

The shadows drew closer. Intent. Eager. Was just a trick of the setting sun? Or some manifestation of the dark, sinister secrets of these lands ? Or presence of the brooding and unknowable Gilly? The shadows of the jungle fronds stretched slowly across the sand and the dark palmy maws chased the waters back as they retreated into the ocean.

“Have you ever stolen a man-o-war?”

 

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The Kraken Society Strikes Back

“The mimic octopus… is a noble animal.” Shibol talked as they walked through the moonlit barley field “The mimic octopus is even more noble than the Pacific striped octopus, more noble than even the blanket octopus. The mimic octopus is the most noble of all the octopi, and therefore the most noble of all creatures.”

“See, I prefer to have a wider view of the octopus.” Max clutched the parcel as he followed his master. “The octopus genus is a broad one, so I’m not sure that we can conclusively say that one of them is better than the rest.”

“You are wrong acolyte. You are very wrong. The mimic octopus is the greatest, most noble of all the octopi.”

“It’s not that I disagree with you master…” Max chose his words carefully. “It’s just that I think that we should appreciate each octopus in its own way. To get a broader, more complete picture of the fair creatures.” He scratched his chin. “For example take the Pacific coconut octopus. You know of the Pacific coconut octopus? They walk along the ocean floor on two tentacles like men. They use their other six tentacles to transport fallen coconuts to their lairs. There they use the coconut shells to build massive undersea forts complete with ramparts and a moat. In their forts, they slumber. You cannot deny that the Pacific coconut octopus is also a cool type of octopus?”

“I can and I will.” Shibol shook his head. “You are too young a member of our society, acolyte. You know nothing. You do not know the octopus. If you knew the octopus — you would know that the mimic octopus is the noblest of all the creatures. You do not know this — and therefore you know nothing at all.” Continue reading “The Kraken Society Strikes Back”