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Your party stood with at least a slight sense of trepidation as the heavy northern gates leading out of Bards Gate, the last true city on your journey through Mendev, are forced open by worn and tired mechanisms; the city guards straining to force the old oak wood.
The northern wall of Bard’s Gate looks out over a vast river valley disappearing into purple hills in the hazy distance. The mighty gates fixed in that wall rarely open any more. On the few occasions when the north gates do open to allow entrance to the occasional merchant caravan or especially daring traveller, they reveal a wide road, paved with great stone flags forming a smooth and level traveling surface striking due north for the hills. However, closer inspection reveals the signs of a lack of maintenance, and after a few miles the road deteriorates into little more than a wide dirt track, overgrown with weeds and with only the occasional stone paver visible in the hard soil. It obviously sees little travel and even less care.
Few stand atop Bard’s Gate’s north wall and gaze out upon that hazy vista or care to think about what lies beyond those distant highlands. Fewer still are brave or foolish enough to make the journey in that direction. Bard’s Gate relies on its commerce from other roads in other directions and pays no mind to the north, for to the north, beyond the village of Taverlan and the distant purple hills and across many leagues, lies the reminder of one of the most tragic moments in the history of the civilized kingdoms. To those who even care to remember, the north gate leads only to bad memories or mournful legend. To the rest it leads to where only madmen would dare to go— the ruined city of Tsar and the great Desolation that surrounds it...
Tsar, the great temple-city to the Demon Prince of the Undead, stood for centuries as a bastion of evil and hate. Foul beings of all kinds flocked to its mighty walls and found succor and purpose within. At its heart stood the great Citadel of Orcus, the black heart of Orcus worship on earth. Countless evils were perpetuated in those corrupt precincts, and equally countless wicked plots were hatched and carried out therein...
Dotting
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As you travelled north from Bard's Gate, the land itself seemed to slowly change; as though you were leaving fertility and good land behind to trudge slowly towards wasteland. After several days of lonely travel in which the group saw very little traffic on the dirt roads, you have just reached The Camp- reputedly the only settlement in the Desolation. A few stunted trees and scrub brush seem to grow in the area, but not enough to qualify as any actual woodland. You have arrived in the calm months of late spring but reputedly winter here is a deadly affair.
The long, dusty road from Bard’s Gate has finally brought you to your destination, a settlement on the very edge of the vast region of ruin known as the Desolation. Before you sprawls a pathetic collection of hovels that appear to be composed of whatever materials happened to be lying around.
Your Wizard Marcus has primed you with some information about this place. The Camp typically numbers less than four hundred souls and exists at the edge of civilization, on the very brink of the Desolation’s southern edge. The ancient trade road, now little used, runs directly through the Camp and on into the Desolation itself. The Camp gained its name from its origins as being little more than a stopover spot near a good well to prepare for a run across the Desolation or to recover from such a run. When a permanent settlement sprang up, it retained the name since its function really hadn’t changed. The locale consists mainly of stony, hard-packed soil that barely supports the few garden plots grown by the Camp’s inhabitants.
The Camp is a sprawling cluster of crude shanties and dilapidated hovels. The standard materials for most of these buildings are pieces of plywood scavenged off of crates and wagons, broken branches and sticks, thatch, sod turves, some fieldstones, and copious amounts of mud. Many of the structures are little more than lean-tos. All are in poor condition and you suspect that a truly hard windstorm would flatten most of the town.
Your adventuring company has been through many trials and learnt hard lessons in the past year or two of adventuring. No fools, you have come prepared with a rough Map of the Desolation as well as a crude map of the Camp itself, drawn for Arachiel by a merchant that made a run near here.
You have approached the Camp from the south and the small settlement is a bustle of activity, especially in the Common. Your party attracted a significant amount of wary attention from the local inhabitants; many of them dirty and unkempt, with greedy eyes that watch you, sizing you up. You spot mostly humans but the settlement seems to have a reasonable number of other races, in particular Orc's and Half-Orc's.
The Common is a busy place, bustling with activity and several prominent locations within the town seem to look directly out onto it. The hard-packed dirt yard serves as the central focus of the hamlet. Its main feature is a bent, old gallows, crudely constructed and leaning with age. Dangling from this by a frayed rope is a desiccated corpse, its broken neck askew and its leathery face frozen into a rictus grin beneath empty eye sockets. Occasionally crows alight to peck at it. Nailed to its breast is a sign bearing the word “Cheater.”
From your position having just arrived at the Common you can see on your right, a large and crude network of tents that have formed into a market, with tables and stalls inside. In front of you are the two largest buildings in the settlement; the closest is an old half-rebuilt structure that is clearly the town's tavern. The second building appears to be a smithy and although it is made of simple planks, seems to be the finest construction in town with the exception of the ancient well house you can see past the common to the north. A tall, lean man with a great hooked nose and a wide mouth pounds away steadily at his anvil, pausing infrequently as people approach him, apparently acting as some kind of money exchanger in addition to his services as a smith.
The last of the larger buildings on the Common that catches your eye is the structure to your left; two round mud-brick towers connected at the base and roofed by stretched tarps form this building. The mud walls have been stained a charcoal gray, and a large skull and scythe above a setting sun have been painted on the door in red.
This is a church of Nergal, an ancient and now largely obscure god
of death; not a particularly active evil but a more insidious one.
Something else draws your eyes in the Camp even as you get your bearings; although for what has actually happened, the reaction is quite muted; the inhabitants almost ignore it entirely. A horribly-smelling humanoid dressed in a threadbare but well-cared-for formal suit is picking up the corpse from the ground and dumping it into a wheelbarrow. People generally keep their distance from him, but you suspect this has more to do with his stench and the unpleasantness of his apparent duty as Undertaker, rather than fear. Nearby, another human man looks in a condition almost as terrible as the corpse; apparently sleeping off a binge from his terrible groans and position rolling in the dirt.
Marcus surveys the Camp and its inhabitants from his saddle, the slightly built wizard briefly looking down at the muck covered ground before deciding to stay where he is. His horse looks the part although it doesn't take much to notice that the enchanted construct does not so much as blink or wrinkle its nose at the unwashed vista before it.
There is little, aside from the man's lack of armour, that gives his profession away. He wears a simple grey coat, of fine make but plain, over a dark shirt and trousers. His cloak as well is a simple drab olive green although thick and warm. A half dozen pockets hold the wizard's spell components and the other miscellanery of his craft. He looks like a simple traveller, perhaps a mercenary, although few of either manage to keep their clothing and gear as perfectly clean as repeated cantrips can manage.
A heavy crossbow and quiver hang over his saddlebags although you know from experience that things need to be fairly hairy for the mage to fall back on them. A long knife hangs at his side. That even more so.
Well I had low expectations, he starts cheerily.
But even then I can comfortably say they've been disappointed.
This place needs some rain.
He studies the undertaker for a moment before looking at the building with the skull and scythe icon and shrugging.
Hmm. What it needs is a good fireballing.
The tiny blonde woman perched precariously on the back of Marcus' mount has a lithe form under a simple blue and green dress. Surrounded nearly constantly by sparking lights and gently spinning rainbow arcs, she looks like a fey especially with her delicate butterfly wings.
It doesn't take long in Kiri's company though to realise the lyrakien is not a fey however. The heavens born azata gives any in the company a run when it comes to battlethirst.
Marcus' familiar carries a tiny crossbow of her own strapped next to her backpack. The wizard's two wands sit criss-crossed so as to leave movement for her wings, although they look more like short spears in proportion.
Or maybe a hurricane. Enough wind to blow it all back into the desolation anyway. She snorts.
You do realise that you all stand out like .. like .. well a whole lot.
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Slowly riding through the Camp, the tall, powerfully built man adorned in gleaming silver and gold full plate mail appears grossly out of place.
Looking around the dilapidated town and hearing Marcus's comments Arachiel says, "Sadly, I must agree with you." trying hard to ignore the fireballing comment from the wizard's familiar.
Somewhat taken aback by the appearance of the old temple, the paladin comments "Well that certainly adds to the charm and warmth of this place..."
Durin follows along, trailing behind the others. Having made the trek on foot, his hammer resting upon his shoulder, he is dirty and sweaty from the march. Unlike some of the others, Durin looks a little more at home in a place like this. The grime upon his face and gear only serving to reinforce the idea.
As they enter the Common, Durin glances up at the hanging "criminal". Best be careful if I use my dice around here... he thinks to himself.
The sound of the rhythmic hammer blows stirs something deep in Durin's soul. He smiles as the sound is like music to his ears. It sounds like... home to him. He quickly, somewhat angrily, pushes the thought from his mind. He cannot help but stand for a moment and watch with keen interest as the blacksmith goes about his work.
He pays the Undertaker and the temple no mind, his attentions clearly on the smithy and the tavern.
As the others speak, Durin throws in, I've frequented worse... You aren't sure if he is jesting or not. Either way, Durin sees opportunity in a place like this and he smiles again. I don't know about the rest of you, but after all that travelling I have a mighty thirst. What do you all say? Before anything else, a round of drinks on Arachiel to wash away the dust of the road?
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I don't know about the rest of you, but after all that travelling I have a mighty thirst. What do you all say? Before anything else, a round of drinks on Arachiel to wash away the dust of the road?
"I am certainly not opposed to visiting an inn, it would be nice to see if there is something to eat other than trail rations for once. As for the round of drinks, I know better than that, Durin. I would have to sell my armor to pay your bar tab." he says with a grin.
The still afternoon is shattered by a great bellowing cry of rage. From the north road charges a massive figure. Those few people on the street quickly scatter at its approach. It is a hill giant covered in dust and blood. A great spiked club swings in its hand. Its face is a mass of recent wounds and horrible burns, perhaps caused by acid. One thing is evident, though; the look in its eyes as they focus on you is one of pure insanity. Having just rounded the corner of the well house, the sight of this humanoid has the people in the Common swiftly scattering as it rushes towards you...
Round 1-
Ordered Initiative-
Zanzu- 26
Kirilarien- 20
Marcus- 19
Lord Vincent- 16
Durin- 14
Khun-Duhn- 14
Arachiel- 3
Giant- 1
Active Effects-
Notes-
Action-
Marcus gets off his horse, the construct noting the giant's approach with only casual interest.
Grease on the weapon at 40! The wizard says briskly, expecting his companions to react to the familiar phrasing.
Kiri would you check please we don't have an innocent turned into a giant or something.
As you command master although it looks pretty gianty to me.
Oh come now Arachiel, don't be a poor sport. I promise to behave this time! he adds with a wink of his own.
Durin turns to check out the ruckus and panic caused by the giant's sudden appearance. As the thing appears to zero in on the group, Durin remarks excitedly, Look boys! They have sent out the welcoming committee for us! I this place more already!!
Durin heaves his hammer off his shoulder and grips it in both hands. He moves up to put himself between Marcus, and in the direct path of, the incoming giant. He adopts a low stance, anticipating the presumed charge and holds his hammer at the ready as the "fever" begins to take hold of him...
Durin bellows out, trying to goad the thing.
As the giant rushes in, Durin swings his long hammer at one of the giant's knees...
As the fight began the group were able to get a better look at the giant. Frothing at the mouth and muscular even by the standards of Hill Giants, its massive greatclub, which it held in both meaty hands, had long spikes embedded into it. It wore a chain shirt and had several javelins held in a quiver over its shoulder.
The young man of the group dressed in finery with a silver bracelet out prominantly seems to have not realised the approch of this giant until it was roaring behind him. His hair is long blond and tied up neatly wearing his chainshirt under his clothing and carrying a shield, drawing a blade now that it approches.
"Foul ugly beast. I, Lord Vincent of the house Darastrix-iejir will cut you down with my companions." the Lords states as he steps a few paces forward and casts a spell on himself, instantly creating duplicates of himself.
There are now 5 Lords all holding their longswords and shields ready to combat the Ogre.
The wolfish half-orc in battle-scarred plate armor turns at the sound of the bellowing hill giant. Seeing his companions move to intercept, Khun-duhn barks out the words to a spell to grow to the same height as the approaching giant.
Zanzu, his long robes dusty and darkened by the deep coloured earth, looks at the Camp. If a beak could smile, then the beak certainly would be now, the camp is not dissimilar to the impoverished suburb from which he came. He notes the swing corpse and the note, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders, he thinks his skills will have to be used sparingly here.
And then there is the giant, moving toward them, he looks at his surroundings, at a way he can make the most of his damaging skills, of where he might move to let his heroic friends take the privilege of defeating the enemy. His voice, harsh and not at all musical, spits out the words, "Yours to deal with, it you don't mind I'll just slip away." He wanders over behind the strange religious building and ducks behind its dark shadows, but there is little sun, but whatever darkness he can find he does.
As the group prepared for the struggle clearly coming their way, the hill giant bellowed and roared. The people of the camp scattered, the braver among them watching on the edges of the common. A handful of people began to gather to watch the combat, jeering at the newcomers and giant alike. The tavern patrons had apparently also heard the roars and began to file out or watch from the couple of dirty tables set outside it.
Breaking line of sight to the Giant, Zanzu slipped from its notice with ease.
The blacksmith raised his head from his work to see the commotion, his watery blue eyes conveying absolutely no emotion. He kept half an eye on the fight as he continued to hammer upon the anvil, the steady noise beating like a battle drum, especially to Durin.
The hill giant moved closer into the centre of the common, advancing as the brute shifted its greatclub to one hand- drawing a javelin and moving to hurl it at Durin; perhaps in response to his taunts or perhaps simply picking the most obvious target.
Just before he threw it however, Marcus' spell coated the club in conjured grease; the weapon slipped from his grasp, leaving the Giant looking confused. Several campies laughed and jeered at the confused expression upon the giant's face; seemingly only to increase the warrior's rage! He disarmed himself of the other weapon in his hand; by hurling it- right at Durin. The Dwarf's long years of training to fight Giants in his youth was the deciding factor in the attack, as he expertly planted his feet into the hard ground and took the javelin in the centre of his breastplate.
Meanwhile, Kirilarien detects the presence of evil in the area...
Round 2-
Ordered Initiative-
Zanzu- 26
Marcus- 19
Kirilarien- 18
Lord Vincent- 16
Durin- 14
Khun-Duhn- 14
Arachiel- 3
Giant- 1
Active Effects-
Notes-
Action-
Marcus doesn't need to see Zanzu to know the tengu is making his way around behind the giant.
The wizard is inclined to let his companions finish the contest but changes his mind as he spots people pouring out of the tavern.
They can all see this. Its important we show nothing but strength.
Rolling a glass ball in his palm, Marcus chants, a large ball of swirling water materialising directly above the distracted giant and falling on to it.
Kiri continues focus on the giant in an attempt to confirm it is evil.
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Kiri detects a single faint, evil aura; she is quite sure it must be the giant because everyone else is well out of range...
The giant is buffeted by the second of Marcus' conjurations- an orb of water that almost engulfs the brute inside of it. Roaring in fury, the giant stands its ground with the stubbornness of a Dwarf, refusing to be engulfed by the water; and looking for its club!
As the javelin bounces harmlessly off of his breastplate Durin scowls at the giant before yelling another taunt in his direction.
Durin then moves forward with determination and swings his hammer at the side of the engulfed giant's knee...
non lethal
Zanzu uses the giant's current concern to get closer to him, sneaking in a roundabout way, his aim the hamstrings, to slice those and watch the giant fall. A quiet, almost still as the night "Caw" leaves his beak, to be the quiet victor amongst the noise.
Lord vincent sighs, shaking his head and then takes another 30ft towards the giant and hums a tune of battle for all to hear, enhancing all nearby people's weapons.
"My stupid friend, you shall fall to the blade of Lord Vincent." he calls out to the giant who possibly doesn't even understand what he's saying "Over here ugly!"
Round Two:
Now the same size as the drenched hill giant, Khun-duhn hefts his giant-sized horsechopper and steps forward toward the foe. Reaching over the heads of his companions he slashes his polearm at the giant, hooking the blade behind the giant's knee and giving the weapon a sharp tug to pull the giant off of its feet.
Zanzu moved into position behind the Aqueous Orb; ready to step in and start attacking the Giant at any moment.
With his blade enhanced and crackling with electricity, Lord Vincent stepped up; Durin in the centre and Arachiel and Vincent on his flanks. Durin wasted very little time- his adamantine long-hammer cracked into the giant's knee through the water surrounding him. Khun-Duhn's enlarged, hooked halberd followed the opening, seeking to drag the Hill Giant down to the dirt hard earth of the Common. Instead, one of the brutes massive hands clenched around the haft, dragging Khun-Duhn to the ground himself with incredible strength.
Arachiel approached during the Giant's struggle with Khun-Duhn and the howling, frothing barbarian's other fist smashed into his upraised shield as he approached, the concussive force of the large fists taking its toll on him despite his armour. Arachiel responded in kind, leaving a long slash on its fist in retaliation, which hissed as some of the tough flesh cauterized instantly from his blade's flames.
Responding to being surrounded, the clearly traumatised Hill Giant clearly saw no easy way out and howled and bellowed incoherently as onlookers jeered, some puzzled by the appearance of the churning ball of water buffeting the combatant. The steady pounding of the hammer upon anvil was not enough to drown out opportunistic campies, placing bets upon the fight. With the hill giant's attention clearly focused on the newcomers, it seemed people were happy to stay in proximity to the dangerous giant; at least for now... The horribly smelling humanoid had managed to get his cart clear with the corpse still inside it, but seemed to be lingering to watch the fight; or perhaps clean up after it.
The brute eyed its fallen club briefly before simply seeking to pulverise Durin with both of its fists in wild, brutal slams. The humanoid certainly had strength a-plenty; and was apparently all too happy to punish Durin for his hammer blow with titanic punches, bellowing in rage all the while.
Round 3-
Ordered Initiative-
Zanzu- 26
Marcus- 19
Kirilarien- 18
Lord Vincent- 16
Durin- 14
Khun-Duhn- 14
Arachiel- 3
Giant- 1
Active Effects-
Notes-
Action-
one voice called out from among the tavern patrons that had come out to watch, his tone mocking and cruel rather than offering friendly encouragement.
Although Durin absorbs two heavy blows from the giant, it does nothing to slow his attacks, nor stop his taunts.
Durin then swings his hammer at the inside of the giant's other knee...
...the blow knocking the giant's legs apart, allowing Durin to swing his hammer up and in between them...
Despite hearing one of the commoners supporting the giant, Lord Vincent decides to charge in at the ugly beast, first stroking his hand over his blade and enhancing it's sharpness.
"I shall fell you, foul denizen!" he cries as he charges straight in with his blade.
attack:
damage: + of electric damage, if that was a hit.
Things seem to be under control and Marcus spares the time to look for the taunter.
Readying her cure wand Kiri flies up and over the melee preparing to provide some emergency healing if it becomes necessary.
The taunter seemed to be a heavily inebriated Elf- a strong looking, broad shouldered man that bore very little resemblance to the archetypical Elfen man.
Although the waters seemed to continually buffet "Gurg", they seemed only a minor hindrance as the fight continued.
Round Two (continued):
Surprised by the deftness with which the giant avoids his tripping attempt, Khun-duhn drops his horsechopper, which reduces to its normal size as it hits the ground.
Round Three:
Khun-duhn offers a prayer to Muir to bolster his allies and curse the giant as he draws his heavy flail.
Zanzu takes a step to try and flank the giant, before his claws rake at the giant's legs, aimed to cut deep and make him fall.
Zanzu joined the fray with his claws and teeth slashing at the Giant; although only a single claw penetrated the tough skin behind the chain shirt. The battle was now a furious melee; the hardened adventuring company facing off against a foe as brutally strong and tough as they had faced off against in the past. Lord Vincent's blade did not match his bravado as his crackling longsword failed to cut through the ogre's rock-hard biceps. Durin, however, struck two more massive hammer blows upon the giant's torso, and for a moment it seemed like "Gurg" might fall to his wounds as Arachiel's heavy sword cut through the chain shirt to carve and singe giant-flesh.
Khun-Duhn's powerful Muir-granted spell rang out over the Common, tilting the odds ever so slightly in the newcomer's favour.
Clearly too debilitated to run for his life, the Hill Giant Gurg continued his relentless assault on Durin, attacking like a berserker with both fists. This time Durin was ready and he jeered as he took a punch solidly on his breastplate, having steered the incoming blow there with the haft of his hammer. This feat did not prevent a second heavy blow from almost finishing him off; only his rage kept him standing in the fight...
Durin, sensing the giant being close to defeat, swings two more hammer blows in quick succession to try and finish him off...