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 Recent Posts
"As if the crawling horrors weren't bad enough," mutters Keildrithe as he finishes reciting his ode. Despite the inspiring words he just intoned, the bard seems unsure as to whether he should stand his ground or run... His mind races uncontrollably, preventing him from remembering any useful bits of knowledge he might have that would be helpful for defeating this new threat.
Keildrithe hands Alton's dagger to Kajetan, then firmly grips his newly acquired javelin with both hands. "What do you see, brother?" he asks, unable to see much beyond Laithe and Pharris. Then, softly at first, as if trying to bolster his own courage, the Karand begins to recite the words of an old Karandic ode... The words reach his companions, steadying their nerves and lifting their morale as well as they face the unknown presence in the dark chamber ahead... You doubt your strength or courage
Human bones blanket the dirt
Black shadows fill the sky
Keildrithe takes a few deep swigs from Pharris's proffered bottle of wine. "Thank you, Cympharrisong." The colour slowly returns to the Karand's uncharacteristically pale face. Looking at the javelin, he states: "I think that I could quickly get the hang of wielding such a fine weapon... though I would gladly grant keeper's choice to yourself, my brother, or to our finest warrior, Pharris." When Laithe asks whether the group is prepared to investigate the south passage, the bard can't help but betray a worried expression... He replies with silence, clearly leaving it up to the others to make that decision.
Deathly pale and still shaking, Keildrithe gives Nicolai a black look, evidently less than taken by the dandy's sense of humour. "Th-thank y-you, Pharris... L-Laithe... and... s-s-sorry... I lost my n-n-nerve... I have n-never f-felt anything s-so horrible... I c-can still f-feel them touching me..." The bard does not seem too eager to investigate the rest of the chamber, and while he does not say it, his expression clearly suggests that he would prefer to get back to the surface without delay.
As Pharris shakes off Keildrithe's hand and moves off into the chamber, to the left of the passage, the bard finds his request trailing off, largely unheard by the elf maiden. Cursing under his breath, he makes a step in the opposite direction, just to the right of the passage. He holds the blade that Alton lent him in a high guard, ready to slice down once the hands come within five feet of him. "Nicolai, Laithe, Kajetan... I think we're going to need fire!!!" he yells back over his shoulder, as locks of grimy brown hair come loose from his leather headband and dangle before his eyes.. "I think I'm going to regret this," he mutters to himself, then begins to recite the words of a Karandic ode...
Keildrithe's eyes widen in horror as he peers around the elf maiden. He shudders, then puts a firm, yet gentle hand on the maiden's forearm, trying to pull her back into the tunnel. "Cympharrisong, there is no honour to be had in risking life and... ahem... limb... fighting these dismembered hands with bow or blade... might I suggest we take a few steps back and let our sorcerous allies deliver the initial strikes against these abominations?"
Keildrithe follows close behind Pharris, exhaling with relief when neither the rusty swords nor his own blade shows signs of animation. He holds his own blade tightly in hand, ready to cover the elf maiden's back...
Keildrithe smiles sympathetically, relief showing on his heretofore worried features. "Agreed... let us see if we may find answers elsewhere in this complex... and let us pray that our blades do not rise against us yet again... Be prepared, friends..."
"Sya-Negan," whispers Keildrithe to himself. Looking over his shoulder at his companions, he reiterates, a little louder: "I think these skeletal beings were once Sya-Negan... a tribe of savage narog raiders, fierce warriors who were even more fearsome given their knowledge and use of necromantic magic. They dominated this area some seven centuries ago, under the leadership of the infamous narog sorcerer-warrior Tamiach. They were foes of both Karands and elves in the region. Their power faded after Tamiach was slain by the Karandic chieftan Turiew, who, legend has it, was assisted in his battle against Tamiach and the Sya-Negan by his lover, the elven maiden Deleflin and the unicorn Iriandel." The bard's gaze lingers on Cympharrisong as he utters the last words.
"Thank you, Nicolai, Cympharrisong," says Keildrithe, exhaling deeply as his grandfather's sword is returned to him (Nicolai would notice that there is nothing particularly remarkable about the sword -- it just looks like a battered old blade). He inspects the blade quickly, making sure that whatever wielded it hasn't left some ghastly sign of its handling. "But, the question is... to whom do I really owe the ballad now? I might agree to escort Pharris as her personal troubadour, but I can't promise that I would do the same for you, Nicolai... no offence intended, of course," says the bard with a smile. The smile quickly fades as his attention returns to the dark tunnel behind them, then to the red beads that Kajetan is handling. "What do you make of them, Kajetan? Have you heard of such being used in arcane or unholy rituals before?" Keildrithe cautiously re-enters the room to resume his search, inspecting the throne for any sigils or markings that might hint at the origins of its deceased inhabitants, and keeping an eye out for devices, levers or anything else that might hint at the existence of a secret door.
"No point risking your life, brother. It seems we can do this without incurring further harm." Taking his cue from the others, Keildrithe picks up a stone from the floor and lets it fly. One of the whirling blades bats it out of the air, to the side. "It's been a while since I've used one of these," mumbles the bard in embarrassment.
"How about we immortalize you in your very own ode... should you succeed, of course." Keildrithe flashes a quick grin back at the dandy.
Keildrithe ponders his options, whispering the following to his companions: "Maybe if we retreat down the tunnel for a while, whatever is animating or wielding these weapons will put them down again... perhaps giving us a chance to retrieve them on our way back? I really want that sword back -- it was my grandfather's..."
The dumbstruck bard hangs on tenaciously to Alton's long dagger, despite being practically paralyzed with fear. He cries out in pain as his own sword and a few other blades slash at him and draw blood. "NO! Grandfather's blade!!!" Torn between his safety and his companions' calls for him to withdraw, and his devotion to the safe keeping of his family heirloom, the young Karand stumbles about indecisively for a moment, but his wounds and the imminent threat of more spectral attacks finally spur him into action. He decides to heed Nicolai's suggestion and follow Laithe out of the room, preparing to parry and dodge any other blade that might strike at him...
"I can't abandon grandfather's sword here!" wails Keildrithe disconsolately. "SPIRITS!!!" yells the bard at the top of his lungs, once he reaches Nicolai's side. "Know ye that we be foes of the Artonite Inquisition, and that many among us, myself included, are followers of the old gods! To whom do you swear allegiance? Why torment us thus? What dark curse hath bound you to this place, and how might we release your restless souls? SPEAK!!!"
As Laithe and Nicolai reach the chamber safely, Keildrithe, Alton's dagger firmly in hand, takes a closer look at the clay statues and their yellowed skulls, trying to determine whether they truly are human or something else, and what their cultural background might have been. He avoids touching them. "Rest, ancient ones," he murmurs, breath visible in the chill air. "We mean you no harm, and have no wish to disturb your slumber." Afterwards, he will carefully examine the throne for sigils or other markings, again without touching it. .
As Keildrithe reaches the bottom, he draws his sword and stays put, waiting for Laithe to climb down. His eyes go wide with awe and wonder as they fall upon the clay statues. He then whispers to the elf maid: "Pharris, let's wait for the others to come down before we start taking a closer look at these strange statues and the other contents of this chamber... We shouldn't take the risk of awakening anything until we have more reinforcements on the ground..." He remains alert, looking and listening for signs of movement coming from anywhere in the chamber...
"O-of course I will," replies Keildrithe shakily, taken aback by Pharris's unexpected hug, laugh, and expectation of him. Regaining his composure, he looks down into the hole as she starts her descent, and begins to softly recite the words of an old Karandic ode... "For courage..."
In response to Nicolai's question, and as if bolstered by both the ancient words he just recited and the elf maid's behaviour, the bard prepares to be the second to descend. "The old words of courage have greater effect when the one uttering them remains close to the one they are intended to inspire... And Alton lent me his dagger, which has some enchantment upon it... In case something foul and unnatural should rise against us... I'm not much of a climber, though -- someone better be holding on tightly to the rope!"
"Fine," grumbles Keildrithe, "but let's not spend any more time down here than we need to. The dark places of the earth are known not to harbour much that is good..." Sword in hand, constantly looking behind his back, the bard waits for Pharris and Nicolai to check the chest, and Laithe to determine whether there is anything of interest in the sink hole.
"Thanks, my friend," responds Keildrithe as he tucks the curved dagger and sunrods in his belt, then lowers himself cautiously down the rope.
"Pharris, Nicolai, Laithe, are you alright?" asks the bard with concern. "Would it be worthwhile to investigate this hole further, or are we tempting the black fates needlessly?"
"Good idea about the rope, Nicolai. And someone should stand guard up here, lest someone should sneak up, remove the rope, and entomb us in that ungodly darkness. Alton, my good lad, I trust your knot tying, senses and defensive abilities like none other. Would you be so kind? I unfortunately am not so dextrous, and trust myself to make a stellar face plant without the aid of a good rope to lower me down there..."
"Now let us investigate this cellar. We are here now, so may as well do it... And once that is done, I too would be willing to go in search of this benevolent Artonite, if he yet lives... Unless someone prefers that we seek out the one named Stephen, the Artonite priest with unconventional views that Gosia hinted could also be helpful to our cause?"
Keildrithe looks at Pharris intently, raising an eyebrow in wonder. His grim expression changes suddenly, giving way to a radiant, beaming smile. "I knew there was something... different... about you... It is a pleasure to learn your real name, Cynpharrisong, and to become acquainted with... the real you. And as for your question -you should know better than to ask that, my lady -- we would be the ones honoured to have you want to continue fighting by our side. Karand, fey, we are much the same, are we not? And if the impressive displays of skill and bravery we have witnessed over the past few weeks was merely you having 'a little fun,' then I dare not imagine what you can accomplish when you are fully committed to accomplishing something..."
"During our travels, we had the pleasure of meeting the warrior-maiden Pharris and fighting at her side against a band of feral hyena-men. She has been a staunch ally ever since. "Near Lichford, we came across a merchant caravan that had evidently been waylaid by raiders of some sort. One of the merchants, we soon discovered, had survived the assault but was unconscious. Picking among the debris were a pair of small beast-men -- knockers, as we know them. They claimed that one of their tribesfolk had unleashed a pack of devils on the world through the use of an arcane artifact they called the devil box, and that those fiends had conducted the raid on the caravan. We deduced that the imp that had slain our companion, Jirkin, might have been brought to the world via this devil box. The knockers were worried about the hardship that one particular fiend, the chain devil, might bring to them and the broader world if it were not recaptured with the devil box... especially since these evil spirits could become invisible at will, thus spreading their misdeeds undetected. For the sake of all that is good in this flawed world, we agreed to help them recapture these devils... "Much happened in and around Lichford... We met yet another brave ally, Nicolai auf der Maur… We saw the cathedral burn while we were still outside the town walls... The devils burned it, but the Artonites found it all too convenient to use us as scapegoats, since they had tracked us here... And the bodies that were found slain near the Hogfish? Those were henchmen hired by the chain devil, or perhaps by Atrek himself... I'm not sure which... But they attacked us while we stayed at the inn -- they were slain in self-defence... "If anything, the Artonites should thank us for having trapped the chain devil and some of the other fiends in the devil box... While some remain at large, we have cleansed the streets of Lichford, unbeknownst to the general populace, of several evil spirits that should exist only in nightmares... But the Artonites shall never grant us credit for this... They would rather perpetuate their lies, keep all non-Atuscans under their thumbs, and hunt for scapegoats... And while we wish nothing more than to live in peace, the Artonites forever deny us this right and hunt us down, as they did yet again today, resulting in more blood shed and the loss of good Thuringian men-at-arms… You have seen this with your own eyes… But cruel as it may sound, I am glad that on this day, Atrek was among the fallen… We let him live last time, but he threw that gift to the wind and paid for it… "In the future, if you hear a like tale spun much taller, then you shall know the truth of it, for it has not yet been aggrandized via the retelling of others… I swear to you that every word I have spoken is true... Thank you for listening, gentlemen… What you do with this knowledge is entirely up to you… We shall keep our end of the bargain… You are free… “And hopefully, one day, so will we be…” With that last word, Keildrithe falls silent and hangs his head low, sounding his hand drum for the last time… The final beat resonates, fading into the falling rain…
"But I forget, or perhaps my heart resists retelling the tragedy... but as we fought the goblins, their demon master took our friend Jirkin's life, rending the flesh from his face with its jaws... This was a heart rending loss... and but a day later, we were confronted by treacherous assassins sent by Vorn... The Artonites insisted that more blood be spilled... Atrek and his men ambushed us like cowardly dogs, under cover of darkness... "Fortunately, we gained another, heretofore unknown ally that night -- our scholarly friend from Lorin, Kajetan Armann, also lurked in the shadows. He had witnessed our intervention which had spared Gosia's life, if only for a few days, and now spied Atrek's ambush. With his assistance, we were able to turn the tables on Atrek. He and some of his men were captured, their lives spared. We easily could have dealt them the fate that had been intended for us, and which had been condoned by the Artonites, but we chose to keep the moral high ground. "Kajetan informed us that whether we returned with evidence confirming Gosia's innocence or not, Vorn would order that the lady and I burn at the stake. That was consistent with our experience of Artonite "truth", "honesty" and "justice." The Artonites feared that a riot would ensure from the burning of Gosia and I, and were prepared to slaughter every single Karand. Vorn sent Atrek to kill us in order to prevent any evidence of Gosia's innocence from reaching the ears of Barg's citizens. The infant we carried back from the goblin village would be proof enough. The local soldiery was also placed on high alert. "We infiltrated the town and managed to rescue Gosia, against all odds. We fled Barg, then bid farewell to Gosia, Jarred and Yruch, who went their own way. Laithe, Alton, Kajetan and I travelled to Lichford, hoping to leave Atrek and Vorn far behind... but alas...
Keildrithe resumes his story over the slow beat of his hand drum. “’Twas but a few weeks ago now, when the Artonites accused a woman who lived on the outskirts of Barg—Gosia Troskie—of witchcraft causing the disappearance and deaths of four young girls in the community. Gosia was a gifted healer and mid-wife of Karandic descent, with a touch of fey blood and reputedly the ability to practice simple magic of a benevolent kind. I knew this woman could have committed no crime—she had only ever been kind and helpful to our people. Yet the local priest, Padre Jalun, was prepared to burn her at the stake for alleged crimes against Arton, against the Empire, and against this village. Yet as one respected older confided, she was in fact being hanged because she was a symbol of the old ways… as Laithe (blessed of Ehlonna and the woodland spirits) and I are as well… and, as I suspect, some Thuringian elders—perhaps your own mothers and grandparents—may be… “At first, I thought it chance, but now think more that it may have been destiny or the will of the ancients, that brought a group of complete strangers to the square where Gosia was to be hanged… Myself, Laithe, Alton, a young mage named Jirkin Faluen the Tenth, and, very briefly, a warrior by the name of Troy Kamgul.” Keildrithe nods in the direction of each companion as he mentions their names, and chokes back tears at the mention of Jirkin’s name. “I felt my grandfather’s spirit take hold of me as Padre Jalun pronounced Gosia’s sentence, and stepped forward, beating this very beldach for courage. In the name of the people of Barg, I begged for Arton’s mercy. I pledged to find the evil that stalked the woods to slay the town’s youth, so that Gosia’s life could be spared. I pledged that if I should fail in that task, then I would forfeit my life to Arton, if it be his will that somebody die. The people of Barg wished for peace, not bloodshed and divisiveness… The gauntlet had been dropped… “At first, the Padre rejected my offer of compromise. Yet a few moments later, as the Padre and I continued to spar with fiery words in the Town Square, while Laithe, Alton, Jirkin and Troy all positioned themselves discretely in the crowd in order to rescue poor Gosia, none other than Inquisitor Vorn himself stepped forward to break the stalemate. Before the crowd, he accepted my challenge, but raised the stakes… He gave me one week to find evidence that could convince him that Gosia had not been responsible for the deaths and disappearances… If I failed, then both Gosia and I would burn at the stake… As I searched for evidence, Gosia would remain in the constabulary’s custody… “Laithe, Alton and Jirkin offered their selfless aid in support of my suicidal quest. And while Troy chose to follow his own path, we soon gained another unexpected ally – a knight of Arton called Yruch. Although it was difficult for me to believe, he did not approve of the Church’s oppressive tactics. Our search in the nearby Darkenwood eventually led us, over a matter of days, to a goblin village in a distant place called the Valley of the Snails. These goblins had never bothered the folk of Barg, and were in fact unknown to them. We later learned from the woodsman Jarred that aside from occasionally causing mischief and minor harm to the creatures of the wood, the goblins mostly kept to themselves. Yet their behaviour had changed of late, and they became far more malicious and daring. Their witch-doctor had struck Jarred with a poisoned dart, which drove the woodsman completely mad—he believed himself the King of Boars, consort of Ehlonna, goddess of the woodland realms. This was the state in which we first encountered him… but what had made the goblins aggressive, all of a sudden? And were they responsible for the disappearances in Barg? “We executed a raid on their village, and found that their shaman leader had fallen under the influence of a demon that took the form of a large spider. The spider-demon whispered its evil plans in the ear of the shaman, who then ordered his people to commit foul deeds… including murdering and abducting innocent young girls… Indeed, they still had a human infant from Barg amongst them… “We defeated the goblins, and slew their shaman leader… but the demon transformed from spider into its normal form and took flight… towards—we would later learn—Lichford… We found an antidote for the goblin poison, and cured Jarred of his madness… “As we travelled back through the woods with the child and tokens from its goblin captors, intending to present them as evidence to Inquisitor Vorn, we were attacked near Gosia’s cottage. Vorn had sent a squad to ambush us—no doubt wanting to save face at all cost, and to preserve the perfection of Arton’s judgement… He wanted Karands to burn, and would stop at nothing for this to happen… Atrek, Vorn’s huntsman, led this squad of murderers…
Keildrithe seems to glower at Nicolai's introduction. As the sorcerer touches his shoulder, he stares at him with cold green eyes through rain-soaked wisps of hair, and murumurs quietly: "This is no performance, Nicolai. Not one word I shall tell will be lie, or embellishment. This tale only brings me great sorrow, not enjoyment. I care not for the stage, nor for captive audiences... I do this for the sake of my grandfather, and of my people... Do not make light of this..." The bard takes a few more steps and sits on the ground, cross-legged, with his back against a section of wall directly opposite the soldiers. He rummages through his pack and finally pulls out his beldach -- the hand drum used by the Karandic bards, and the small mallet used to beat it. "Horch, Roldun, it is an honour to make your acquaintance," he says gently. "I wish it were under different circumstances, and that I spoke Thuringian, that I could share my story in your own tongue. Yet I do not possess that gift. Inquisitor Vorn has made demons of us. I assure you -- that, we are not. If we were, you would be dead already, your souls dragged into hell... and I likely could speak all the tongues of men, including yours, if I were a corruptor from the pit. Trust me, we took no joy in slaying your brothers-in-arms. No, we too are real men -- and women -- like your own folk... People who have suffered needlessly at the hands of the Artonites... My story begins as follows, and I swear that every single word is true... And this instrument," he shows the beldach, "is the voice of my ancestors..." The bard strikes his hand drum, producing a single resonating beat, followed by a pause-ten heartbeat pause, then another beat, then another pause, the pattern repeating continuously. His eyes seem to focus on something in the distance, in the spirit world. At first, he says nothing, allowing the drum to speak for him. Then his eyes return to the captives, and, while maintaining the slow, steady rythm of his beldach, stirring, pain-laced words begin to fall from the Karands lips... "Every cycle of the sun, the land that my father and his forefathers before him once called home slips away a little bit more into the shadow, like a glacier that recedes up a great mountain, only scorched and bloodied by the people of Arton. And as the land bleeds, so does the spirit of the Karands. As the great woods retreat ever northward, and the angry ants from the south come and take that which no man can give or own, the tongue of the Karands fades, as does the health and happiness of their children. They sing and laugh no more, while their mothers weep poison tears in floods that could drown the furthest reaches of the empire in guilt… if its inhabitants cared to listen with the heart within their hearts. "My father and his forefathers before him were hedilye —Storytellers. They learned the tales of their ancestors, and the songs of wind, tree and river; they mastered the lore of the beast lords who walked the world before men stood on two legs; and they shared this knowledge with Karands near and far, ensuring that all remembered and honoured the elder times, and passed that knowledge on to their children. The hedilye also watched the world turn, and carried news to the people. Swords and spears would part before the hedilye, enemies would welcome them, and all weighed their words carefully. Indeed, the voice of the hedilye carried Power; their words were Time itself; the beat of their beldachs, Wisdom. They were ambassadors of Peace, and they were gifted entertainers. "But as the Karand are now made to swallow their tongues, so now is the power of the hedilye swallowed back. There are few today who possess their gifts. My grandfather died of fever, and my father perished beneath the thirsty blades of the south men shortly after I reached manhood. Both were accomplished hedilye. The south men took mother away, while I accompanied father on a journey among the northern clans. My little brothers and sisters, too, were taken away. I have only others like myself now—shamed, beaten, alone, slowly forgetting the ways and words of our people. Subsisting on the whims of Atuscan lords, or through the less than honourable use of the skills my father had taught me. Increasingly turning to the drink to forget what screamed within for remembrance, and coming dangerously close to accepting that the old ways were evil, that we must embrace the “good” of the new ways… of Arton’s ways. "It has been nearly ten years since the Endless Sorrow settled in my belly. During that time, I had almost unlearned what little I had learned from my father of the hedilye traditions. Almost. But one day, in my unintended home of Barg, I witnessed a young Karand from the wild north, Laithe Greycoat, preaching about the harm that was being done to the spirit of the land… to the spirit of our people… and I remembered… "… and I knew that, for the sake of my forefathers, for the sake of the ancient beast lords, for the sake of the Karand, I must shed the Endless Sorrow. Though far from the hedilye that my father and his father were, I must carry new words of hope to our people, and help them draw on the strength of our ancestors. I must fight back while keeping to the shadows, and must ensure that I am not the last to carry the proud traditions of the hedilye." Keildrithe pauses, allowing the captives to reflect on what they have heard. The beating of the drum continues uninterrupted...
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