“I would pit any one of us against one or two ogres,” Lightbringer is saying to Janosz, as the latter tucks into dinner, “and perhaps three or four for Runzyl. But I do not like the odds beyond that, and Anashga has at least fifty in Cragdeep at any time. Only careful planning and the will of the Flame will see us prevail against such odds. A frontal assault will not do it.”
As he waits for Janosz to swallow the rather large spoonful he has just placed in his mouth, Lightbringer tunes into the conversation that Ezreal is conducting over the other side of the table; the advantage of not eating being that it was easy to indulge in simultaneous dinner conversations. “Yes,” he says. “The Flamebearer and I have been talking, and we were thinking it would perhaps be for the benefit of all if the kobold were to accompany us.”
"How far from here is Cragdeep, anyway? I'd almost prefer to go in on foot; we're less obtrusive that way. But we can stash the mules in the tent, so that might not be a big deal."
"So, y'all wanna bring the kobold prince? Fine with me. I'd just prefer to have one potential enemy less to worry about, that's all. He probably won't fight us, though, just steal our kit and then sneak off in the middle of the night. How do you plan to, um, convince him to come along?"
We need to find out about storing living things in the tent. It may be much easier to get everyone inside the tent, and have one person sneak into the target and then pop open the trojan house...
"So we buy another mutt and find out. Might as well stock it with provisions and whatever we need to make it comfortable before we leave. Casks of ale or whiskey could be useful barter or bribes for ogres."
"As far as Choom is concerned..." the mage shrugs, "We can try to hire him on as a guide. I think it's safe to say greed is a strong motivation for our friend, but whether a chance at riches trumps his fear I couldn't say. If I can find the right scroll a simple enchantment would definitely tip it in our favor. Or we could just grab the little lizard tonight while everyone sleeps."
Ezreal pauses and smiles slightly at a realization- "Then again, perhaps a captive drunk and stockpiled casks of ale and whiskey aren't the best combination."
You pull the arrow from the flesh of your arm. Your skin and armour is stained with soot and blood. The roar of flame, the pathetic cries of the dying, and the fading shouts of those still fighting echo through the temple complex. Corpses, both enemies and allies, lie slumped all around on the stone floor – every one an elf. You are alone amid this charnel scene, the last one standing from this particular skirmish, enjoying a momentary lull in the fighting.
You flex your arm, the bloodless puncture closing up, the pale skin sealing closed to leave a livid mark which fades even as you watch. The gifts of the Queen are indeed great...
You hear running towards the great doors to the central fane where you stand. You sweep up Falla Caesenri and adopt a fighting stance, but it is one of the Queen’s foot soldiers that runs to the doorway, drenched in sweat and gasping from his dash. He leans breathlessly in the doorway and stammers out his message between gasping lungfuls of air. You silently celebrate your emancipation from such mortal weaknesses.
“Master, they are here… The great ones… They –“
He is cut off as he is suddenly engulfed in intense crimson fire, his dying shriek almost drowned out by the hissing gout of flame. As suddenly, the flame snuffs out, and the boy’s shrunken, charred corpse collapses in a crumbling, twisted heap.
Stalking into view through the gateway like a prowling jungle cat comes a dragon the size of an elephant. Its glowing eyes, like orbs of molten gold, regard you intently, the muscles under its hide of burnished scarlet rippling as it moves. Twisted horns of ivory sweep back from its skull, and it flexes its wings as it gazes down haughtily.
With a curt word, you activate your amulet to prevent yourself suffering the same fiery fate as the messenger. “Come, wyrm,” you snarl, “Let us see if you can handle a true warrior.”
You charge, your blade held behind you. Using the enchantment in your boots, you make a massive leap that takes you almost to the level of the dragon’s face and sweep your sword forward, aiming to virtually decapitate the creature. But for all its bulk, the thing is fast, and it dodges to one side. Its jaws snap at you, but it mistimes and instead butts you with its head. You tumble to the floor beside it, but not before Falla Caesenri carves a wound along the creature’s flank. Your blade was made for killing the enemies of your queen, and the cut is deep.
The dragon rears up, giant claws on scaly paws the size of cartwheels crashing down to grind you into the stone floor, dagger-sized teeth clashing. You squirm under its belly and slice it open, the thick, squamous skin parting like wet pastry. Its hot blood gushes over you as you roll under it and out the other side, its bellows of agony deafening.
As you struggle to rise, its jaws clamp on to you left arm and shoulder, piercing armour, flesh and bone. The dragon shakes you like a dog worrying a rat, ripping tendons and ligaments and tearing muscle, before it hurls you back out of the temple and on to the courtyard steps beyond.
You crash to the floor and tumble down for several yards before coming to rest, sprawled flat on your back with your feet up the stairs, your head dangling in the cool night air. Fortunately, you can no longer be stunned or rendered unconscious, otherwise you would probably be lying helpless now - your immortal state dulls virtually all senses, even the pain from the terrible injuries you have suffered, with only your hunger sharpened. Even so, it is difficult to stagger to your feet. But luck still smiles – Falla Caesenri remains gripped in your right hand.
Looking up the steps, the dragon crouches in the temple doorway. It is badly wounded - its breath rasping, viscera hanging down from its opened gut – but still deadly dangerous. This must be finished quickly, before it gets a chance to breathe again. Holding your sword one-handed, you charge back up the steps. This needs to be timed just right….
As the dragon’s head darts forward, you roll over on your injured shoulder, dodging the fanged maw. Using the momentum of you charge, you slam the tip of the sword between its front legs, burying the blade deep, parting muscle and ribs, aiming for its heart. It gasps and staggers to one side, gives a strange, almost subsonic moan, and its legs buckle. Its head crashes to the floor as its serpentine neck can no longer support it, and finally the beast collapses – directly on top of you.
The massive weight of the thing would crush the life from a mortal, but you struggle free. Leaning on your sword, you gaze down at your fallen foe. It is less majestic now, its tongue lolling from its slack, open jaws, its eyes glassy. You stand in a moment of quiet meditation as your wounds gradually heal.
A low rumbling laugh from the base of the temple stairs jerks you to attentiveness. Below you from the courtyard, an emerald green dragon at least twice the size of the one you defeated looks up, its crested head bobbing slowly. Behind it mass elven soldiers in the livery of the Undying Court.
“Most impressive,” it drawls in Elvish, “You can only be Galadaes, the Queen’s champion. You are indeed as mighty as they claim, though Xorfornazthrox was too young, impatient and arrogant to provide you with an appropriate challenge, I fear. I think you would find me to be a much wilier opponent.
“But it need not come to that. Why continue this pointless strife? You know that today the field is ours, your forces are annihilated, and you have merely been dangled to provide a distraction while your lady flees, leaving you to your destruction. Tell me where this vile abomination is, and I can simply let you go. You and I have no quarrel. Your appetites are of no interest to me. Simply tell me, and walk free to enjoy your eternal life and avenge your betrayal.”
“Dragons,” you reply mockingly, “You consider yourselves the masters of all Eberron yet you understand so little. Of course I know why I am here. My sacred task is to ensure that my Queen is safe, and I am prepared to brave anything, even my own destruction, to ensure that that you never find her. Why waste time in pointless banter, unless you simply fear to engage me in combat?” In actuality, you do not mind a few moments of discourse with the monster, as it allows your wounds to continue heal, your flesh crawling as if an army of maggots boiled underneath.
The dragon laughs again, unperturbed. “Then you will die this day, Galadaes.”
“Perhaps,” you reply, hefting your sword, “But will you be the one to lay me low, or instead will you meet your end tonight?”
You charge down the steps, yelling a battle cry, to where the dragon waits to receive you.
Runzyl jerks awake.
Aye that, seeing Gnarly. I guess we all cot up at an inn. How much? No books handy...
"Aye, lets get one room, and set the tent up inside. With Lightbringer working the full watch, and Runzyl after his nap."
"I doubt it will fit inside an inn room. Actually, I wouldn't mind sleeping in a normal room for once, a room with windows, a creaky bed, cold floors and greasy brakfast foods. 'Twould be good with some variety, no matter how useful the tent actually is."
"As for Ezreal's worry about warm clothing - it can't hurt to have some cold-weather kit. Mountains are notorious for rapid weather changes, and even if we can overcome the weather issues with magic, it is better to do so with mundane equipment. After all, we would rather save our mystical prowess for other challenges. And we can always stash the warm gear in the tent, so we won't need to carry it on our backs."
The following morning, the party seeks out Gnarly in one of the hostelries around Orcbone. He greets them heartily and soon settles down to business.
“OK, I’ve asked around, and based on that and my own knowledge of the land I’ve got a pretty good idea of what it’ll like around Cragdeep. It’s about 180 miles from here, and as there used to be a road it shouldn’t be too bad. The first half, anyway. The big problem we’ll have is crossing the Drimmon Gorge – there used to be bridge there that Breland knocked down to stop the horde that was coming up behind when they evacuated Droaam. There’s a way across which won’t be too bad for a small group of men like us, but it’s a bit of a hike and climb and takes us into the wilder mountains where some nasty predators lurk. Should take us about three days to get to the gorge, and another two to climb around it and get back to the road again.
“And after that, we are in ogre territory. Anashga calls himself the king round there, but he only really controls the ogres of Cragdeep. The others pretty much humour him, as he’s a tough bastard when angry, but run their own affairs. That’s mostly herding and raiding each other. Cragdeep Castle is on the slopes of Cragdeep Mountain, and it’s about three days from the gorge. The road is in reasonable repair there, but it’s an ogre highway these days.
“Lucky you hired yourself such a competent guide, and at a bargain price of a full share of the treasure.” Gnarly winks and grins.
“Any questions?”
"Aye, a full share of the treasure it is. Our split is been going thus: 1 share for each of us, that's (points out self and other p.c.'s), and 1/2 share for the three axemen (points out the ABC's), and now 1 share for you. Glad to have you with us, good sir."
Rodergo breathes a sigh of relief; this guide'll be infinitely preferable to the drunken kobold drunk he was considering playing Pygmalion to, prolly unsuccessfully.
"We're ready to head out at a whimsy. At your leisure, of course, good Gnarly."
"Should we, um, encourage Choom to come along as well? Y'know, just to deter any potential pursuers?"
Before going to bed, Janosz plops down next to Arek, who seems to be the most reasonable of the three mercenaries. "Hey, Arek, you know, we are saving up Drim's share of treasure and putting it aside, 'cause we were thinking we should give it to her mum or someone like that. Do you know if she has family somewhere, you know, someone she was sending money to or something? That brings up the next question, which I feel like a complete nitwit for not asking before - was she related to any of you guys? Bool seems to take her passing away pretty badly..."
"Yeh, let's go gather up Choom."
I'll head over to his gaff and collect him.
"Yeh, let's go gather up Choom."
I'll head over to his gaff and collect him.
Arek gives Janosz a searching look for a moment, and then nods. Muttering in gutteral Common:
"Bool's mother and Drim's mother are sisters. Bool and Drim close, like brother and sister. So he is very angry, thinks he should have protected her. He is not really angry with Roddog, but himself. His heart is very heavy now."
Arek shakes his head sadly. "I worry for Bool. I think he gets reckless, takes stupid risks. He will try and protect Roddog to honour Drim. But maybe it will kill him."
Arek sighs and rubs his face wearily. "We are just simple warriors, not like you. We come from the same village, come to fight for Tharashk to make some gold and then go home. We do not understand what you fight, but we will follow you for as long as you want us. But please, watch over Bool. He is not thinking right, and it is too dangerous for that."
Rodergo heads back to the alley by The Fat Horse. He finds the crate, and from inside comes a high pitched snoring. Rodergo raps on the crate a few times, and eventually a slurred voice croaks, "Choom tired. Head hurts. Go away!"
Arek gives Janosz a searching look for a moment, and then nods. Muttering in gutteral Common:
"You know, Arek, I once thought I'd go home to the Shadow Marches once I earned a decent amount of gold. I'd buy my cousins plots of land and then settle down and run my dad's farm. I know now that it won't happen; this adventuring gets into your blood, and I'm always looking for the next monster to fight, the next mountain to climb or the next guard to sneak past. You guys are smarter than me if all you want is to earn enough to go home in style. I'll try to make sure Bool gets to go home with the rest of ya. He's a good kid, if hot-tempered."
The next day, as Rodergo goes off to get Choom, Janosz heads off to a tailor's shop to get some decent clothing for the kobold. He buys three sets of well-made children's clothes suitable for someone Choom's size, as well as a cloak and sturdy boots. If we're bringing him back to take over the tribe, he can't show up wearing a flour sack, he thinks to himself. He'll also get cold weather gear for the party members and the half-orcs.
Rodergo heads back to the alley by The Fat Horse. He finds the crate, and from inside comes a high pitched snoring. Rodergo raps on the crate a few times, and eventually a slurred voice croaks, "Choom tired. Head hurts. Go away!"
"C'mon, Choom. For every instance in pleasure in this life, there's an equal instance of pain.
Get up, and let's get going. We're taking you with us, I've decided. When we destroy the Triune, that's your chance to become a king.Few get second chances in life, Choom. Hangover, schmangover.
Or, wallow in the squalor of this alley until you become unburied food for rodents. Is that the fate you want for yourself?"
Choom gazes out blearily through the tattered curtain. "What you want? Choom sleep. Go away!"
"Get up, Choom. You're going back to your people."
"We're going to take out the Triune, Choom. If you ever want to be king again, or at least back amongst your folk, this is your only chance. Do you want to be a drunken alleyrat all your life?"
"Choooooooom, comeon Choom. Chooomy. Chooooooom. Let's go, Choom."
"Come on, you little guy. You little fellerts."
"Go to Triune! No, no, no, no, no! Choom not go!" Choom disappears back inside his crate. "Go away, or Choom cut you!"
"You're gonna cut me Choom? Come on out and cut me. Do something, besides rot away in a little box in an alley. Pauugh! Do what you want. You bore me." I'll leave now.
Choom hurls Draconic insults after Rodergo as he leaves, which fade away as he marches off down the alley back to his companions.
During the night, the unsleeping warforged sees Runzyl awaken with a start. He glances around the room, breathing rapidly, then shakes his head with a heavy sigh.
The rest of the morning, he seems distracted and pensive, saying nothing unless addressed directly. By the afternoon, the distraction seems to have faded and the elven warrior returns to his former state of stoic vigilance.
“The kobold could not be persuaded to accompany us Flamebearer? If this is the case, then it is unlikely he would be of much help to us in any event, and I am loathe to force him. And even more loathe to watch our backs against him all through the journey.”
"Aye. If he's that big a wank, I'd say he doesn't have the stuff to run roughshod over a clan of kobolds. Off we go then, I guess."
Rodergo looks generally depressed that his little fix-it project fell through.
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Quietly, "Flamekeeper, allow me."
"Choom, prince of a nobel tribe of dragon cousins. I am Trose d'Tharashk. For generations House Tharashk has befriended and aided all the peoples of Khorvaire, not holding our aid to the 'so called' fairer races."
"Know this, the Triune will be put to the blade, by we men, or by other's that House Tharashk will send in our our wake. So drag your self from the gutter of the outpost on foreigner's forgotten fronteir, and rise up and aid your people."
"And know this, Prince Choom, you shall not face the Triune alone, nor shall your people ever again face any challenge alone. By becoming my ally and joining me and my companions, you will earn forever the alliance of House Tharashk, and in a single step your people will step from under the heel of interlopers to become the greatest tribe of kobolds."
"And you, you have this one chance, now, to rise up and become King, of your tribe, and of others who flock to your banner as word of your greatness spreads."
"We shall not ask again, Choom, join us now. Or perhaps you would rather wait here, in your stupor, until others come along. Perhaps agents of the Triune, or worse our enemies, agents of other Houses, who will not be so magnanimous in asking the Noble Choom for all he knows."
"What say you, King?"
"Gnarly, how wide is the gorge, we may be able to increase our lead if we can find another way across. If it isn't too wide to we can fire a line across, we can traverse the gap using the magical tent."
"I fear that whoever the Cannith hired will be equipped with some infernal means of traveling faster than we can on foot. Host help us if they have a chartered airship."
Choom peers out from his box suspiciously. "You make Choom king? You kill Triune?"
Choom peers out from his box suspiciously. "You make Choom king? You kill Triune?"
"We WILL kill the triune, you have only seconds left if you want to become King."
I turn, and start walking away, slowly enough for him to catch up.
Rodergo snickers.
"Huh....maybe future associates for Tharashk. I hadn't considered that angle."
"Y'know, Rodergo, it is not like we are elitists. House Tharashk is willing to give everyone and everything a fair chance. That was good for me, and now it'll be good for him." Janosz' face splits into a wide grin. "Especially him, I'd say."
"The Mark of Finding helps us find opportunities, not just people or things. And don't worry yourself too much, everyone is a bigot, and everyone hates one. It isn't a hard angle to play."
"Wait! How you keep Choom safe?"
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Rodergo points at Runzyl...."Same way they keep me safe, Choom. We've got a Runzyl."
"Prince Choom, fear not. This town was never truly safe for you. The Triune simply hadn't gotten around to hunting you down yet, and the others who will come looking for the Triune's prisoner would be far more..."
"Yes, you are far safer with our steel on your side then you were, or do you think no one in this town noticed you spending platinum coins where before you had none?"
I think to myself, 'hopefully we can make King Choom realize that we are his only chance for survival, whether that is true or not. After that, hopefully we can sculpt him into a useful king.'
Choom's eyes flick about furtively at the mention of platinum. "Where you take Choom so he be safe?"
"We have a magical tent, Choom. It has marble floors, uniformed servants, plush beds... I know I sound like I'm just making things up, but it is true. You really have to see it to believe it - it is a dwelling fit for royalty. And, best of all - once the command word is spoken, nobody can enter it. It is as safe as any House Kundarak vault. Come along, and we'll show you how it works."
"Come on, Choom. There's more coin out there, and we need to be out and getting it. Did it ever rain gold in that alley of yours? No?"
Lightbringer detects evil on Choom.
(There is a faint whiff of evil about Choom.)
"Ok, Choom come with you and stay in magic tent."
“The kobold is evil,” states Lightbringer. “I should have expected as much. Well, we have told it too much now not to take it with us. It will stay confined to a room within the tent, guarded at all times by one of the half orcs or ourselves. It will not be allowed access to any alcohol or other drugs. I am loathe to re-install it as a leader, although I concede that it’s brand of evil seems less than that of the Triune. Flamebearer, you and I may have our hands full teaching this creature the way of the Flame on our journey.”
Lightbringer then advances on the kobold. “Choom, if you seek to betray us, cross us, or disobey us, you will be punished. Is that clear?”
Choom looks surly but nods grudgingly to the paladin.
"Don't worry too much about it, Choom", janosz whispers when Lightbringer is out of immediate earshot. "You'll be safe and comfortable, and them half-orcs are nice guys. It'll be much better than living in a crate here."
"Oh, and by the way, I got you some new clothes; hopefully they'll fit you pretty well. Now, let's go see that tent..."
(Gnarly and Choom are ready when you are. Any final preparations?)