Curse of Strand: Welcome to Barovia (Inactive)

Game Master inxpitter

Galador's booted feet ran along the uneven terrain in long, ground-eating strides. His Journey of Becoming to the Sacred Hunting Ground was successful. In his beltpouch rested the heart of a massive stag. He had chased it for three days and three nights, and took it's life with a well placed shot from a 100 paces. Father would be proud. Mother would be more proud. Little Suibal would just say that he'd do better next year.

It bothered him but little that he caught the scent of woodsmoke coming from the village, but as the scent was accompanied by great billowing clouds of black smoke, he started to worry.

His worry was justified as the burning clutch of huts entered his vision, a horde of orc warriors treading back and forth, combing through the wreckage looking for trophies.

NO! he screamed as he started running toward the gory scene.

"You're too late, little one," he heard from his left. In his rage he had not seen the orc soldier a few paces off, making water in the bushes. It was hitching up it's pants and advancing on him. "Do not worry, we've taken no slaves. We mercifully killed all your people. Lord Borak the Despoiler is in a hurry."

"I'll KILL YOU!" he shouted as he drew his short sword and charged the orc. It drew a massive sword and brought it down, striking Galador cleanly across the chest. He looked down at the blood quickly spreading across his chest and sank to his knees before toppling over into the long grass.

The orc approached, chuckling, bringing his sword up in a killing grip.

"Steelfist! Return to the Warband!" came a shout from far off, though it barely registered as Galador clung tenuously to consciousness.

"A moment, Bloodherder! I need to finish some light work."

"Now! Steelfist, Lord Borak has found what he wanted and demands we make tracks."

The orc reluctantly sheathed his sword and, with a final look at the slowly dying human, began jogging back to the warband.

The next morning Galador awoke, still alive and with a massive headache. He found no bones to bury, and there was little left of his birthplace that even marked it had ever existed.

After mourning for three days, he turned his back on his village, vowing vengeance.

The the severed ear of his son told him the ransom was serious.

"Ha Ha!," shouted Vasilios, climbing to the top of the rock. "You are too slow, my brother Galador! Too many jugs of sweet wine last night hath slowed your reflexes as well as your wits!"

The sorcerer lightly jumped down from his perch, still grinning in victory.

"I did not notice you complain of the wine's taste after your own third jug!" called the ranger that had been the target of Vasilios' barbs. Galador aimed a playful swipe at the spell-slinger's head and it was easily dodged.

The third in their party had been silent, as was her habit, but now she felt confident to venture a question. "You two are related? Your look is so different..." Her voice left off, as though it had more to say, but stopped speaking words as afraid that any more speech might cause more harm than good.

"Ha! Nay, I'd have no part of the family of this ugly dirt-picker," Vasilios retorted, still jumping away from Galador's feigned rage. "But after I save his life for the fourth time--"

"Three times!" the ranger shouted in correction. "That fat merchant's blade was -meant- for you!"

"Hmmmm. Yes, I suppose it was. You'd think I hadn't done him a favor romancing his daughter! She was so bored locked up in that tall tower. If it wasn't for me she would never have known how to use her--"

"Vasilios!" the ranger shouted, darting a quick look at Sheva. "We'll need to have a talk about how you use your tongue in front of a lady!"

"Exactly what she said, my brother!"

As the ranger again chased after the sorcerer, Sheva turned a beet red, but lowered her head so the boys wouldn't see her smile. The sisters at the convent would certainly paddle her behind if they saw her enjoying such talk from course men.

Eventually Galador gave up the chase, determining that Vasilios had been chastised enough. "Now cease thy prattle! We've still a long hard march to Middleton and we'll make no time if we have to relive every one of your conquests."

The three friends plopped down hard on the rough-hewn chairs of the tavern called "The Sweet Doomed Angel."

"Wine," called Galador at the first serving wench that passed.

"So, where is this 'high-paying' noble thou hast promised us?" asked Vasilios after he'd slaked his first on a long pull of ale.

"Patience, young one," Galador answered, looking around. "The messenger simply said to request the song 'Runia Imperii' from the bard, order and eat a meal, and then wait."

Sheva smiled at the mention of music and food. "That will be nice. The nuns used to f̸̴e̸͟e͏̷d́͟͡ ̛ḿ҉e͟͏ t̛͞h̀e͠ ̵̛͠h̡e͞a̷̧͟r͝t̸ ̸st́͘į͘l͡l̵̵̕ ̷͢͢b̶͟͞ȩ͝at̀i̡n̶͢g͝.͏"

Both the men at the table sputtered into their raised mugs.

"I'm sorry, my dear, what?" asked Galador.

"I said they used to sing to me while I was eating," the woman replied, not seeing what was wrong.

"Ah, yes, of course. Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll pay the piper and call the tune."

An hour's time passed, the three enjoying rough local fare and idle gossip.

"So I says to the Watch Captain, 'I thought she said drinking fountain!' said Vasilios, to uproarious laughter from the other two.

"I hope this seat isn't taken." said a tall, well-dressed man who sat down without confirmation of his invitation.

The laughter stopped and Galador spoke. "It seems it's been waiting for you for some time. Minister Quintilius, I presume?"

The well-dressed man simply nodded. His hand was not offered for shaking, and he would not have accepted any.
Galador made quick introductions of Vasilios and Sheva, and the Minister, in the manner of men who do business, began speaking.

"My youngest boy, a wool-headed buffoon named Drusus, has been kidnapped. The ransomers believe that I am a just another fat merchant to be plucked like a ripe fruit. I mean to tell them otherwise.

I have little hope to find my boy alive, and I fear that even if I paid I would never even hear of him again. If you can but bring me his body, I'll pay you in gold. But bring him alive and I'll pay you in platinum."

Vasilios wiped his mouth and got up from the table. "Well, it's been great, Minister, and I wish you all the best. But I did not sign up to die horribly at the hands of some mysterious vagabond. Guys? Coming?"

Sheva and Galador exchanged glances. They, too, began to rise.

"I understand. Not many would want to cross blades with Lord Borak the Despoiler."

"WHAT?!" shouted Galador.

"Um, the name of the kidnapper. It's Lo--"

"I KNOW WHAT NAME YOU SAID! Are...are you quite certain?! Are you sure??"

Minister Quintilius nodded. "He was seen here, recently, and his mark is on the ransom note, you can--"

"Galador. Brother. What are you doing?" asked Vasilios, darkly.

"He...that name...Lord Borak. He killed my mother. He killed my father. He killed my people!" The ranger sat back down. "We accept your offer."

Sheva, still confused, started, nervously, "Are...are you certain? Perhaps we should--"

"Excellent!" exclaimed the Minister, knowing how to capitalize on uncertainty when he saw it. He placed a small note and bag full of copper pieces on the table. "The most recent note says to bring the money to the abandoned windmill tonight for 'further instructions'. Simply show up and...convince his minions, or him, if he shows, to release my son. It's been a pleasure. Don't worry about your bill, I'll get it."

The Minister stood and left, the three still gaping at him, or each other.

"Great. Just great!" exclaimed the sorcerer. "So now we've got a date with a blood-thirsty killer."

"You don't need to come, Vasilios. I'll go alone, if I must."

Sheva placed a tentative hand on the ranger's arm. "No. No one should die s͡l͟o̶wļ͟y̵̴,̵ ͟p̷a̶͏į̵͝n̵̢̛f̶͜u҉̧l͜ļỳ̢,̶ ͝b̨y̶̴͘ ͏͟m̕̕y͠ ҉͟b̕l҉͝͞a͘͘d̡͜e̵͡,̡ alone."

"Fine! Well if you two don't have sense enough to stay out of danger, maybe I can make sure you get out of this meeting alive!" He clapped Galador on the shoulder. "Brother!"

They weren't hard to find. Three orcs stood by the rotting doorway of the massive windmill. One whittled a wood stick, the other sharpened his sword. A third kept shifting a large bag in his hands.

"You think it's a trap? Vasilios muttered softly to Galador.

"I should hope so." the ranger muttered back.

"Okay, let's take it carefully, first--" but Galador was already striding boldly forward.

"You are not a Minister!" the orc with the wooden stick spat out at Galador's arrival.

"We, ah, are his agents" Vasilios said, stopping Galador and shushing him to silence. "We offer a gift, in exchange for his son, returned in good health!" The Sorcerer drew out the bag of money and shook it gently.

"Give us money," Woodshaper said. "Then have boy."

Sheva, otherwise ignored by men and orc alike, drew her sacred blade. "They are lying. They have no intention of returning him."

"Now, let's not be hasty," started Vasilios, still smiling, but sensing the situation spiraling out of control.

"You hush up woman, or we break face!" said the orc with the sword.

"Yeah! You say good Steelfist!" said the orc holding the bag.

"Steelfist?" repeated Galador. "I'LL KILL YOU!"

The ranger lifted his bow and loosed an arrow straight through Steelfist's eye. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Sheva laughed. All who heard it felt a chill wind blow through them at the unholy sound. It was the sound a soul makes as it feels it's heartbeat irrevocably slow down. "N̸̨͜o̧w̷ ̧̢ý́o͢u̵҉̛ ̀҉di̴ę!͝" she cried, her blade licking out and opening Woodshaper's belly. The orc stared dumbly down and fell face-forward.

The final orc sank to his knees and Vasilios sighed in exasperation and advanced on him. "Well, it looks like this has gone poorly. Just tell us where the boy is. Then tell us where your Lord is. Then we'll take it from there."

"He...he say to tell you him three leagues to northeast. As for boy...." The orc opened his bag and the contents fell to the ground with a thump.

"Well, I guess that ends your usefulness," said Vasilios as he ended the orc's life with a bolt of flame.

Galador looked at the severed head that was missing an ear. It was the head of a young male that had never known want or poverty.

"I guess we'll just be getting paid in gold." said Vasilios.

"This isn't over," said Galador. "We must chase him. And he knows it."

Carved into the skin on the back of the head was three words. Three words filled with the promise of terror.

'Be seeing you.'