both survival and fort = 8
Watching Milhar loose his stomach contents something washes over Vik as he too revals the last meal he consumed. Apparently particpating in that act has dulled his senses to locate the trail in this growth.
Algret gives Vik a worried look, surprised that he would succumb as easily as Milhar. She passes him a waterskin, deep in thought.
The two of them would bear watching over the next few days.
As the group begins to get ready to move on out again, Bo-dan catches something out of the corner of her eye and quickly turns as she peers closely (1d20+8=26) at it.
With the Assassin vine dealt with, the party staggers its way onwards towards the inevitable confrontation with the bugbear. As they move through the jungle, Bo Dan picks up the sounds of yelling and crashing coming from the jungle behind them. It would seem teh battle for the village has ended and it sounds as if a group of the orcs are charging through the jungle, foregoing their usual stealth. Be they the victorious raiding group or some vengeful usurpers is not possible to tell, but they are closing on the group. From the fact that only the Half Elf's keen ears were able to pick up on the noise, they were still some distance from the group.
Ahead of them, the jungle noises are suddenly pierced by a childs terrified scream and a gutteral voice making some form of command.
Sprinting into a run at the sound of the child's scream Bo-Dan shouts to her companions "We must hurry! Not only for the danger ahead but there be danger behind us as well!"
The sorcerer washes out his mouth and follows. Running hard after his quicker compatriots, Milhar tries to concentrate on the battle ahead.
"Should one of us act as a rear guard? Just in case?" he puffs out.
Running through the jungle makes a great deal of noise, but the group cover the intervening distance at great speed.
The burst through the last clinging vestiges of undergrowth and into a small clearing formed from a deadfall. The trunk of an acnient and great tree lies fallen across the ground, its great bulk having smashed smaller plants around it. The fall has left a rent in teh canopy above, allowing light to stream into this area. All around, new growth is evident, and the greattree itself is covered in lichens and fungi, the process of returning the tree to the earth alredy beginning.
In front of this beautiful tableau stands a creature of brutallity and evil. The bugbear stands at nearly 5 feet high, its body musscled though wiry and covered in a great mane of shaggy rust coloured hair. The eyes are large and bulbous, the mouth filled with jagged teeth, and like most of the blackblood races, a pair of protuding lower teeth just from its jaw.
What causes the breath to catch in Paera's throat and a small cry to escape her lips is the gleaming shortblade the creature holds in its right hand. The weapon is held high over teh heads of a group of orcish children who seem to be tied in small clusters to the bulk of the tree. Already the blade is black with the blood of one child, the broken body lying sadly at the feet of the evil beast. The cry from Paera alerts it, and it turns with a hiss towards the group.
"NOOOOO! How did you find me! NOOOOOOOOOO!"
The sorcerer rushes forwards drawing a second sword as he goes. He launches one attack at the bugbear's left leg, aiming for the femoral artery on the inside high up.
There is nothing calm about the wild swing.
The moment Bo-Dan sees the scene before her, she howls in rage and heartbreak and charges the bug-bear, leaping into the air with a loud "Ki-yaa!" as she tries to land a lethal kick (+2 for charge) (1d20+7=15, 1d6+4=7) to it's head.
At the sight, Vik looses all senses and the beast starts to come out, his claws fully extending. Before he moves to the Bugbear, He lets out his customary battle cry, but this one has slightly more primal tent to it. As the howl reverberates the surrounding jungle, Vik heads to the bugbear. When he approaches the bugbear he takes a swipe with his great axe to hit 1d20+7=22 damage 1d12+7=11
Algret's shock turns to anger as her hand whips forward releasing a dart of searing acid.
She quickly opens the flap on her backpack and projects a mental summons 'Shale' she thinks, the name coming to her from the depths of her subconscious, 'I need you to untie the children while we fight'
Algret reacts the fastest, unleashing a searing bolt of Acid at the shaggy creature. The acid strikes true, catching the thing off balance and burning deeply into its side.
The dwarven priestess feels her pack lighten suddenly as her little companion doll leaps from the bag and rushes forwards towards the children. The animated construct draws dangerously close to the bugbear but it still seems to be reeling from shock and doesn't react fast enough.
Vik charges through the high grass in the clearing, his great weapon swinging wide and catching the evil beast hard in the side. There is a sickening crunch as the blade breaks ribs and shears muscle. The bugbear screams and blood sprays from its obviously damaged lungs in a black mist.
It desperatley tries to step away from its assailants but then Bo Dan is there. Her flying kick strikes it in the damaged ribs, driving a shattered rib deeper into its chest. Something inside the creature breaks and a great gout of dark blood rushes from its mouth and chest. The already large eyes bulge even further and bugbear collapses to the ground. It's hands desperately clutch at the ruined chest area and its lips move as it tries to form a last curse to spit at its enemies. And then it dies.
For a moment, the clearing seems quiet, as if the very jungle itself is stunned by sheer ferocity of the violence unleashed here. Then senses again become attuned to the sounds around them, and the party are aware of teh children screaming and crying in shcok and fear. Somewhere very close by, an orcish voice shouts in anger and desperation. Much further back, other voices also call out, but what they are sayig is lost to distance and distraction.
Milhar moves behind the corpse and casts a spell upon himself, bright blue magic shimmers around his form then disappears. He waits for the orcs.
"Get ready, everyone. There may be more trouble coming our way. Let's hope the body stops them cold."
Then he looks around at Vik and Bo-dan, "this is one death I am glad you did."
Taking Milhar's cue, Vik prepares one of his throwing axes in case hostilities continue
As she prepares to deliver the final death blow to the bug-bear, Bo-dan looks up to her allies as she says "But remember all, these orcs were not themselves, they were under the influence of the bugbear. They are not our enemies, so let us try to avoid harming them if possible. It may help to let them see as quickly as possible that all the children are alright."
With a bellowing cry of rage and frustration, the huge orc that had usurped the throne of the village bursts into the clearing with. His side is streaked with black gore spilling form a deep wound and his face is splattered similarly, though this obviously the blood of another orc.
Behind him, two of his guards also stumble into the clearing, both of them looking battered as well. The guards look a little stunned at the scene before them, but the huge brute wielding teh axe looks at the corpse of the bugbear in Bodans hands and screams his fury
"Noo! It promised me power!IT PROMISED ME THE RULE OF THE ISLAND!"
Looking calmly into the eyes of hatred and death, Bo Dan gives the bugbears neck a savage twist and the cracking of its vertebrae resounds through the jungle. She smiles at the orc.
Milhar's hands begin to incant fast and furious, just as he finishes he calls out to the orc brutes, "the battle is over, the evil is dead, you have lost, give up NOW!"
"You turn your back on your people, you wretch" Vik screams as he unleashes his throwing axe at the leader 20 to hit, 7 damage.
After he throws the axe, Vik approaches the leader and takes a swing to hit 13 damage=17
Bo-Dan simply speaks for the moment, addressing her words specifically to the guards "You so-called leader is finished, his so-called reward as dead as this evil creature which promised it. You have one last chance to redeem yourselves in the eyes of your people. You know what you must do."
She steps in front of the children though, so any attack meant for them would have to first go through her. She readies herself to defend the children and herself should the orcs attack them.
Algret's eyes seethe with anger." You would turn on your own? Sacrifice childen for power?? You are worse than this abomination!!"
A shout of fury erupts from her as she charges, hammer raised high.
Shale continues to untie the children.
As the orcs words fade he is suddenly rocked backwards by the force of the throwing axe striking him in the chest. Viks aim was good and the blow was solid, but this orc seemed to have plenty of fight left.
Algret yells in anger and the little dwarf rushes into her foes, swinging the hammer with great fury into the huge orc. Her blow causes serious damge to the already injured humanoid and it whinces at the strike.
Vik follows up his axe strike and attacks in close range, unfortunately the blade of his weapon is stopped from hurting the orc by the thik layers of hide armour it wears. The look of hatred on its face grows as it takes the blow, and it spits both phlegm and black blood into the Ulfens face.
Bo Dan moves to defend the tied children while Shale desperately pulls at the knots binding the young ones. The little doll seems to be having some difficulty getting the well tied bindings to come free though.
The orcs respond to the violence with violence of their own. The leader swings his axe at Vik, the full fuy and hatred of this creature ensuring it holds nothing back. The axre blow strikes the big Ulfen but its blade is nothing too severe. Vik is somehwat relived that the orcs two handed sword that it was using earlier seems to be missing though.
The other two seem to be less inclinde to fight, their eyes lingering onthe tied children and their actions seeming more defensive than aggressive, though they still swing their wepons at Algret in support of their new chief. Despite this defensive attacks, both weapns strike true and deep and red blood fountains from the Dwarven Priestess. She is in extremely bad shape after this assault and both orcs seemed heartened by the turn of events.
Then Milhars magic goes off. The dazing effects are obvious to all as the big leader sudenly staggers, clutching at his head and trying to shake some sense into it. He seems almost oblivious to the surroundings. Milhar follows this with words, trying to convince the creatures to give up the fight. Despite the barriers that the common tongue proves in such situations, their weapons seem to drop ever so slightly and the confident look leaves their eyes.
Seeing Algret badly injured and the big orc dazed, Bodan leaps forward and tries to land a quick snap kick (1d20+7=19, 1d6+4=8) up into the bottom of the big orc's chin.
Milhar's hands fly out again at the leader, "drop your weapons or die with your leader." He shakes his head like the mad one's fate is sealed by Vik and Bo-Dan.
Staggering from the blows, Algret takes a step back and calls out to Torag for strength. 1d8+2=8
"Come on, give up now."
The fight ends with brutal efficiancy. Bo Dan rushes forwards and kicks into the dazed leaders chin, snapping his head back.
As Algret moves away from the deadly opponents and heals herself, Vik rages on and slashes in at the exposed neck of the giant orc, neatlyslicing his head from his shoulders. The severed head loops into the nearby undercanopy and rolls out of sight. The body crumples at the feet of the two attaackers, black blood pumping in great spurts from the cleanly severed arteries.
At the sight of their leader now decapitated, the last two of his bodyguards give a cry of dismay and possibly fear. The sound of other orcs pursuing them through the steamy jungle and the obvious formidable nature of the opponents engaging them forces them to step backwards and flee into the jungle, away from the sounds of pursuit.
The noise of the jungle are subdued in this area, the violence and screaming of the battle having driven many of the more noisome creatures of the jungle into hiding. Only the sounds of crying orc children and the ragged breathing of those having just finished the fight are immediately obvious, with the distant shouting of pursuing orcs starting to come throughthe foliage again.
It would seem the battle for the orc village is over, now they just need to see at what cost.
Bo-dan ignores the fleeing Orcs, figuring that the elder and his warriors would be able to track them down later should they feel it warranted. Immediately she turns to the children, helping to untie them and doing her best to soothe and calm calm (1d20+1=2) them.
Milhar helps free the children, waiting for the village orcs to return. He puts Sen down to see if any of the children need help or healing.
"I wonder if the shaman lives? He sounded all in, as if the fates will bring an end to his life soon."
Standing near Vik Algret calls upon a wave of healing energy.
The pulsing energy of teh Dwarven magic rushes through all those in the clearing. Many of teh children cease their crying at the strange touch and teh feeling and sounds of the dwarven magics.
One little girl, her hands now freed from the bindings clutches Shale in a desperate embrace, her little body shaking with the trmors of shock and fear. The little companion doll stands unmoving at first, but then her small arms circle around the child and its eyes open in wonderment as a new sensation floods the soul shard of the creature. Algret herself feels teh wash of affetion and warmth as Shale gets her first taste of a hug.
Sen, meanwhile fusses busily over the other children, carefully rubbing feeling back into the hands of those whose binding s were too tight.
Milhar
As the rest of the group attend the children, Vik kiks over teh corpse of the dead orc chieften and checks his body for ny further danger. He sees a strange amulet, fashioned from hair and bits of twigs lying on the ground near the corpse. The twine loop that held the amulet in place seesm to have been severed when the big Ulfens waraxe tore through his oponents neck.
As the Barbarain is about to pick up the pendant, Paera gives a sharp whistle of warning. The party turn as one towards her indicated direction, just in time to see three more orcs enter the clearing.
The lead orc seems to be the leader of the hunting group they had allied with earlier. He was unharmed, but his right arm was covered in the black blood of those he had fought in the village earlier. His other companions are equaly gore splattered, but they also carry wounds of their own.
The leader looks around and then down at the corpse at Vik's feet. Red eyes lift and take in the freed children and the injured companions who brought down the menace to his village. Finally, a toothy grin splits his face and he holds out a nmeaty fist to Vik and takes the Ulfens hand in a warriors grip.
"Is good job. Bad mojombo is dead. We take village no problem eh?"
He turns to the children and calls for them to follow him in Orcish. They flock to him and grab his legs, calling in joy at seeing one fo their own leaders here to help at last. His big grin grows wider at the childrens affection and he roughly rubs teh hair of one fo teh boys.
Again he looks at the rescuers "Is good job"
Bo-dan smiles at the joy of the warrior and the children and her hand seems to find and join Paera's of it's own accord.
After a while though, curious as to what the bugbear was about, if it had brought anything from the empire with it, orders or items and the like. Or as well if it had stolen anything from the ship, so she stays behind to do a through search of the area. She asks her lover to remain behind and search with her, knowing Pae to have s sharp eye and good sense of the places people tend to hide things.
After the children have left Vik drops to his knees a little winded from the fight. Vik looks to Algret with a little concern for he saw the hits she had taken and was amazed to see her still standing as he thinks to himself "We northerners are a strong bunch no matter what breed". Vik keeps an eye out while the others search the area.
The orcs leave the clearing as two distinct groups. The leader of the hunters walks out surrounded by the chldren. Some of them are quite exhultant and are talking loudly about what happened, but ust as many are clearly shaken by their close brush with the evil creature that held them captive.
The second orc leaves slightly behind the others. He carries the small and broken body of teh single child the bugbear killed before the group arrived to end its evil forever. The orc drapes his own cloak across the child, protecting the body from the still damp and dripping foliage so the body wouldn't suffer any further.
The final orc remained int he clearing with Bo Dan and the others as they searched for clues and other items of interest.
The log had a small hollow that the bug bear had widened and cleared of rotting wood and mulch. Inside they found what meagre trappings the creature had. A number of stick effigies had been started, some of them with pieces of material or bits of hair wraped aound them or tying them together. Very few had been completed, but the couple that were looked disturbingly similar to people from Vixen. One of the foci had a tricorne hat fashioned frim a torn piece of sail canvas and obviously was meant to be Captain Venn. There was one that had been completed in fine detail and lay seperate to the others. This was obviously an orc and the stick bound to its back looked enough like a two handed sword that the group summised it was meant to be the one they had just slain.
This effigy had been constructed from the same materials as the pendant Vik had stumbled across near teh orcs body, and Milhar and Algret both suggested the two were linked somehow.
The only other item of interest in the are was the corspe of the bugbear itself. Its hair was matted and unkempt, obvious signs of the rough living it had to endure over the past few weeks. It wore dark clothing, all the better for concealing its movements during night time forrays. The body reaked of stale sweat and blood, and everyone could see the lice and other bodily vermin begining to abandon the creature now that the corpse was beginning to cool.
The weapon it still clutched in its dead fingers was exquisitly built. The handle carved of Three Prong Ivory and counter balanced with a heavy pweter head. The counterweight was carved with a scene of Hobgoblins praying towards a giant throne, upon which sat their leader, rays of sun rising behind him like some god like figure.
The blade itself was made from blued steel, the metal beautifully dark, again adding to the stealth of the creature. Unfortunately the weapon was coated int eh drying blood of the Orc infant it had last been used on, but everyone hear could tell it had been crafted by one of the Hobgoblin master weaponsmiths. The bastards might be vicious warmongers, but they knew how to make good weapons.
Within five minutes the area had been completely searched and everything of value collected up. The orc prepares to move and speaks to the group in Orcish and heads back towards the vilage, leaving the bodies of the fallen where they are.
Orcish (if Algrets spell is still active after ten minutes)
Before he leaves, Milhar wanders the campsite communing with his God. He spends time shifting rocks and branches and thoroughly searching the area, mostly with his eyes closed focussed on his magic.
Never should have let the monster escape, it is altogether evil and its work is that of a slayer and defiler, corruptor and manipulator. A bugbear shows that the Source sets great tests. Or the Source has an opponent steeped in red and black, one that seeks to keep me from my path with anger and hate. Had I had the last week again, what could I have done different?
Bo-dan stays to watch Milhar's magical examination. It is obvious from the Monk's rapt expression that she is trying to take in every facet on how the man is able to summon and sense magical energies.
When he is done, she quires him on what he may have found and then accompanies him and anyone else who stayed back to the village.
Milhars vision glows with the traces of magic in this place. The small effigies and twig figures all hold a vestige of magic. A natural emination, bound to the earth but twisted with the taint of necromancy and something more foreign. Almost the young sorceror can see how this works but somthing alien and evil keeps it from the grasp of his mind completely. The longer he stares at some them, the more tainted he feels, like a slithering darkness is worming its way under his skin and causing chills to creep through his soul.
The bugbears body seems to have no traces of life to it. No remnant of the soul stream you could detect earlier is present, though Milhar is unsure if his vision is of the type required to see a lingering spirit or not. It is only the effiges and the necklace that seem to glow with now fading magics.
The effigy of the Orc and the necklace are bound somehow, their magic linked by the aura they share and the slow flickering pulse of the ebbing spellweave. Perhaps it is this that the Bugbear used to gain such a firm hold on the orc and its kin.
spellcraft DC12
The magic of the effigies is a form of necromatic binding. It taps into the natural power of this island by using the woods and twigs of the place, then twists it for its own purposes by incorporating pieces of hair and material from the intended target. The ones from the ship would be less powerful on this island, but more powerful on the ship and vice versa.
Spellcraft DC18
As for DC 12 plus
The magics of the effigies has been further inlaid with a taint of something not magical. A small part of the psychic essence of the creature and the target seem to bound to it. This frm of power is not unkown, but it is rarer than that possessed by most on this world. A form of psionics is how it is described, mostly associated with aberations and mutants. Apparently the hobgoblins and bugbears have access to it as well though.
Seeing, Bo-Dan's interest, Milhar brings her over and explains the way the Source acts as a guide and energy for tapping into. He continues to show her the spirit vestiges and explain how the different colours present show a certain amount of evil in reds (anger or hatred) and black(darkness and death) but how they have been woven by the bugbear into something altogether beyond his ken.
"I was just beginning to understand my magicks when the Horde attacked. So There will be little I can teach you. Maybe you show spend some time with Sen and see how magically attuned you are to a truly magical creature like her? I am guessing."
Spellcraft
"But the Source comes in different ways. After all I have no knowledge of red or black magic like this. Mine is all white for healing and yellow or gold for protection. The most dangerous power I have comes from the blue sphere of magic, that is the magic of the mind and it does have some kind of similarity to that of a bugbear, but not enough to help here."
"Algret, everyone, should we burn these totems and the necklace? They have traces of their past still on them. It may not last long but the construction could help someone else. Maybe."
Having collected all the information they would possibly find here, the small party finally headed back through the jungles towards the orc village. The trip back was far less tense, and Vik didn't need to apply his wilderness skills for this journey. The remaning orc who accompanied them led them unneringly towards the village and within a few short minutes they arrived.
The clouds were beginning to disperse overhead, visible in the cleared space that the village occupied. The scattered beams of afternoon light shone tranquilly down on a scene of carnage and huddled dismay.
The golden light showed the collection of villagers gathered around the main square. Some of the women were weeping, others holding them in comfort. Some had gathered children to their arms and were crying or aughing, it was hard to tell but the relief on their faces was plain to see.
A small group of the men stood to one side, talking quietly amongst themselves. Some of these bore the telltale signs of wounds from the fight, others were'nt ven scratched.
In the very centre of the town a collection of bodies had been laid out. The cloaks of the fallen were laid across their faces, and weapons had been placed upon their breasts. The shaman who was the spiritual leader for this group stood over them, muttering a ritual in orcish over the bodies. A deep cut ran the length of his left arm, the blood having been stopped through healing magics, but the wound not fully closed. The arm hung limply at the old orcs side, the great spear he usually wielded laying against the totem in the centre of the square.
As the the grouo approach, they can see the face of the body he currently prays over. The cloak has been removed to allow the ritual to take place. The lack of scars and the youthful appearence clearly mark this one as the young orc who had been helping the shaman this entire time.
Red eyes look up from their task, great sadness threatening to engulf the old man until he sees the group from across the sea arrive. His features change visibly, taking on the hard and uncaring appearence these folk would have others see. He nods once, then returns back to the task of burying his dead, the ones he had failed to protect.
The hunter who had led the children back to teh village steps across to the group and addresses them, his broken common hard to follow, though he uses hadn gestures to help in the task.
"Big Juju man need time now. You go to wooden bird of the sea and wait for him yes. He says he make parley for you, but the dead need him first."
He talks almost exclusively to Vik, though his eyes scan across the entire group as he speaks. His demeaniur is far more friendly than when you first met him and he seems open and receptive now.
"I Skilhar" he taps his chest as he speaks "I take you to great sea bird now and you rest. We come for make talk in some days" He gestures towards the jungle in what you can only assume is the way back to the ship and the other refugees.
Bo-dan is interested in the village and would like to talk to some of the women, but she also understands this to be a time of great emotional upheaval for the entire village and so she limits herself to gentle smiles, showing loving warmth and compassion to all she meets eyes with.
The young half-elf holds on tightly to the hand of her lover Paera, fully empathizing with those of the village who have lost loved one of their own as she tries not to imagine the horror or losing Pae. She wants to take the beautiful rogue in her arms but her natural reticence and the awareness that many in the village already find the fact that her and Pae are warriors strange enough, she contents herself with the knowledge that the two of them would have some alone time later on this night.
When the party is ready, she and Paera make their way back to the ship with the rest.
"I agree Milhar. These Items are better off destroyed so their filthy magics con't be reused."
She approaches the effigies and touches them each in a few places. At each touch the effigy breaks, rendering it unusable.
"He says we should leave the bodies here."
Algret looks on at the proceedings with a heavy heart, but she understands both the gravity and deep spiritual power of the moment, and encourages the others not to interfere. Still it upsets her to see the Shaman wounded so, both in body and spirit. She whispers a prayer to Torag on his behalf, the blessing of the old warrior, armor dented, weapons slkightly dulled, but still fierce of heart, still brave, and deeply worthy of respect.
She notes the warrior's attitudes toward herself and the other women with some amusement, and is glad to see their treatment of Milhar and especially Vik. The man with his strange "source" was a bit of a mystery, but a valuable one to have at your back, and Vik...well Vik was Vik, loyal, noble and posessed of the strongest fighting spirit she had ever seen. Too often was the big Ulfen's fierceness in battle greeted with fear and mistrust. It was good to see him around those who understood the measure of a warrior.
Milhar takes the short sword as he leaves, and when he reaches the village, he spends a while cleaning the weapon of blood and rust.
"This is a good blade, everyone, I could use it and try to do some good with it? But I'm not really a warrior. I'm a servant or a hedge wizard at best. Vik? do you want this sword? Bo-dan? Paera? Algret?"
He keeps cleaning as he asks.
"Milhar you may take that blade. Maybe some good can come out of that blade after its vile use, and it is suited to you."
"I think we should let the village grieve for the fallen, and experience the joy of having the little ones returned."
"Skilhar, we shall head to the great sea bird and wait for the meeting with the juju man when he is ready. The brave ones that have fallen must be put to rest correctly and given the honor they deserve. I shall not disturb that. Lead on my friend."
The walk back through the jungle was far more enlightening than the trip they had first made. Skilhar proved to be a good guide, pointing out interesting flora and fauna, and at one point showing the group the location of some good Fugenja trees, where they could harves the fleshy sweet fruit for the trip. With the storm over, the sounds of amphibians and reptiles alike chorused through the jungles. The earthy smell of the forest floor had deepend with the moisture. The smell of perfumed flowers also permeated the cooling air as evening approached. Their scents were a beacon to the insects and nocturnal animals that fed from their nectar. The place was bursting with life and Skilhar knew all of it.
They found the forest edge as the sun was beginning its decent in earnest. The well travelled group put the time at between 4 and 5 in the afternoon. They had been gone for less than half a day, but it felt as if weeks had passed since they left to find the orcs and make peace with them. Skilhar turned to Vik and again took his hand in the warriors grip, bidding him farewell. "We come back in few suns. Juju man wish to talk." With that the big orc melted into the shadows, disappearing eerily into the enveloping folliage.
A voice cried out from the beach, soon followed by others. The refugees rose from tehri campfires and the work they were doing and stood looking towards the party, wondering what news they brought with them. At the centre of camp, Captain Venn could be seen standing with two others beside him. His face split ina broad grin when he saw they had all returned alive.
His lips moved, and the two beside him could hear the relief in his voice "Thank Besmarda for small miracles, they've come back".
Milhar keeps the blade with a faint smile for Vik.
Vik looks at Milhar and notices the slight smile. Remember Milhar, not all blades have to kill, and many have dual purposes. You could always use it in the galley. HaHa. Cheer up my friend we did good today, and if you must mourn, mourn only for the child we were to late for. The fighters of the village died in a way they were proud of. To die in battle is a great honor for warriors. We must celebrate in the honor of killing of such a foul beast.
The young Pietr had first seen the tall, thin, severe looking man as he waited with his family and all the others to board the ship. The tall man had exited a carriage and the driver had unloaded a large chest. Thinking quickly, Pietr had offered to carry the chest for the man, hoping to make it easier for his family to board the ship. The man had looked at Peitr without comment, and flipped him a gold coin. Without a flicker of expression, he had then winked at the young peasant as the chest had lifted itself off of the ground, and followed the man onto the ship.
He was boy, running through a field on a cold day, snow crunching underfoot as the wolf grew closer. He turned and threw something at the wolf, its form blistering to acid as he attempted for the first time the chants his fathers friend had shown him over and over again. The acid blob hit the wolf and it fled, yelping back into the tree line.
Peitr later saw the magus at the rail of the ship, watching the city fall further and further behind with the rest of the evacuees. When, for no apparent reason, the man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. This brought a nervous release of laughter from those nearby, but Peitr could tell that something was not right. He carried the man back to his tiny cabin, and made him as comfortable as he could.
He was a man, looking down into the face of a beautiful woman, her eyes spilling tears down her cheeks as he bent to kiss her lips. They were both naked and the stars above them shone brightly on a spring night.
Peitr had checked in on the man later, and found that while he seemed to be merely sleeping at first, he refused to awaken. Later, he became responsive, but he was like a child who had suffered a great trauma. He would eat if given food and told to, and would take care of his own ablutions, but otherwise he simply sat, eyes staring at nothing, or lay down, eyes closed.
Another time, the same woman. Her face held nothing but fear and loathing as he approached her. He stretched out a hand lazily, almost contemptuously and he felt a force flow through him, though not of his own doing. The woman broke, just coming apart in front of him like a piece of shattered porcelain.
After a few days, Peitr become concerned enough to use his gifts, and peer into the heart of the man. For the man’s dreams had become troubled, and Peitr wished to know if perhaps there were evil influences at work. What he saw confused and concerned him. For never before had seen a person so,… grey. It was as if the man was a completely blank slate, waiting to be inscribed upon. Later, he tried again during the man’s troubled sleep, and saw the man’s aura swing from the golden glow of goodness and purity, to the dark and roiling red of one dedicated to destruction.
The images in his head came faster and faster, blurring together, and spinning his consciousness like a feather tossed in a wind storm.
He was a great mage, fighting devils on the glass plateau's of the great north, he was an errand boy, running jobs mindlessly for a man he only knew as master, he was fighting in a tunnel, dead bodies around him as he cried for friends now lost, he was tied to a bench, a hooded figure above him carving symbols of raw pain and power into his chest with a heated knife, he was in a sewer again, a dreadful purpose in his mind as he approached a great machine.
He was a boy, running through the snow with a wolf biting at his heels.
Blackness engulfed him like a great blanket of night.
Pietr entered the mage’s cabin, the girl who had been helping the healer in the makeshift infirmary following him. The man’s unresponsiveness had spooked her and the others who were otherwise happy to help onboard, and they refused to enter the tiny cabin alone.
Peitr went over to the man lying on the bed, and put his hand on the man’s chest. Right before his hand touched his chest, the man’s hand snapped up from where it rested on the blanket to grab his wrist in a firm grip. The mage’s eyes snapped open, and focused on Pietr’s face.
“œ∑®†¥¨ˆøπ åß∂ ©˙∆ ∆˚¬ ?!” The man questioned, his tone sharp. The girl screeched and fled from the tiny cabin.
“Qasfghety ahnbshagtrhj sfgdshu mgshiun ??” The man asked again, his tone softer.
“Ah, of course. Common, how silly of memmmm?” The man mumbled off as his tongue began poking around his mouth.
“New teeth? No, just need to be cleaned,… badly.” He spoke softly in a voice raspy with disuse.
“Wait, is that my voice? Mmmm? La? La la la la! S’funny, I don’t recall being a baritone.” The man said calmly with a blank look as he released Peitr’s arm and sat straight up. He looked around the tiny cabin, then back to Peitr, his expression never changing. He smiled, and the very suddenness caught the young man by surprise.
“Hello!” He declared, and hopped off of the small bunk. His legs promptly began to buckle, and only the reflexive response of Peitr kept the man from falling to floor,… again.
“Thank you, Oh heavens, this will simply never do. I can’t go out like this!” The man muttered, looking at his well-made traveling clothes, wrinkled from being slept in for several days. He muttered under his breath, and an area in front of the man began to shimmer. A moment later, his reflection appeared in the shimmering area and the man clucked and fussed even more. “No no, simply will not do!” He muttered again, and turned to his chest against the wall. The man pulled out a screen that folded into the wall of the cabin, designed to give the cabin sharers the pretense of privacy, and opened his chest.
As the man fussed with the contents of his chest Peitr noticed that whatever spell the man had used, the shimmering was not a true mirrored reflection. He noticed that the ‘mirror’ reflected nothing of the room, or Peitr when he stepped in front of it. And while it reflected the man’s clothing accurately, it had shown him with a clean shaven face, while the man’s true face was covered in several days growth of beard.
The man stepped out from behind the screen, wearing a large fur coat that must have come from a Dire bear or similar creature, and was tied closed with a rope. The ‘reflection’ showed the man with a large, bushy, black beard and black shoulder length hair.
“No. I don’t think so.” He said after a moments contemplation of his ‘reflection’. “It makes my butt look big!” And disappeared behind the screen once more. He shortly reappeared wearing a large, furry vest that went down to his bare knees, oversized furry boots, a too-large conical helmet with horns sticking out of it, and carrying a spear. His reflection showed him with a large, bushy RED beard.
“What do you think?!” He asked Peitr as he eyed himself critically. “No. It’s the hat. It makes my ears look too big. I simply cannot do hats!” He declared, and vanished behind the screen once more. He emerged again and again, in a different outfit each time, and each was rejected for one reason or another. Including one outfit which consisted of a long overcoat, a wide brimmed floppy hat, and a multicolored scarf so long that even wrapped around the man two or three times it still drug the ground! This outfit rated a simple grunt, and a muttered “Not on a dare!” before he disappeared behind the screen again.
As he watched the odd fashion show in amazement, Peitr began to realize something. With every outfit the man tried on and rejected, his posture and voice changed as well. It was as if he was not deciding so much what he should wear, as what he should be.
The man exited the screen once more, wearing a long, black overcloak made of some unidentifiable, but expensive looking, material, and carrying a stick far too large to be called a cane, and could only politely be called a ‘walking stick’ and not a staff. “Yes. Yes,…” The man mused, examining his reflection. He flipped back the edges of the overcloak, revealing a lining of obnoxiously bright, deep red satin. He wore a hip-length jacket of three-piled velvet, (Not a vest, as most of the rich gentry wore when showing off among their peers, but an entire jacket!, Peitr noted.) also black, and from the open chest protruded a shock of bright white ruffles that would do a peacock proud. A slightly more modest version of the same ruffles also protruded from the ends of his jacket sleeves. His black travelers’ pants were tucked into knee-high black leather boots, polished to a shine and the tops folded down into the ‘swashbuckler’ style.
“Yes,…” The man mused again as he examined his reflection critically, drawing out the word with a sibilant hiss. “This is much better. This will do nicely, I think.” He pronounced with an air of finality, his voice taking on the rich, cultured tones of the aristocracy elite. He straightened to his full height of just over 6 feet, and raised an eyebrow at the shimmering plane of magic with an imperious air.
Peitr glanced over at the ‘mirror’, and saw that it showed the man with a clean-shaven face, and his shock of blond, curly hair pulled back into an almost manageable ponytail. When he looked back to the mage, the man looked the same as his reflection!
With a small, self-satisfied smile, the man waved his cane through the mirror, and the image dissipated as if he were waving away smoke from a pipe. He turned to Peitr, and his smile became slighter larger. Even though they were a similar height, the way the mage looked down his slightly large nose at him gave the appearance that he was looking down on him.
“Hello there young man! I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced!” The man declared, his clipped, precise speech revealing his educated background.
“The name is Smythe, Symington Smythe, At your service!” He declared, saluting the young man with a tip of his heavy cane to his forehead. “I have you to thank for caring for me these past few days, do I not? Of course I do! You are to be congratulated my boy! A lad of extraordinary courage! Not many would dare to risk being close and unprotected to an Arcanus of the Ninth Order while he lay in a fevered sleep!” He declared, snapping the fingers of his left hand, which produced a flutter of sparks. He looked at his hand in surprise as if it had betrayed him. He snapped it again, with the same result. He ‘Hmmm’d’ thoughtfully.
“It seems an Arcanus of the Ninth Order no longer.” He mused with a furrowed brow, lightly rubbing his fingertips together. “It would appear that the gaps in my memory are more,… extensive, than I had at first realized.” He muttered, then shrugged as if it were of no consequence.
“No matter!” He declared fervently, then wrapped his left arm around Peitr’s shoulders as he pointed his walking stick out the open cabin door. “Things are in motion lad! Somewhere out there, a child cries for help. Somewhere out there, slaves struggle against oppression with all the strength of their bodies. Somewhere out there, people battle against an implacable enemy with every fiber of their being.”
“Somewhere out there, people are taking their tea without honey! And WE have work to do!” Smythe declares seriously and firmly, his cane sliding through his hand until it thumped solidly upon the floor for emphasis. He nods once more to Peitr, and then strides through the open cabin door, his black and red overcloak fluttering behind him like a pair of wings.
The tall, aristocratic dandy strode from his tiny cabin onto the deck of the ship as if he owned it. He took a deep breath, and exhaled as if invigorated, his black and red overcloak and large ruffles on his shirt blowing in the breeze.
Smythe looked around the ship as if searching for someone.
“Now, if I were the captain, where would I, Ah! Of course!” He said aloud, and began to stride towards the aft Quarterdeck. He took about two strides before there was an ear-splitting screech, and a dark form arrowed from the rigging towards the mage like a bowshot!
Caught by surprise, the dandy raised his cane in a warding gesture, his left hand covering his face,…
When several seconds went by, and the expected strike never came, he straightened up a bit from his defensive crouch, and peeked between the fingers of his left hand. He was staring into the tiny, beady black eyes of a not so tiny Raven, which had perched upon his outstretched stick. With a puzzled look, Smythe pulled his stick closer, and stared eye to eye with the Raven, either completely ignoring, or completely oblivious to, the avians powerful beak and razor-sharp claws.
This same bird had been haunting the rigging ever since the ship had fled the city, and the crew had tried several times to catch or kill the raven, to no avail. It had an uncanny ability to move swiftly from one place to another, or seemed to vanish entirely, just when they thought they had it cornered. At the sight of the infamous bird staring large nose-to-beak with the mysteriously addled passenger, several of the crew made the gesture the superstitious used to ward off evil spirits. The tall dandy suddenly broke into a huge grin, like that of a delighted child.
“Seraph! You old thief! Are you still around? What are you doing here? I figured you’d be off tormenting scarecrows somewhere!” Smythe cried happily in his aristocratic accent, grinning all the while. HE leaned closer, as if listening to the bird.
“What do you mean, ‘I am’?” Smythe bellowed in mock outrage, “I’m no scarecrow you feathered fiend! Just for that, you can walk!” He cried, still smiling. With practiced ease the mage swung his cane in a horizontal arc, and the bird stepped off the end of the stick onto his shoulder and settled himself with the casual ease of familiarity. With another practiced motion Smythe swung his stick around until it tapped the deck once more.
“Now, where was I? Ah! The Captain, of course! Captain? Captain!” Smythe cried, striding the remaining distance to the quarterdeck. He stopped at the base of the quarterdeck, just below the great wheel used to steer the ship, and struck a pose, one hand atop the cane resting on the deck, the other on his hip, Black and red cloak, ruffles and curly hair all flapping in the brisk sea breeze.
“Captain! Symington Smythe, at your service! I apologize for my convalescence, but I have now recovered, and stand ready to offer you my services. And unless I am mistaken, and I rarely am, you have need of my skills, sir!”
“Also, I would recruit him as well.” Smythe continued casually, raising his walking stick and pointing it behind him, pointing it directly at Pietr, who stood on deck watching the performance with everyone else.
“Courage of a lion that boy, might come in handy I would think, whot?”