Pyotr spends only a minute studying the layout of the mound before he sets to the labor of building the edifice.
"Master Haarglick, I doubt anyone gets as well versed in metalcraft as you without excavating a vein or two. Let us put your expertise to work in digging a trench around the hill. We'll lay the dirt to the outside, so to use it to fill the gaps in the rock."
"Kindly, gather as many rocks as you can, of whatever size you can most easily carry, good Delkaneth." He turns his face away from the unfortunate knight sitting on the hillock, and lowers his voice, "If Ser Redgrave rouses himself from his sorrow, be so good as to take him under your wing... It would be best to keep him far away from the fallen."
Pyotr grabs a long handled shovel and begins digging the trench opposite Dunagan. Within minutes he is sweating from the exertion, and weak from the many physical trials he has faced that day. Nevertheless, he tries to keep pace with the seemingly inexhaustible dwarf.
Delkaneth casts his spell just before Pellius departs, allowing him time to investigate the sword.
Curiously, he realises the script upon the sword’s blade is not a language at all, but an intricate set of notations of magical import. This is intriguing, considering the sword itself is magically inert.
The spidery notations appear to have once anchored some kind of enchantment to the blade. Some of the motifs recall the Sylvan language, and seem to indicate some kind of drawing forth of the power invested in the natural cycle of decay and decomposition.
He’s also able to translate the giant’s tattoo, and to inspect the marking on the hammer Dunagan found. Of the latter, all he’s able to determine it’s a dwarven forgerune representing a name, likely of the architect of the weapon. It has no intrinsic meaning other than a signature, although the symbol does appear to derive from a rune meaning meteor.
He also extracts Modoru's sword from the fallen hill giant.
"Dun know why you want to dig a trench. Always thought for a Cairn you wanted to build it up and bury them under rocks? I'll grab some of these larger rocks ta' create a barrier on the outside so nun the smaller ones roll out..."
Dunagan scratches his head and walks over to Cornalium gathering a rope from the saddlebags. Slowly, he begins lashing up a rather large rock and tethers it to Cornalium. After a few minutes of prodding, the horse finally complies in allowing the dwarf to use it as a workhorse. The large stones are slowly pulled near the mound to be used as a sturdy base. The Dwarf continues the process methodically, beginning to build a rather large base.
Out of curiosity, what knowledge would these forgerunes fall under?
Dierik and Callan ride out to meet their returning scouts.
“I was starting to worry about you,” admits Dierik “What’s the look of things?”
The magus slows down his horse as he sees Dierik approaching. Once Signior has settled, he shakes his head, "It doesn't look good at all. The battle must have been larger than I imagined; there are scattered bodies everywhere but most of them are the enemies. Lastwall forces are piled up in a mockery of mound."
He breathes out and continues, "We think the best that we can do is gather rocks and build a cairn over them. But we can't do it just the five of us so the caravan will have to take a detour. if we leave now, we can make it before dark."
The magus suddenly remembers, "Oh and we found a survivor, believe or not, a paladin from Castle Firrine."
Dierik listens to Pellius’ report, then waves to Santrian and shouts “Let’s move out with all haste, and get the caravan there before nightfall!”
The wagons are immediately set into motion, the oxen on the sixbulls lowing as the whips are used to goad them forward with aplomb. The caravan moves onto the muddy track of the Flood Road, and starts north.
Meanwhile, at the battle site, Pyotr, Dunagan and Delkaneth begin work on the cairn, gathering suitable rocks and turning over the wet ground with their spades. It’s backbreaking work, and though the heat of the day is starting to fade their clothes are soon soaked in sweat.
To the west, mist begins to form over the Ghostlight Marshes.
- - - - -
The sun has turned into a baleful red eye scudding the fangs of the distant Mindspin Mountains by the time the caravan arrived. Having listened to the report of Bonegrit and Pellius, Dierik wisely makes camp somewhat short of the battlefield, well aware the effect on morale the heaped dead might have on his followers.
Along with Callan, Santrian, Bonegrit and Pellius he rides up to inspect the scene, raising his arm in greeting to the three gravediggers.
“A cairn seems best,” he agrees, surveying their fledgling efforts “But it’s not a task we can finish this evening. Take your leave of these grim surroundings and return to camp. We’ll start at dawn and give these men some dignity before we leave.”
As they talk, Modoru walks slowly over to the gathered men. The longsword Delkaneth extracted from the giant’s gut now hangs at his side, and he gives the fellow Chelaxian a nod of thanks as he approaches.
To Dierik, he speaks thus “My thanks for the kindness you show my comrades in arms. My thanks also to your men here, who rescued me from a grim and ignoble fate. My conduct today has not been in keeping with a knight’s standards of chivalry, but the cost of this engagement has been grave, and grief has held me tightly in her arms.”
- - - - -
The adventurers return to camp . The sun has now retreated beneath the horizon, and the amber and mauves of the evening are darkening quickly. The mood around the laager of wagons is once again sombre; despite stopping short of the carnage, the men have seen the carrion birds and heard the talk of Paelinus’ wounded soldiers, and can imagine well enough the scene but a short distance away.
The fog is now thick upon the Ghostlight Marshes. Occasionally, eldritch glows seem to flicker in the mist.
As Crinkles dolls out bowls of his potato and jerky broth, Dierik addresses all.
“Between a swamp and a battlefield might not be the most salubrious place to spend the night, but I don’t doubt we’ll face the worse on the journey to come. A bleak labour awaits us tomorrow my friends, and not one we’re likely to receive any gratitude for any time soon. Try and get what rest you can.”
“There is one warning you must all heed. The Ghostlight Marsh festers less than a bowshot from where we stand. Ware what glimmers within those accursed mists. They are the lights of will o’ wisps and other fey terrors that would lure you to your doom. Keep watch on this swamp, but only from the corner of your eye, lest those witch-lanterns enchant you and lead away. Those cold, stagnant waters will not relinquish you should you enter them.”
- - - - -
As the night draws on, Dierik’s warning proves true. Strange illuminations periodically lend an inner fire to the swirling mist, before flickering off into darkness. Sometimes an obscure, far-away orb of light will rise into the night like a flare then disappear, sometimes slowly like a bladder of air, sometimes rapidly like a flung sling-stone. These incandescences are azure blue, glowing green or sickly yellow.
Then, at some point after ten o’clock, the disquietude intensifies. Were the Ghostlight Marshes teeming with life like most wetlands, the sound would not be audible, but dead and silent as they are, the restless members of the caravan begin to hear a remote, distant sound drifting out of the Hold of Belkzen.
Somewhere, some miles distant, many drums are being played in unison. It’s hard not to think of the grim memorial the orcs constructed upon the field of battle, and to imagine what fell ritual they might be embarking upon now.
Its strikes Bonegrit that the faint whispers of the drums sound more regimented than the loose rhythms favoured by most orcish tribes.
The distant drums sound like a crude bastardization of the Headtaker’s Axstep, a holy march rhythm of Gorum laid down in the Gorumskagat.
A murmur of anxious conversation steals over the camp, as the first reports of the drums sound through the night. Pyotr listens intently, unable to discern any import of the cadence, and more interested in appraising their proximity...
Pyotr is certain that the drums are not coming closer.
He also notices Modoru quaking with fear at the sound.
EVENING CAMPFIRE
Having fed and cared for his horse, Pellius sits quietly near the campfire, his new sword on his lap. The flames seem to play off the spidery runes on the sword and the magus daydreams of wielding a flaming sword in the name of the Lady.
He gets up and nears Dunagan, "Evening Master crafter, I was wondering if you could spend some time looking at the runes on the sword I found. You see, I'm looking for a good name for it and perhaps the writing on the blade can give me a clue." The magus turns his head sideways, "Del said the sword wasn't magical but maybe you could figure out what the runes are for."
Somewhere, some miles distant, many drums are being played in unison. It’s hard not to think of the grim memorial the orcs constructed upon the field of battle, and to imagine what fell ritual they might be embarking upon now.
A few moments later and Pellius hears the ominous drums. He notes their approximate distance and thinks no more of them. He is unafraid, having heard orcish drums plenty of times before.
Then his face changes as he realizes that all those previous times, he was part of a scouting unit, a 'fast-moving' scouting unit who could just get up and outdistance the orcs if need be. What would happen now when they couldn't just 'get up and leave'? Pellius now shares the misgivings of the rest of the caravan and for the first time, the orcish drums strike fear into his heart.
Pyotr spends several minutes with his head cocked at an odd angle. He listens intently, until satisfied that the drums are not approaching the caravan camp. As he stretches weary, and now stiff, neck muscles, he turns towards Modoru.
The extreme heat of the day has given way to balmy night. But, despite the heat and humidity, Ser Redgrave shivers as though winter has returned in full. Pyotr makes his way towards the wheel of the six-bull where Modoru sits.
"A fallen hill giant likely makes a poor blanket, though it's probably warmer than the linens I can offer. No doubt you'll gain a much better night's rest than you've had for days."
I have heard it said that the greatest of Iomedae's champions are always the last to quit the field. I think, perhaps, you have put many of them to shame, this day." Pyotr laughs weakly at his own joke. "We will finish the cairn by evening, tomorrow. Sooner, perhaps. What will you do once it is complete? Can you cross the Fallenford afoot? Master Ironcoffer may be willing to sell you a horse. I believe the dwarf, Dunagan, also travels with an extra pack animal that is somewhat saddlewise. You may have to persuade him to sell it, though. Are you to return to Castle Firrine?"
Pyotr continues to ply the frightened knight with questions, trying to distract him from the sound of the drums...
[Delkaneth] makes his way over to Pyotr and Modoru. He draws an axe and gives it a half-hearted spin. "How much time do we have?"
"I am convinced that they are not approaching. They would not return to this place. There is nothing for them to find, except the corpses of the fallen. It is only the greatest coincidence that we have arrived here within days of the battle. The looting is done, and the dead have been given over to the crows. The orcs have quit this place. They may have designs of revenge on Castle Firrine, but even orcs cannot raise an army and a siege train that quickly..."
Pyotr continues to speak to Delkaneth, but watches Modoru out of the corner of his eye, hoping his words will break the waves of fear pouring off of the man.
He gets up and nears Dunagan, "Evening Master crafter, I was wondering if you could spend some time looking at the runes on the sword I found. You see, I'm looking for a good name for it and perhaps the writing on the blade can give me a clue." The magus turns his head sideways, "Del said the sword wasn't magical but maybe you could figure out what the runes are for."
"It would be my pleasure." The forgemaster takes the blade in his hand and runs his fingers over its edge. He feels out the blade and looks over its craftsmanship long before he looks to the runes etched into its blade. After determining anything that he can, he provides the details to Pellius.
-----------
Later into the night as the orcish drums beat on, Dunagan can be heard in his tent tossing and turning. He has only slept a few hours before the haunting sounds and the images of the day are too much for him to bear. He slings the flap to his tent open and marches to Dierik's wagon with a furious, fiery glow in his eyes. He raps on the door loudly and shouts, "Give me the pauldron Sir Dierik!"
Dunagan rummages through his bag in the night. While it would be disastrous for a human to attempt the repairs at night, Torag has blessed Dunagan so that he see clearly in the darkest of nights. The dwarf pulls his tools from his bag and begins to hammer out the dents. A harmonious almost elegant sound of his work fills the camp. The clang of his hammer against the pauldron forms into a melodic beat that soon drowns out the sounds of the drums in the distance. It is only a short lived respite from the frightful melody as the forgemaster finishes the repairs.
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Dunagan takes Pellius’ newly acquired sword in his callused hands.
There’s no doubt it’s an intriguing weapon. The blade is a touch longer than would be normal for a sword sized for a human wielder. It’s also wide, although not wide enough to be considered a broadsword, and furthermore, flares ever so subtly from a straight edge to a leaf shape towards the tip of the blade. The cross-section is diagonal, and devoid of a fuller or blood channel. Dunagan eyes flicker across the looping runes that entangle the blade like a bramble briar, all the way from the chappe to the tip. He has no idea of their significance; they look rather winsome and suspiciously elvish to him. The runes have not been etched or cut into the metal, but instead seemed raised on delicate ridges from the core of the sword itself.
Dunagan is unsure of the metal used in the sword’s construction; it does not seem to be steel, or even iron. In the firelight, it gleams with faint sheen somewhere between green and copper.
The dwarf’s attention turns to the handle and guard. The core of the sword runs directly through to the pommel, and the same metal forms the quillions. They branch like the spreading antlers of a great stag. The hilt might once have been bound in some material, but this has long since rotted away. Nonetheless, the sword fits comfortably in the hand, and the whole weapon is beautifully balanced.
After some contemplation, Dunagan realises the sword is made from sakkaveen, an incredibly durable alloy of copper, arsenic and argunite which is considered unforgeable. Supposedly, it can be heated and shaped as well as any other metal, but invariably shatters when cooled.
- - - - -
Despite Pyotr’s offers of warm blankets, Modoru remains encased in his finely worked full plate. He does not laugh at Pyotr’s joke, and seems shamed that his trembling has been noticed. Nonetheless, he responds to the half-orc’s question, and manages at least to keep his voice firm.
“I will help with the cairn tomorrow, and then return home to my knights in arms at Castle Firrine, if it still stands. I’ll take a horse if I can, and pay good gold for one too. The hill giant hid my coin purse from the looting orcs just as well as it hid my throat from their hungry knives. If there’s no horse to be had I’ll walk.”
“Excuse me,” Modoru hauls himself to his feet and walks away a dozen or so yards. He stops and looks north, into the night and the anonymous drums, and slams his fist into the side of Old Stubborness in frustration.
Although clearly ashamed at his show of fear, Modoru also appears rather surprised at himself for being suddenly unmanned by the sound of the orcish drums.
- - - - -
Despite the drums, the nearby dead, and the uncanny lights flickering in the marsh nearby, most of the caravan has managed to drift into sleep. It’s somewhere between two and three in the morning, and Delkaneth is on watch when Dunagan explodes from his tent, a dwarf on a mission.
Luckily for Dunagan, Dierik is in his own wagon this night. After about a minute of rapping goes by, Dunagan’s boss wrenches open his door and glares at the dwarf in a state of some befuddlement. His hair faces in several different directions, and although he’s wearing a long-sleeved cotton tunic, the sanctity of his nethers is covered by nothing more than a strip of red silk tied like a loin cloth.
Dierik looks past the dwarf, sees the camp in order, then looks back at Dunagan.
“And the emergency is . . ?” he wonders.
"Give me the pauldron Sir Dierik!"
Dierik listens to the demand, opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again. Then he opens it again, takes a breath to muster a retort, but instead closes his jaws a second time, and visibly bites his lip. His eyes flicker to the dark sky above. A sigh whistles through his teeth. He ducks back into his wagon.
As Dierik bends over his crumpled armour, Dunagan looks into the interior of the ‘Moneybox’, and notes that its interior dimensions seem considerable larger than the coach’s size would deem possible. It’s also lit softly by an amber glow, though no lamp or candle seems to be burning within.
The pauldron sails out of the coach and lands at Dunagan’s feet.
“Show me the results in the morning,” are Dierik’s only words before he slams his door shut.
The harmonious, elegant sound of Dunagan’s crafting rings out over the camp. It is not appreciated.
“What the blazes . . .”
“Who in the Ninth Hell?”
“Woof, woof, awhooooooooooaaaaaaaaahhhhh . . ,” this from Shambles.
“Is it an attack? Lhairak, report!” this from a just awakened Callan.
“It’s the dwarf. He’s hammering something,” comes the reply.
“Hey longbeard, give it a rest. I was dreaming I was in a Katapeshi harem ‘fore you interrupted it all!” a disgruntled, unidentified, gravelly voice.
“It’s not too bad. Reminds me of Vigil’s bells,” says someone.
“Then you’re even stupider than that dwarf. Is he drunk?”
“Dunagan! Armoursmithing in the middle of the foolin’ night. Masimbaka!*" Callan again.
“Woof, woof, awooooooooahhhhhhhhh!”
“Well, go and stop him, Lhairak. Kick some sense into him if you have to! Go on now.” Callan orders.
“I ain’t doing it. That dwarf’s crazy, and he stinks worse than my grandpa’s bed linen.”
Lhairak’s orders become redundant however, as Dunagan completes his work. The camp falls silent again, save for Shambles’ keening howls.
Delkaneth looks up and sees a glowing, sickly-yellow orb as large as his head emerge from the mist hanging over the Ghostlight Marshes. For an eye blink it hangs there motionless, some hundred feet from Del, then sails back into the grasping fog at great speed.
Shambles’ long howls turn to excited yaps as he tears out of the camp after the will o’ wisp. Fast as a sprinting greyhound, he dashes across the open ground that separates the wagons from the swamp, and is swallowed up in the swirling mist.
*A Garundi curse.
WITH DUNAGAN
"Elven runes eh? Well, you can bet the elves know their longswords; I'll have to have an elven mage look at it when I get a chance."
He takes the blade back from the dwarf, "Much appreciated, master crafter."
NOISES IN THE DARK
Pellius tosses and turns in his blankets as he hears the noise. Quickly realizing it's the dwarf from what the others are yelling, he cups his hands over his ears and tries to continue sleeping.
As the noise continues and he is about to get up, the camp turns quiet and the magus thinks better of it and get back to sleep.
Unfortunately, Del's ingenious little scheme does not lure Shambles back home. His dancing lights drift back to him without company.
He hears a faint bark sound from deeper in the marsh.
Failing hopelessly to drown out Master Dunagan's poorly timed smithing endeavors, Bonegrit resigns himself to his awakened state even after the forgemaster's work is complete. Sitting upright atop his bedroll, the half-orc spares a wary glance towards the unnatural performance of wisps and otherwise being put on just beyond the caravan. Though he had never personally had to deal with the Ghostlight, Bonegrit recalls tidbits of what seemed like superstitious talk at the time. Here in the sight of the foreboding marsh, he now sees the truth to those tales. His eyes wander the length of the mists, their tendrils creeping across the expanse beyond like fingers of vapor, ever threatening to extend its grasp to the camp and envelop all in a gravelike silence. So lost is Bonegrit in his dread that he does not notice Shambles bolting for the fog before it is too late.
"Barkin' mutt, get back here!" The words avail him naught, as the flea-bitten canine continues loping and yapping towards a fate it cannot comprehend. Bonegrit seems momentarily terror stricken, obviously torn between chasing down the dog and being too frightened of the marshes to go in after the fool. Ultimately, he seems to decide with the foolish course, however, his hands quickly untethering Amiro before he leaps atop the unsaddled horse and coaxes the brute to give chase to the wayward dog.
"By Torag's beard! This is sakkaveen! A mixture of copper, arsenic and argunite. An impossible forge, but here it sits in me hands! It is incredibly durable, but there be no way in the nine hells it can be forged since it shatters when cooled. Maybe this sword was grown, not forged?" Dunagan scratches his head in contemplation of the mechanics of such a thing. "Tis an incredible sword to be sure!"
"Crazy Half-orc. Ye are dumb as that dog!" Dunagan quickly mounts Sard and chases after Bonegrit. He leaves the armor piled upon itself nearby his tent and workspace. And I am no better...
Pyotr stands at the base of the mountain. Dead hands reach out. Vacant eyes stare at him. The crows circle him, screaming. There is something he must do. Something he has to do. Something only he can do. It is at the top of the mountain. He must climb the mountain. He must climb the mountain...
The mountain does not wish to be climbed.
Pyotr reaches out to find a handhold. But, no sooner does he pick his first foot up, then the hands grasp him. They cling desperately. They will not permit him to climb.
Hand over hand, step after weary step, Pyotr fights through a forest of grasping limbs and biting teeth. Eyes roll white and bloody through torn sockets. The birds cry desperately. Climb. One more step. One more handhold. The top must come. Climb.
What is it I must do? What waits for me at the top? What must I do?
"Climb!" screams one of the crows. "Crawl! Climb! Crawl!" they all begin to scream. Pyotr climbs. He crawls, higher and higher up the mountain of the dead. Then, when it seems the mountain will never end, he reaches up, and there is nothing. He grabs for the mountain beneath him, but it is gone. His armor crashes as he falls, clanging off of the dead as he tumbles. Crash. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Pyotr jerks himself awake to the crashing of Dunagan's hammer. He thrashes in his bedroll, trying to tear himself free of the blankets.
"Barkin' mutt, get back here!"
"Crazy Half-orc. Ye are dumb as that dog!"
Pyotr watches in confusion as the half-orc and the dwarf go riding into the night at breakneck speed.
- Are Pyotr, Delkaneth and Pellius going to follow their companions into the swamp? They'll not go in after a dog, but how about after their comrades?
- Hopefully everyone's plainly aware of the risks of riding a horse into a foggy swamp at full tilt at night. It's certainly the quickest way of catching the errant mutt, but inherently dangerous for man and beast. If you go ahead on horseback, please make both Ride checks and Handle Animal checks (Bonegrit's already done so). After all, none of us want this.
- Dunagan, please make a Ride check (modifiers from the horse don't apply) representing the dwarf's efforts to saddle at speed. It's a low DC.
"By Torag's beard! This is sakkaveen! A mixture of copper, arsenic and argunite. An impossible forge, but here it sits in me hands! It is incredibly durable, but there be no way in the nine hells it can be forged since it shatters when cooled. Maybe this sword was grown, not forged?" Dunagan scratches his head in contemplation of the mechanics of such a thing. "Tis an incredible sword to be sure!"
The magus is taken back by Dunagan's excitement. He raises his eyebrows, "Grown? What do you mean grown?"
Not really waiting for an answer, the magus takes the sword back and lovingly caresses the blade, his fingers tracing the upraised runes. He gets up and lays the longsword horizontally in his two hands. He then raises his head and bows, "Thank you, my Lady; it shall be put to good use."
The magus wraps himself in blankets once again trying to catch some sleep to no avail.
Just when things seem to quite down, he hears Bonegrit and then Dunagan curse. Knowing they were not supposed to take double duty on watch this night, an annoyed but curious magus steps out from the wagon.
Seeing what seems to be Delkaneth up ahead, the magus quickly straps on his swordbelt and runs out to him, "Del! What are you doing here? What's going on?"
Should you want to make adjustments on your actions between them and now, that would be fine, although I must say I'm loving the chaos! To summarise;
-Bonegrit, upon an unsaddled Amiro, a round ahead of everyone else in his pursuit of Shambles. Presumably unarmoured? Well ahead of Del's dancing lights
-Dunagan, unarmoured and upon Sard (presuming he's got him saddled alright) a round behind Bonegrit. Ahead of Del and the edge of the radiance cast by Del's dancing lights, but at full speed Sard will carry him out of the light quickly.
-Delkaneth, equipped and armoured (he was on watch), following on foot, illuminating a 50' by 50' area with dancing lights. A round behind Bonegrit.
-Pellius, unarmoured and on foot. Two rounds behind Bonegrit, one round behind Del and Dunagan, outside the area illuminated by Del's dancing lights
-Pyotr, pending
Pyotr, with his greatsword tucked under his arm, half runs, half hops after Pellius as he tries frantically to pull on his second boot. "What in the nine hoary hells is going on!?"
"They're chasing after the daemon stupri dog!"
Pyotr stops in his tracks, buying him enough time and leverage to force his foot fully into the boot. The dog? As the others speed away out of the range of his vision, Pyotr shouts, "Dogs are the harbingers of horrible things! If it has fled into that fetid abyss, it is only to bring doom upon us!"
"Just let the mangy thing leave..." Pyotr's voice fades to a plaintive whine as Delkaneth's lights begin to dwindle in the distance. With a grunt part annoyance, part determination, Pyotr slings his sword over his back and runs after the others.
Dunagan tries to keep pace with Bonegrit, hoping to not lose him in the darkness.
"Hold fast, Bonegrit! It is just a mutt! The beast has survived this long without us. We can search for it in the morning."
Amiro seems content to trust in his master and ride through the darkness, but as he plunges into the swamp the horse is forced to abate his speed. Through boggy ground and shallow rills of standing water, legs sinking to the hocks, Bonegrit’s doughty steed ploughs on nevertheless.
The fog ebbs and tides about him as the ranger does his best to pick out the safest path to follow. Thankfully, it’s easy to pick up Shambles’ trail; the dog’s prints stand out plainly in the mud. Furthermore, the mongrel’s scent lingers in Bonegrit’s nose; the half-orc noticed the mutt rolling in the excrement of some scavenging fox whilst the caravan was making camp, and the dung’s noisome tang is easily detected.
Bonegrit and Amiro push on into the Ghostlight Marshes.
The half-orc and rider are enveloped in the mist, and soon even Dunagan’s keen darkvision can do no more than pick out a faint shadow of their forms. He blinks, and loses them completely, but Sard’s already carried him to the edge of the Ghostlight Marshes, and Amiro’s thick legs have speared the mud with deep, wet marks, creating an easy trail for Dunagan to follow.
For a breath Sard pauses, nose quivering nervously, whilst Dunagan urges the ‘crazy half-orc to hold fast’, then Sard plunges into the swamp after Bonegrit, Amiro and Shambles.
A clanging rhythm behind them causes them to glance behind as they run. On their trail is Modoru, struggling and failing to keep up in his full plate, his sword and shield in hand. The knight appears to have spent all night in his crumpled armour, looks exhausted, but nonetheless seems determined to accompany them into the Ghostlight Marshes.
Behind this courageous procession of fools, the camp is in uproar; the shouts, barks, and galloping horses just about waking those few not already disturbed by Dunagan’s hammering. From the top of a wagon, the trail guard Lhairak, shouts a running commentary of events to those men and women now tumbling out of their bedrolls, demanding to know what all the fuss is about. Lhairak describes the play of happenings with a raconteur’s skill and an orator’s projection, from Shambles’ flight through the train of unlikely pursuers.
Interested and dismayed as they are (though more on the account of Shambles rather than their new colleagues), nobody else makes a move in the direction of the marsh.
Pellius adjusts his swordbelt again to accommodate for his slimmer waistline due to lack of armor.
"Wait up, Del!"
Reaching the bard and slowing him down some more so both Pyotr and Modoru arrive, he states, "So our ranger and dwarf charge into the swamps for the dog?! The magus shakes his head, "I've got a good mind to leave them there. We are going to talk about this once we get back. Plenty of dangers all around us to start looking for extra ones."
He cups his hands over his mouth and starts yelling, "Dunagan! Bonegrit! Let's head on back! C'mon guys be serious about this."
He turns to Del again, "Keep those lights circling and can you get one a little higher so they may see it easier?"
Pyotr reaches Delkaneth and Pellius, and turns in surprise as Modoru comes clanking up behind him. He frowns slightly as the knight pants to a stop.
"Of what concern is that mongrel to us?" he asks the gathering. "That beast has been free roaming for years. If he chooses to go his own way...."
"Forget the dog! I care not a whit if he vanishes forever in that bog. My only concern now is to save our comrades from their impetuous chase."
Bonegrit's eyes focus on Shambles' tracks, his hope to apprehend the dog before it is lost forever to the gloom of the Ghostlights evident. Behind him, he catches the distant cries of his comrades, though he can only clearly make out Dunagan's cautions over the sucking noise of Amiro's hooves as they labor through the muck. "Do as you like! There won't be a morning for Shambles if we leave him be, and you know it." Just a mutt. Just like me. Just like Pyotr. That dog's as much a part of the caravan as us.
Jaw set firmly, Bonegrit continues urging his steed ahead into the same foggy bog that he had dreaded only moments prior. Gozreh's bluster, Shambles! You'd better not be wormfood.
"The only thing I am certain about is that Shambles is more likely to return to the camp then us!" Dunagan's sanity returns as he begins to feel the weight of the swamp around him. The darkness closes in tighter and tighter as both him and his horse become visibly nervous, both breathing heavier and making more and more erratic movements. The Dwarf pulls Sard to a halt and begins to wheel her back around to follow his tracks from the camp and rejoin the others behind him.
Initiative
Bonegrit
Enemies
Amiro finds a firmer footing underneath and picks up his pace. This patch of drier ground has been colonised by some plants larger than the waterlogged bogmoss, and Bonegrit passes low stands of leathery sheathed pike reeds and twisted, leafless scrub trees that grow no higher than a dwarf.
And it’s the latter of these two forms of vegetation that are moving towards him . . .
There are eight of these creatures, five closing on Bonegrit’s right and three to the left. None are taller than four feet; slender humanoid forms of malformed wood that move upon sharply pointed limbs. Twig like protrusions sprout from their heads and upper backs, an effect like a head of hair standing on end. Whorls and contusions in the bark even suggest faces of these strange plants.
Bonegrit’s attackers are twig blights, evil-natured sentient plants which feed on blood. They’re best attacked with weapons suited for chopping timber – piercing weapons such as spears or arrows do little damage.
The bards say twig blights are descended from the seeds of a wooden stake, which sprouted into unholy life when it was used to slay an elder vampire. Their claws ooze a debilitating, poisonous sap.
Delkaneth, Pellius and Pyotr are gathered just at the edge of the marsh, with Del’s dancing lights floating around them. A squelching noise heralds the return of Sard and Dunagan as they re-emerge from the swamp.
Modoru also catches up with them, but does not tarry.
“The dog matters not, but a man who helped me has ventured in, and he won’t stand alone,” Modoru passes straight by, his boots splashing through a puddle of black water as he continues into the Ghostlight Marshes. “Did Iomedae leave Abelard the Steadfast to face Erum-hel alone at the Battle of Three Sorrows?” he asks rhetorically over his shoulder.
For those who’ve read their Acts of Iomedae, they know the answer to this question is most emphatically no.
“The dog matters not, but a man who helped me has ventured in, and he won’t stand alone,” Modoru passes straight by, his boots splashing through a puddle of black water as he continues into the Ghostlight Marshes. “Did Iomedae leave Abelard the Steadfast to face Erum-hel alone at the Battle of Three Sorrows?”
Pyotr shakes his head as he plunges into the murk behind the tattered knight. No. But, I'm quite certain the battle with the Lord of the Mohrgs didn't begin by chasing down a mangy stray!
He draws his greatsword and takes out his frustration on the tangled vine that had snagged his tunic. "Can we at least agree that when we find Bonegrit, we will drag him back to camp if we have to? And we leave the dog to his own devices?"
"Can we at least agree that when we find Bonegrit, we will drag him back to camp if we have to? And we leave the dog to his own devices?"
"Yes, yes we can," the magus stated, obviously very upset about the entire series of events that led him here, unarmored in a dangerous swamp looking for a... dog.
He yelled at Modoru, "Our Lady also is not stupid so don't go charging into danger by yourself. We have agreed to get our ranger back but let's go about it the smart way and that means together. Understand?"
Fearing the stick monsters will surround him, Bonegrit quickly spurs Amiro out of their encirclement. The quickest, clearest route is straight ahead, the ranger urges his mount forward for about seventy feet, then reins in and looks back to see the creatures following him, lurching along on their root-like feet.
Bonegrit bellows a wordless challenge, as much to let his companions know he is beset as to intimidate his strange attackers.
Dunagan’s on the verge of getting Sard back onto firm ground when he sees his companions sloshing towards them. At the front of this procession comes Modoru Redgrave. The man looks utterly exhausted, and wobbles along clumsily as the bog sucks at his boots and steel greaves. Despite this fatigue, his face is set with determination.
"Our Lady also is not stupid so don't go charging into danger by yourself. We have agreed to get our ranger back but let's go about it the smart way and that means together. Understand?"
“I’ve seen plenty of men hide their cowardice behind words such as those. Dwell not on the dangers, but on your companion who stands alone in this swamp.”
As Modoru makes his retort, the faint cry is heard ahead: “HAARRRR!!!” They recognise Bonegrit’s voice, and the shout sounds like a response to danger . . .
“I’ve seen plenty of men hide their cowardice behind words such as those. Dwell not on the dangers, but on your companion who stands alone in this swamp.”
The magus is not impressed, "Don't lecture me about bravery! And I've said that we are going to get Bonegrit back but we'll do it in a way to make sure that we all get back, safe and sound so rein in your bravado and stay with us."
As Modoru makes his retort, the faint cry is heard ahead: “HAARRRR!!!” They recognise Bonegrit’s voice, and the shout sounds like a response to danger . . .
Pellius curses, "That was him," and starts yelling, "Bonegrit, where are you?"
The magus starts heading towards the yelling faster than he'd like given the circumstances.
Now seeing fully the great numbers of creatures that are seeking to overwhelm him, Bonegrit begins to appreciate the danger he has found himself in. After sparing a quick glance about to make sure none of these things have gotten ahold of Shambles, Bonegrit slows Amiro to a brisk canter and retrieves an arrow from his quiver. Nice move, Bonegrit. Surrounded by tree-men and ya ferget to bring an axe. Guess these'll have to do. Picking the nearest target, the half-orc looses the arrow over another booming, guttural cry: ""
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Pyotr's long, loping gait, free of the encumbrance of armor, quickly overtakes the more heavily ensconced knight. "Throwing yourself before dangers unknown, will not bring you relief from your losses or your pain." Pyotr paces Modoru for a moment before shouldering him aside to take the lead. At Bongrit's shout, he charges ahead fully, with sword drawn.
Dunagan hops from Sard and pulls his warhammer from his belt, and waves his left hand above the haft of the warhammer. He begins a whispered divine blessing.
Satisfied with the result, Dunagan jets off towards Bonegrit, now in the company of his fellow caravan guards.