“Aye, if it’s my word you want, then you can have it. You need not fear, I’ll seek no vengeance on Alagor for his lucky blow, nor on any of the comrades that stood at his side.”
For a while, his eyes linger upon his glaive, the beautiful weapon that Pyotr has discarded. He sighs and turns away.
“I’ll return the bodies of Blaeth and Tarkh to their families, and Commor to Yevender’s chastisement.”
Bonegrit doesn’t have to wait very long. A rather skinny scrub hare emerges tentatively from its burrow, and is immediately skewered by the half-orc’s arrow.
The ungrateful puma, however, seems to view tinned rations and old, rangy scrub hare as an unsatisfactory meal. Out the corner of his eye, Bonegrit sees it crawling swiftly from the meagre cover of some goat gorse to a small boulder, it’s profile the slender image of a hunting cat, its attention fixed firmly on the half-orc.
“Aye, if it’s my word you want, then you can have it. You need not fear, I’ll seek no vengeance on Alagor for his lucky blow, nor on any of the comrades that stood at his side.”
For a while, his eyes linger upon his glaive, the beautiful weapon that Pyotr has discarded. He sighs and turns away.
“I’ll return the bodies of Blaeth and Tarkh to their families, and Commor to Yevender’s chastisement.”
The magus was about to argue with Tanerit about 'Pyotr's lucky blow' but his practical soldier sense takes over. You're getting what you want. Let it go.
Pellius nods, "Good, there's hope for you yet. Should you want to make an honest living, go and volunteer in Last Wall. I'm sure your skills would be welcomed and no questions would be asked of your past as long as you swear allegiance to the cause. It will give you a fresh start should you want it."
He looks at Commor's unconscious form, "No need to bother with Commor; he's coming with us but your other arrangements are honorable." Seeing more in the mercenary than he originally had, the magus extends his hand. "May fortune smile on you and may we see each other in better terms next time we cross paths."
"May fortune smile on you and may we see each other in better terms next time we cross paths."
“As you wish,” nods Tanerit, accepting Pellius’ proffered hand and shaking.
The mercenary gingerly climbs upon his horse, and accepts the dagger offered. The bodies of Tarkh and Blaeth are slung over the second horse, and Tanerit takes the reins of both. He offers nothing more in the way of farewell, simply clicking to the horses as they lurch into a trot. Two dozen yards from the campsite he turns this into a canter as Tanerit begins to make his way back to the Freedom Town.
Something about the manner he responded to Pellius’ handshake, or the look on his face as he rode out of camp, leaves you wondering whether Tanerit is quite as honourable as Alagor has heard.
Pyotr helps saddle Agtharda's horse. Once she is mounted, he climbs atop Torshen's Hammer, and taking the reins of Commor's horse, leads it forward as the group makes its way again towards the Hungry Mountains.
Once Tanerit is out of sight, Pyotr pulls the trailing mount adjacent and places his gauntlet-less hand on Commor's injured scalp. Pyotr holds him in place as he begins to fidget himself to consciousness.
Turning to face the puma's approach, Bonegrit remains hunkered down and low. After a split second's moment of consideration, he elects to appeal to the cat's curiosity. Pursing his lips, he emits a shrill and lilting whistle as he begins almost scuttling backwards towards the recently deceased hare. His hand shoots out behind him to grab up the skewered hare by the scruff of its neck. Still facing the tensed puma, he proffers the carcass between he and the creature stalking him, as if it were some sort of divine shield against the animal's predatory inclinations.
So, we keep the bumbling youth, and set free a capable arm. Boy, I'll be earning this money the hard way
"May your weapon keep you safe, until you find a more decent blade" - he offers parting words to leaving mercenary, before approaching "his" horse, mounting it slowly and moving towards the group. Seeing that paladin is mending Commor's wounds, Alagor thinks a bit and than guides his horse closer to half-orc.
"Not to be a fly in your soup, but should not we wait for our scout 'fore moving on? And since we might be waitin' a bit more, and you seem so generous with your divine gift, I might use some healin' as well. After all, I was, and plan to be on your side" - winking mischeviously, Alagor does his best to keep his horse close to Pyotr.
As Bonegrit scuttles back, the puma responds to the retreat and begins boldly closing with the half-orc, no longer trying to hide itself but yet to burst into a fully-fledged sprint. That moment is interrupted by the Bonegrit’s strange whistling, which prompts the puma to stall, one ear cocked curiously, its haunches hunkered down and ready to pounce.
The half-orc reaches the deceased scrub hare, grabs it and presents it to the puma, like some divine shield separating predator and prey. Raising the hare causes fresh blood to trickle from the game, and the puma’s nose quivers with interest.
Tense moments stretch out as both frozen figures in the tableau size each other up. Then Bonegrit throws the scrub hare towards the puma’s feet and rises to his full height. Getter a better impression of the size of its intended target, caution wins over; the puma grabs the hare and bolts towards the wilderness.
Back at camp, Bonegrit can see his companions packing down the tents and beginning to mount up.
The conundrum of the prisoners solved, and Tanerit out of sight, the expanding group continues to make its way to the Hungry Mountains.
Pyotr pulls Commor’s horse alongside and lays his ungauntleted hand on the squire’s battered scalp. By Iomedae’s mercy, the young lad begins to drift back into consciousness once more, his movements controlled by Pyotr’s firm grip.
“Bad dreams Mama, and Branth’s been beating me again . . . Whoa!” Commor startles back into full wakefulness as he realises the steadying hand is far from maternal.
“You again!” he says, regarding Pyotr blearily “Are you taking me to your brigand lair? Hey,” Commor looks around in alarm “Where’s Tanerit? Did you kill him too?”
Commor then looks ahead at the Hungry Mountains rising ever more formidable before them. “Hang on, those are the Hungry Mountains. They eat people. Are you sure you wanna go there?”
Commor half-heartedly tries to reach for his horse’s reins, but realising they’re firmly in Pyotr’s grip looks around helplessly. He ponders jumping off his horse, but his head injury is still severe enough to make him woozy; instead he grasps on to the saddle and suddenly looks rather seasick.
Agtharda nudges her dark horse to the front of the column as the morning slips away, the foothills surround them and the path becomes less obvious. The struggling vegetation seems to give up entirely, and they find themselves more often than not riding over bare rock or loose shale, with only the occasional leafless, dead looking shrub hinting that anything has ever grown in these parts. Taxathar’s Bane begins to loom over the party, only rivalled in size by Mount Vydrix further north.
The path continues to deteriorate, with the horses unsure of their footing as the adventurers begin to climb the lower slopes.
“Bad dreams Mama, and Branth’s been beating me again . . . Whoa!” Commor startles back into full wakefulness as he realises the steadying hand is far from maternal.
“You again!” he says, regarding Pyotr blearily “Are you taking me to your brigand lair? Hey,” Commor looks around in alarm “Where’s Tanerit? Did you kill him too?”
Pyotr releases his hold on the young man, as he gains his wits and manages to set himself properly in the saddle. "Tanerit is alive, and on his way back to Freedom Town with the remains of your other companions. You are still wounded. I would not trust one such as Tanerit to care for a wounded companion here in the wilds."
"Yevender... Ser Yevender," Pyotr grudgingly grants the pariah knight his honor, "has not instructed you well in your duties. There is far more to knighthood than drinking yourself insensible and surrounding yourself with the trappings of chivalric antiquity. Before I return you to your patron, I consider it my duty to teach you properly."
Commor half-heartedly tries to reach for his horse’s reins, but realising they’re firmly in Pyotr’s grip looks around helplessly.
"To begin with, you are fallen in battle. I have taken your arms and armor as a trophy," Pyotr motions to the barding and shield strapped to Torshen's Hammer, "and you are my honorable captive. My name, if you have forgotten it, is Pyotr, Swordsworn of Vigil, Acolyte of the Cathedral, and I am the one who vanquished you." The bells hanging from the glaive and Hammer's bridle chime merrily in accompaniment to the half-orc's words. "You may have the chance to earn some of these things back, including your freedom, if you do as I tell you."
"Your first lesson: A Knight's word is his bond. Your Honor and your Honesty are of the most paramount importance. You will give me your parole, your word of honor, that you will not attempt escape or reprisal until I release you from your captivity."
"Not to be a fly in your soup, but should not we wait for our scout 'fore moving on? And since we might be waitin' a bit more, and you seem so generous with your divine gift, I might use some healin' as well. After all, I was, and plan to be on your side" - winking mischeviously, Alagor does his best to keep his horse close to Pyotr.
"Our trail will not be hard to follow. Bonegrit could track us, regardless. I have given up worrying for that one. He enjoys his solitary treks through the wilds. And I suspect he is safer on his own than it would seem to those of us not born to the wilderness."
Torshen's Hammer shakes his head as he is enclosed by the two horses. The bells on his bridle making a carillon of sound in the wild. "You have my apologies," Pyotr starts, noticing the extent of Alagor's remaining injuries. He reaches over and places a hand on the warrior, loosing the healing energies. "I had thought the thief," Pyotr turns a dark glance towards Khozin, "had tended to your wounds."
""Our trail will not be hard to follow. Bonegrit could track us, regardless. I have given up worrying for that one. He enjoys his solitary treks through the wilds. And I suspect he is safer on his own than it would seem to those of us not born to the wilderness."
"Aye, you do seem to have a point. That half-orc..." - here Alagor pauses, realizing that he might make a blunder and involuntarily offend paladin next to him. Pyotr was coming from Vigil, and in there, half-orc ancestry was viewed and referred to in a different context than in Freedom Town. Here, on the edge of the real wilderness, on doorsteps of Belkzen, orcs and their human offspring, were present almost everywhere, and people living here had a different attitude. Finally, Alagor continues: "As I was saying, Bonegrit seems to know to take care of himself. Thanks for the healing though. It is my fault that I did not approach you. Khozin did help, but my wound was grievous. Tarkh was known as the strongest man in Freedom Town for a reason. Even now I have some scars healing, but thanks to Iomedae's grace and mercy, I am much better at this time. Thank you."
With that, Alagor waits if there is any response from the paladin, and then lets his horse trail a bit back. He heard the beginning of discussion between Pyotr and Commor, and he was hoping not to have to witness the rest of it. Instead, he refocuses his attention to the barren surrounding around them, making sure his horse finds steady footing on the continuosly deteriorating trail. Every once in a while, he glances behind the group, checking if they are followed yet again.
Bonegrit spends a moment in silence, watching the puma enjoy the paltry main course he was able to avail its famished condition. He smiles a bit inwardly, knowing he is staving off the grips of starvation, though it is a bittersweet thought. He has bought the animal more time perhaps, but its ragged condition speaks to a perpetual problem. Whether the issue lay with it being unfit for surviving its harsh environs or the environs themselves lacking a bounty otherwise available Bonegrit can only guess at. With any luck, the beast might wander further from home into lusher landscapes. The shadow of the Hungries is a miserable place to scrape out a living.
Finally, Bonegrit leaves the puma before it has finished its meal. He sets a jogging pace when he is out of earshot of the animal. His return to camp finds him a little surprised. Feeling he had made good time, he does not expect his fellows to have made ready to depart so early. It is a welcome surprise, however. The day ahead will be well underway. While their destination was a bit grim, the locale was necessary. Bonegrit simply hopes to get it over and done with as soon as possible.
"Got yerself a new guide an' now it's all eagerness to leave Bonegrit in the dust, eh?" Bonegrit says in jest with a gravelly chuckle. After ambling over to his own bedroll, the ranger fetches his waterskin and expends a bit of his drinking supply to clean up the hare's bloodstains that still cling to his forearm and glove.
"Looks like we'll make good time, at least."
Agtharda nudges her dark horse to the front of the column as the morning slips away, the foothills surround them and the path becomes less obvious. The struggling vegetation seems to give up entirely, and they find themselves more often than not riding over bare rock or loose shale, with only the occasional leafless, dead looking shrub hinting that anything has ever grown in these parts. Taxathar’s Bane begins to loom over the party, only rivalled in size by Mount Vydrix further north.
The path continues to deteriorate, with the horses unsure of their footing as the adventurers begin to climb the lower slopes.
The magus picks up on the discomfort of Signior as the loose gravel slips and slides under his sure hooves. He calms the horse down and trots up to Agtharda. Making sure he has the woman's attention, "Will we be able to ride the horses all the way to the cave or will we have to dismount and go on foot?"
He nods at her answer, "How long ago were you here? Did you come on horse?"
Pellius looks up to the gloomy mountain and asks what he meant to ask a while ago, "What manner of creatures inhabit this cave?"
Seeming to accept he’s not going anywhere, Commor gives as much attention as he can muster towards his knightly captor. Occasionally his concentration wavers, interrupted by concerned looks at the looming Hungry Mountains, and picking at the scab on his temple.
“Ser Pyotr,” Commor says the name carefully, rolling the Ustalavic name about his mouth like a wine-taster savouring a new vintage. “Sserrrr Peee-Yot-Tierrrr. I’m sorry if I seem dumb, but Mama birthed me standing and I fell headlong to the floor when I plopped out. At least, that’s what Branth says. I never knew you could be both a knight and a brigand. Ser Yevender never told me. So, if someone falls in battle, I can take their stuff. What if they fall elsewhere?” Behind them, Alagor’s horse stumbles over some loose shale, and Alagor only just catches himself. “For example, if the big guy falls off, can I take his rusty sword?”
“A Knight’s Word is his Bond. A Knight’s Word is his Bond. A Nice Word is a Bomb. Okay, I think I’ve got that. But I don’t know what parole is. And do I still have to go to the Hungry Mountains? I don’t wanna get eaten.”
A little while later, Commor has another question. “Are you going to tell me about wooing damsels? Ser Yevender was always shy on that subject. “
_ _ _ _ _
Khozin draws his horse alongside Alagor and Delkaneth, and making sure he’s out of earshot, nods his head towards Pyotr. “Your leader’s a funny one. One day he’s telling me he’s going to drag me back in chains to the Freedom Town, to my almost certain execution, and the next he wants to adopt the village idiot, the very idiot who just tried to kill him!”
The half-elf looks up at the dark clouds gathered around the peaks of the Hungries like a gang of truculent bullies. “Hope these mountains are more inviting inside than they appear to be from without,” he jokes lamely.
_ _ _ _ _
"Will we be able to ride the horses all the way to the cave or will we have to dismount and go on foot?"
At the Chelaxian’s question, Agtharda pulls up her dark horse rather abruptly, and turns her hood to regard the others coaxing their mounts up the trail behind her. The progress of the less able riders is obviously troubled, and hitching up her long robes the half-orc dismounts from where she has been sat, side-saddle. With a wave of her arm, she indicates the others should follow suit.
"How long ago were you here? Did you come on horse? What manner of creatures inhabit this cave?"
At Pellius’ further questions, Agtharda meets his gaze, her eyes glittering darkly from beneath her cowl. She makes a low mewling noise, perhaps the best vocalisation her tongueless mouth can utter. The sound has a vaguely frustrated ring to it. She dips into her bag, once again pulling out her quill, ink and roll of parchment. Finding a wide, flat boulder beside the trail, she writes out her replies in her graceful hand.
I have never entered the cave, but I learned of its location from Navareene. I travelled here seven months ago with the intention of exploring the Garrison of Arith-Zind, but my companions were all slain by trolls not far from this place, and I was forced to abandon my plan. We travelled then by horse, but learnt at our cost that the way is too treacherous to ride. We should lead the horses from here. The final approach is impassable for our steeds. Our only choice will be to climb.
As for what monsters lair within, I know nothing more than what Navareene has already told you.
Fat rain drops splatter on the parchment, swiftly blurring the words Agtharda has just set down. Thunder rumbles around the mountains and a low-hanging cloud tears open its belly on the peak of Taxathar’s Bane, sending a cold, drenching rain down upon the party.
“Ser Pyotr,” Commor says the name carefully, rolling the Ustalavic name about his mouth like a wine-taster savouring a new vintage. “Sserrrr Peee-Yot-Tierrrr.
Pyotr gives a mental sigh, and glances back towards Alagor and Khozin. First the warrior. Then the thief. Now the fool. Before much longer, I will have the whole deck stacked against me. "Ser" Pyotr it is, I guess...
"So, if someone falls in battle, I can take their stuff. What if they fall elsewhere?” Behind them, Alagor’s horse stumbles over some loose shale, and Alagor only just catches himself. “For example, if the big guy falls off, can I take his rusty sword?”
"When you achieve it, you may claim the rights of such a conquest. But, seeing your adversary laid low is a poor victory. Far better to see him raised up to become something more... something better than he was before."
Pyotr pats the chestnut horse beside him. "This is my horse. But, you have already won back his reins by giving me your word. That is a victory. When you prove to me that you have truly learned that lesson, the horse will be yours along with the tack. Is that not a far greater victory than you could achieve with weapons?"
As Commor continues to ply him with questions, Pyotr watches ahead on the trail as Agtharda suddenly pulls her horse up sharply and dismounts. She quickly begins scribbling out a note for Pellius to read. Pyotr pulls Hammer's reins, making the bells jangle discordantly in the echoing mountain pass. "Off your horse," he instructs Commor. "And keep silent, now. You will not be eaten, if you stay close to me and do exactly as I say."
Pyotr moves forward to coordinate with the group, and their cowled guide.
With his horse constantly stumbling, and himself steadily mumbling (curses), Alagor does not register the exchange between Pyotr and his squire-to-be. When Khozin approaches and offers one of his typical derisive comments, warrior listens with patience to Delkaneth's response. Atypical for him, he is silent for a bit, deliberating his response before offering it back to both of them: "Khozin, you would be wise to listen to his advices. From what little I know, this man...this, half-man, half-orc, is all about virtue and honor. He will make you answer for your actions when we get back. And since he does not understand the ways of Freedom Town, you will face some serious issues with young Sharpe. Now, in my opinion, your only choice left which will give you a chance (since you did not run-away earlier) is to make yourself usable. Just like now for example - it's obvious that Del is still unsteady on his feet. Take lead and go scout ahead instead of him. You should be good enough for the task, at least until Bonegrit returns. Take care."
Seeing that Pyotr and others dismounted from their horses, Alagor is more than happy to follow suite. He tightens the reins of the creature carrying him so far, and leads it carefully down the trail.
Fat rain drops splatter on the parchment, swiftly blurring the words Agtharda has just set down. Thunder rumbles around the mountains and a low-hanging cloud tears open its belly on the peak of Taxathar’s Bane, sending a cold, drenching rain down upon the party.
The magus pulls his cowl over his head to keep out the rain. He nods, "Good." Registering the woman's impatience but wanting to give her the 'easy' way out, he comments, "Information is what we need. It was what I did before joining the caravan, gather information as a scout. I hope it doesn't bother you because I am convinced that this is the only way to stay alive in places such as this."
He looks up at the unwelcoming mountains and takes Signior's reins, "C'mon everyone, the lady said we should dismount and follow on foot."
An ominous crash of thunder echoes around the mountains, and the chilling rain becomes a deluge.
"And keep silent, now. You will not be eaten, if you stay close to me and do exactly as I say."
Commor nods absentmindedly in response to his master’s command, and looks around mournfully as the rain soaks through his clothes.
"Just like now for example - it's obvious that Del is still unsteady on his feet. Take lead and go scout ahead instead of him. You should be good enough for the task, at least until Bonegrit returns. Take care."
“Fair enough, I’ll go take a peek. Just our luck eh; we get out of the Freedom Town because there are too many nefarious scoundrels and rotters, and we end up tying our colours to the most hidebound, holier than thou bunch of underage philistines this side of Lastwall! Yeah, I’m going, I’m going. Don’t worry, I’ll be back for the prayer meeting.”
Khozin stomps off into the rain, but swiftly adopts a more cautious carriage, stealthily moving from boulder to boulder at a crouch. Pretty soon, he’s out of view, the storm lessening visibility.
_ _ _ _ _
A short while later, Khozin re-joins them, no worse the wear for his little excursion, though the half-elf is looking a little like a drowned rat.
“The next half mile’s passable enough, but there the path stops and turns into a cliff-face. There are some remains up ahead as well; some unfortunates didn’t fare so well when they passed this way.”
Bonegrit joins the adventurers, having briefly doubled back on the trail. The ranger had had a vague suspicion they were being followed, but a careful survey had revealed no sign of pursuit.
With all the band together, Agtharda, Khozin and Pyotr lead the rest of the way, until the horses can go no further, and Taxathar’s Bane massive, monstrous bulk rises in sheer crags before them.
Beneath the cliff lie the almost completely decomposed bodies of three orcs, the unfortunates Khozin referred to. A few desperate scavengers have clearly been at the remains, which are disarticulated over a wide area.
The orcs have probably been dead half a year. They appear to have been dismembered by claw and fang.
The storm continues, but through the veil of rain the adventurers can see a circular rent in the flank of the mountain, a wide cave opening into the heart of Taxathar’s Bane. Agtharda raises a finger to point at this entrance; this, it is clear, is their destination.
Pyotr studies the three corpses, but years living among the catacombs of the Cathedral had inured him to the sight of the long dead. He gives up on trying to guess how long they lay there, and spends a few moments examining the ground for the tracks of predators and scavengers that may still be nearby.
The rain goes from a steady downpour to a frigid deluge. The great drops bang off of Pyotr's armor with a sound more like hail than rain. He claps his silvered helm on his head merely to deflect to the majority of the chilling water. Even the normally imperturbable Torshen's Hammer shirks from the sheets of water pouring out of the sky.
The ragged, rain-drenched party continues its climb to the wall, with Pyotr at the front. The mute Agtharda walks close behind him, but with the heavy sound of rain, he never bothers to make an attempt at speech. As Commor falls behind, Pyotr pulls the longsword from where it was tied to Hammer's saddle. Slowly, bogged down by the soaking wet, he works a small thread loose from his tunic. He slides the sword barely half an inch from its scabbard, and tucks the thread against the crosspiece before sheathing it fully again.
Once at the cliff face, Pyotr watches the water cascading across its surface like a fountain. The silent guide points towards the opening nearly sixty feet from the ground. Pyotr's groan is lost to the wind and deluge.
While the others examine the problem of the cliff face, Pyotr begins removing several of the tents, tying them together. The stakes and poles groan against the added weight, and buckets of water pour through gaps, but he manages to pull the whole thing tight and raise it up enough to fit the horses under. Then a tunnel of wind whips through the crevice and the whole thing collapses. The half-orc sighs in frustration. "I fear the beasts will simply have to endure the rain."
Pyotr sets up one of the tents in a more traditional fashion, and begins unburdening Hammer of his bridle, tack, and assembled gear, storing it in the tent. He leaves him armored, pulling him away from the others. "Guard this place. Defend the others until I return," he whispers in his ear.
"Come here, Commor," Pyotr calls to the young squire. "It is time to put your first lesson to the test. That cave is no place for you. So, I leave you in charge of the horses and the tents. You have earned your bridle. Remove it from my horse and store it in the tent with the others. Stay in this place and guard your charges. Do you understand?"
"Now, for your second lesson. 'I will learn the weight of my sword. Without my heart to guide it, it is worthless—my strength is not in my sword, but in my heart. If I lose my sword, I have lost a tool. If I betray my heart, I have died.'" Pyotr holds the longsword out to the young man. "That is the most important lesson that any knight must learn. The first lesson of The Acts. I do not know if you are truly ready for it. But, I shall know upon my return."
"Here is a tool to defend your charges. This," he taps the hilt of the blade against Commor's chest, just over his heart, "is your shield and your most powerful weapon. Your heart must guide the sword. It is not for show and not for play. Do not draw it from the scabbard unless you must. Do not doubt but that I shall know if this is done."
The magus softly whistles at the sight of the cave entrance and does his best to keep the cold rain from trickling down his back.
"That is one tough climb, especially with the rain."
He checks his saddle bags, pulls out his silk rope, and shakes his head, "I'm afraid I have rope, about 10' short of what's needed and no grappling hook. If no one volunteers, I'll try my skill at the rock face but I'll need someone else's rope to tie to mine to throw to the rest of you."
He looks up at the sky, "But I'm waiting until the rain stops or lessens a good bit. No sense in risking my neck needlessly."
Rather unusal, but Alagor's mood actually improves as the rain becomes stronger. It seems that his chaotic nature is attuned in a way to such disturbances. Shortly after the torrent begins, young warrior can even be heard (or could be heard if there was not a storm around them) whistling and humming a jaunty drinking song. Still, his good mood does not affect his judgment - seeing the size of the cliff ahead of them, he takes great care to inspect it properly.
"I'm afraid I have rope, about 10' short of what's needed and no grappling hook. If no one volunteers, I'll try my skill at the rock face but I'll need someone else's rope to tie to mine to throw to the rest of you."
He looks up at the sky, "But I'm waiting until the rain stops or lessens a good bit. No sense in risking my neck needlessly."
"Aye Master Fullona, 'tis gonna be a hard climb. First of all, I agree - no one goes up in this downpour. We wait for the weather to stop...I mean, to improve"
A playful grin still on his face, he sets down his backpack, and after some rummaging he presents another coil of silky rope, almost identical to the one Pellius had, as well as the object Pellius was looking for - a hard metal shaft with a hole ("eye") at the base where the rope could be attached, and three equally spaced hooks at the end, arranged that at least one is likely to catch on some protuberance of the target.
"This what you're looking for, Master Fullona? Now, let us tie these ropes together, and firmly attach one end to the shaft here, and once this drencher is over, I'll try to toss it up and attach onto somethin'. Then you could try climbin' it"
"I'm afraid I have rope, about 10' short of what's needed and no grappling hook. If no one volunteers, I'll try my skill at the rock face but I'll need someone else's rope to tie to mine to throw to the rest of you. But I'm waiting until the rain stops or lessens a good bit. No sense in risking my neck needlessly."
"That sounds like wisdom to me." Pyotr looks to the narrow strip of sky above. "I am not one who listens to the wind, or smells the rain. How soon can we expect this gale to blow itself out?"
Figuring that storms up in the Hungries are violent but short-lived, the adventurers do their best to wait out the downpour, trying to find what shelter they can against the wall of the cliff.
Desna, Iomedae, or someone, seems to be watching over them, for the storm plays itself out swiftly. And though the sun does not reveal itself, a cold, brittle wind howls across the cliff face. After about an hour, they figure the rocks above are as dry as they’re likely to be. It’s time to make their attempt.
Commor looks increasingly frightened as the others prepare for the climb. However, after a few longing glances in the direction of the Freedom Town, he marches purposefully over to Pyotr. Standing before the paladin, he carefully draws his longsword from its scabbard (the thread falls free of the sheath in this moment) and raises it high in an Iomedean salute, drops the point down to the ground and holds the hilt firmly over his chest.
With a deep breath, he looks Pyotr in the eyes and declares:
“Uncle Meven’s duck.”
He nods a few times, and on realising Pyotr doesn’t understand, decides more explanation is needed.
“It’s a big duck, and heavy too. I’d say four pounds, give or take a little. The same weight of my sword I’d wager, though I’ve never measured it with sciency ways.”
“So it means I want to be a knight like you Ser Pyotr, and I’ll guard the horses until you come back, and if you don’t come back I won’t leave and I’ll let the mountains eat me. And if you do come back perhaps you can also teach me about brigandry, which should be easy because I don’t imagine it’s got as many rules as knightliness.”
Commor scratches his chin and thinks for a minute.
“Do … not … draw … it … from … its … scabbard … unless … you … must,” he parrots back quietly, only now remembering the content of Pyotr’s lesson. Commor’s eyes widen. he cries, and drops the sword. It clatters to the ground, one edge coming close to swiping off one of Pyotr’s toes.
Meanwhile, Alagor hurls the grappling hook up as far as he can.
Happy to see the rain decrease, the magus starts to remove his armor. Free from his leathers but still soaking wet, Pellius flexes his arms in preparation for the climb.
He nods to Alagor and thanks the warrior when he manages to catch the grappling hook on something. The magus ties his armor in a neat bundle and then to his belt such that it trails a few feet below him. With a last pat goodbye to Signior and a promise to come back soon, the magus heads for the rock wall.
The climb goes surprisingly smooth and Pellius is soon 40' above ground surface. In that last part, his hand pulls free a rock and he stutter steps but he clings to the rock wall holding steady. The next few seconds see him reach the cave and he pulls himself over the lip of the cave.
The magus breathes deeply and casts light on his favorite feather. With the feather stuck behind his ear, he looks around making sure the cave entrance is safe...
Pyotr watches patiently as Pellius makes ready for the climb. Pyotr flexes his muscles under the platemail, realizing that even with the rope in place, he is unlikely to succeed while so encumbered. His thoughts are interrupted as Commor steps in front of him drawing the longsword. The thread, so laboriously put in place, drifts down to the sodden ground. The best laid plans...
“Uncle Meven’s duck.”
He nods a few times, and on realising Pyotr doesn’t understand, decides more explanation is needed.
“It’s a big duck, and heavy too. I’d say four pounds, give or take a little. The same weight of my sword I’d wager, though I’ve never measured it with sciency ways.”
Pyotr stares dumbfounded. "No, you- I mean, I- and, the sword..." A deep sigh of weary resignation forces its way out of Pyotr's chest. "'Uncle Meven's duck' it is, then. Well done."
"Now, help me out of this armor, and fetch that shield. I will make the climb next. Pyotr removes the plate, bundling it together carefully so it can be hauled up behind him.
Pyotr rolls over the lip of the cave entrance, quickly unstrapping the shield from his back, and readying it as both defense and weapon.
"A trying climb," he says to Pellius. "That last bit is the trickiest. Let us secure the cavern entrance." He tugs on the rope and calls down to the mountain floor. "When you are ready, kindly tie off the armor."
Keeping length of rope coiled in his right hand, Alagor makes a few swings with his left hand until he is confident that he got a good grasp of the weight of the hook. In one mighty swing, he releases the hook that flies almost directly upwards, but at a small angle. The rain drenched the rope, and it slipped from warriors hands just a split second before planned. Hook flies up, but due to the incorrect angle hits a rock outcropping at about 15 feet, bounces and suddenly returns back, smacking Alagor on the head. A few loud curses could be heard, before he mumbles through his clenched teeth: "The first one to laugh will be gutted"
Not really capable of hearing whether someone is laughing or not, due to the clatter in his head, he reels up the loose rope, and throws the hook once more, this time with much more precision and grace.
Bonegrit merely chuckles a few times at Alagor's antics before expertly scrambling up the mountainside. His hands and feet latch onto the crevices and rocky protrusions like vices as he ascends to the cave entrance as quickly and spryly as a sailor would a ship's rigging. When he reaches the top, Bonegrit brings a finger up to his lip to urge silence from his companions. After doing so, he unshoulders his axe and begins quietly creeping through the cave entrance ahead of the group, wary for any lurking threat or danger. He tests the air of the cave with a few quiet sniffs and snorts before padding forward softly on leather soles, allowing what superior vision his orcish blood affords adjust to the deepening darkness that sprawls before him.
______________________________
Despite the embarrassment of his initial pratfall, Alagor’s second hurl of the grappling hook finds a purchase. A solid tug satisfies the warrior that it’s anchored securely enough; an affirmative to Pellius prompts the Chelaxian to start climbing. Stripped of his armour, the magus reaches the wide ledge before the cave entrance safely, followed a little less swiftly by Pyotr. As the two men haul up their neatly bundled armour, Bonegrit catches up with the group. The half-orc ranger had been lingering behind, once again sensing some kind of pursuit but unable to detect anything to make good his hunch.
Chuckling quietly at his companions able and not so able efforts to haul themselves up the cliff, Bonegrit scrambles up without the aid of the rope, overtaking Agtharda, who climbs with surprising competence, and Khozin, who does not. As all of them climb they notice occasional indentations in the rock, presumably the anchor points of what long ago was a ladder or a scaffold.
Last comes Delkaneth, who manages well enough until the very last stretch, where he must forgo the safety of the rope and climb ten feet unaided. The young archaeologist’s boot slips on a still damp outcrop, he begins to slide, his hand waving desperately for a purchase. A collective gasp rises from his companions, but then Del’s fumbling fingers find the hem of Agtharda’s robes. The half-orc mewls unintelligibly as the fabric begins to tear, then reaches back, and with a warty hand grabs Del’s hair. This painful grasp arrests his backward slide just enough for him to find his grip, and aided by the reaching hands of the others they to pass over the lip and onto the ledge.
Below them, Commor and the horses watch their progress forlornly.
The companions get their breath back, Pyotr looking ready to redon his armour when Bonegrit and Pellius simultaneously give him a shake of their heads. The light of Pellius’ feather gives weight to the old adage of “what goes up, must come down,” for almost immediately the cave falls into a vertical pit some twenty-five feet deep.
Bonegrit’s sharp nostrils immediately notice a faint whiff of carrion, a smell decidedly familiar on his current adventures.
A side view can be found in our google drive here.
Then a strangled sob pulls their attention away from the entrance to the Garrison of Arith-Zind. The source of this muted cry comes, uncharacteristically, from the usually cocky Khozin. The half-elf is looking away to the north-east. Their perch on the shoulder of Taxathar’s Bane gives a previously unseen panorama – the stark, bare edges of the Hungry Mountains marching away towards Ustalav. And there, framed by steep sides of many desolate, reaching peaks, something different, yet more terrible. A distant, ornate tower of grey, hooked and barbed like a monstrous fang, its form partly obscured by wisps of sooty vapour that hang unmoving despite the wind.
It is far, far, far distant – but it is one of the darkest places this side of the Worldwound. The prison of Tar-Baphon.
Gallowspire.
Hearing first Khozin and then Delkaneth, Alagor wonders if there is something wrong with him maybe. Sure, the image of distant ominous looking tower was disturbing, some might say even awe inspiring, but Alagor just did not feel that sort of dread while looking into it. Keeping his hand on Tanladvir feeling the familiar reassuring cold touch of tarnished steel, he stands for a few more moments studying the horizon. Finally he whispers, more for himself: "It was beaten. It's history now."
Now peeking at the darkness of the vertical pit, he scratches his chin with his free hand. I sure do hope there are no animals, especially goats down there. Disgusting creatures...
"Look Del, I would suggest that we take one of these ropes and the hook with us, and simply tie just one and leave it hanging. We might need more rope, and if we leave this one, it leaves us only with a short ten, maybe twelve (after tying it) foot drop. We should all be able to drop ten feet, if the need arise, don't ya think? And if everything is OK once we get back, and we're not in a hurry, we'll easily add another rope and extend it again. Eh?"
Turning to Pyotr, he adds: "You are a very brave man...man-orc. I would not have the courage to leave horses in the hands of Commor. I hope you know what you're doing, Ser Knight"
Years of learning all about the Lady and her worst enemies has given the magus a deep respect for Tar-Baphon. Remembering all the valiant soldiers that gave their lives to keep that thing imprisoned, Pellius signals the Lady's favor and silently prays for courage.
Now turning to the task at hand, the magus looks down the shaft trying to discern any movement. Assuming nothing threatening is perceived, he nods at Alagor's suggestions, "Makes sense to me. C'mon, we have some mushrooms to find and quickly."
He finishes putting on his armor, makes sure his weapons and spell pouch is on tight, and goes down the rope. With his feather lighting the way, he reaches the damp bottom and guards the place as the rest of his companions make it down the shaft.
Delkaneth and Pellius' lights illuminate the odd contours of the entrance to Arith-Zind. Pyotr edges to the drop-off when Khozin's strangled whimper turns him back to the entrance.
The change that comes over Pyotr is nearly palpable in the close confines of the cave entrance. Without conscious effort Pyotr steps towards the distant tower, his face frozen in a rictus of righteous loathing. A few short paces brings him right back to the edge of the cave. His fingers continue to twitch as he reaches for the weapon hilt of a weapon that is still bundled up with his armor. His toes hang precipitously over the edge for a moment as he is poised to charge straight to the tower...
"You are a very brave man...man-orc. I would not have the courage to leave horses in the hands of Commor. I hope you know what you're doing, Ser Knight"
Slowly, as if surprised to discover the others are still in the cave with him, Pyotr turns away from the edge. A few pebbles, broken free from the edge, cascade down the side. A muffled "Ow!" comes from below, where Commor stands vigil. Pyotr's face relaxes into its normal stoney facade. "It might be more accurate to say that I have left Commor in the hands of Torshen's Hammer."
He turns back to the menacing silhouette of the dark tower. This time the sight does not seem to overwhelm him, though the righteous anger is still apparent.
"It was beaten. It's history now."
"It is a prison. There is a malevolence within greater than you can imagine." Pyotr hefts the shield on his arm, imagining the final battle... The Archlich vanishes in a swirl of smoke and dust, but he is not gone. He appears just a few yards away, the bony claws of his hand reaching out for General Arnisant's heart. He chants the last few phrases of the unholy arcane chant in his hoarse whisper... a spell so powerful that only a god could turn it aside. Arnisant involuntary throws the shield up... a reaction with no hope of success. The shield of Aroden shatters. Instead of Arnisant's heart, the fragmented heart of the shield embeds itself in The Whispering Tyrants outstretched hand. A storm of holy, divine fire rains down from the sky. The Archlich screams in the first real pain he has known for centuries...
"I never thought to see Gallowspire..." Pyotr spits.
A muffled "Hey...!" comes from below.
The climb is much easier than going up and Pellius is happy that they were going to leave the rope in place' he didn't want to scale the cave wall on his way out.
Once at the bottom, the magus looks around and quickly moves out of the way to make room for Del. After a second, he tugs twice on the rope signaling for someone else to come down.
For Pellius, the climb proves much easier going down than coming up, and the magus is happy they’ll be able to leave the rope in place. He certainly doesn’t want to scale the cliff once more on his way out. This is the thought occupying his mind half way down the rope, and perhaps the reason why he never sees the attack coming.
From its hiding place beneath an overhang of rock, a humanoid creature launches itself at the Chelaxian dangling on the rope. The light of Pellius’ feather illuminates long, sharp teeth and pallid flesh stretched tightly over a gaunt frame. As the monster falls past Pellius it slashes his flank with a claw, and the magus feels a morbid cold filling his body. With all his might he resists the stalling of his muscles and fights off the paralysis that threatens to overwhelm him.
Pellius spins on the rope, some fifteen feet from the floor, his companions crowding the cave entrance ten feet above. Beneath him, his attacker lands awkwardly and glares up at him with hungry red eyes as two similar creatures crawl out of their hiding places to join it at the bottom of the pit!
Alagor, Bonegrit, Delkaneth and Pyotr stand at the lip of the pit that leads into the Garrison of Arith-Zind. Behind them, Khozin and Agtharda try to peer over their broad shoulders to catch a glimpse of the scene below; Pellius, clinging to a rope half way down the twenty-five foot shaft, with three gaunt humanoids slavering beneath him at the bottom of the pit.
Initiatives:
Creatures
Pellius
Khozin & Pyotr
Agtharda
Bonegrit
Delkaneth
Alagor
Whilst the creature that jumped and fell scrabbles to its feet, its two companions jump onto the rope and begin to climb up towards Pellius.
With the agility of rats they ascend the rope together and try to sink their fangs into Pellius’ booted heels. The magus kicks the face of one aside but the other bites down on the end of his foot and worries it like a dog. Now Pellius can resist the debilitating effects of the thing’s venom () no more, and slips from the rope to crash down upon the floor below, right beside the monster that originally jumped him.
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Pyotr doesn't recall many details of ghouls though, although judging from Pellius, it seems they have the ability to paralyse those they touch.