“I would like your assistance,” responds Dierik “but only as my seconds should Haisnar not find himself able to abide by the conditions of the challenge. Pellius, Pyotr, Bonegrit and Delkaneth, the dwarf too. Be ready at dawn, bring your weapons.”
Second Master Santrian looks worried at this decision. “Shouldn’t I accompany you, alongside Crooked Callan and some of his men?”
Dierik smiles “You told me you found me some good men, Santrian. Perhaps we’ll get to test that proposition. Doubting yourself now?”
“No, no, of course not. But I don’t trust anyone more than myself.”
“Well, that’s exactly why you should stay here and keep an eye on the caravan. There’s a spot some half an hour’s ride from here; Calibar’s Monument. It’s got good ground for a joust, and it’s been used more than once by knights to resolve the challenges that would not have met the approval of the Precentors-Martial. That’s where I’ll face him.”
Sparing a final look at where Haisnar and his men have erected their tents and are now coaxing to life a small cooking fire, Dierik says “Unless there’s anything else that needs be said, I’ll retire.”
-----
Crinkles begins serving the evening meal, ladling out portions of vegetable broth in pewter bowls. Small loaves of sweet bread and cold, spicy sausages are also available, placed in uneven mounds on a couple of wide trays next to the large fire that’s been built in the middle of the encampment. Shambles lolls nearby, waiting for an encouraging sign that the men have had their fill so he can move in to polish off any leftovers.
Delkaneth is just finishing his own dinner when he notices Zriorinta’s ashen-grey, sphinxlike cats slowly emerge from her carriage, one by one. They are followed by the apothecary herself. She is clad in a purple shift decorated with a design of jagged crimson stars which is wound loosely about her body. Her scarf is missing, and her wild, dark hair hangs to her waist. In her hand she carries a silver pitcher.
To the treasure-hunter’s surprise she walks directly to him. “Would you mind watching over me again?” she asks “I’ve a fancy to bathe in the river. We’re not likely to see much running water after we turn north.”
One of the drovers settles himself down near Dunagan’s tent and offers the dwarf a plate of sausages to share. He is unshaven, with long, grey streaked hair tied into a short rat’s tail. He wears a simple set of roughshod breeches and tunic, already stained with the mud of the road and a little of Crinkles’ broth. His smells strongly of the oxen that pull the sixbulls.
“Heard what ya said about Ironcoffer,” he mentions offhandedly “Not the first time his honour’s gotten this crew in trouble, ya know. My name’s Edrist.”
Some distance away, the draft animals have been herded back inside the protective circle of vehicles. Horses are tethered all over the place, whilst a crude barricade of wooden spars is used to create a space for the oxen and mules. There isn’t much room inside the protective circle of wagons; it’s hard to find a clear area not already being occupied by a beast of burden.
Deramil silently waves Bonegrit to his side. One of the mules was poorly saddled, and the half-elf is applying ointment to the sores that resulted. Unfortunately, the recalcitrant animal won’t keep still.
Dunagan's frustration over the captain's challenge beats out his stomach's as he sits just outside his tent, not making his way towards the chow-line. He pulls from his backpack the few rations he scrounged from the family's cupboards before he ran off. But, before he can open the make-shift cloth pouch that holds the few dried pieces of meat and hardtack, the drover extends his plate towards Dunagan. The Dwarf smiles and accepts the plate.
"Thank ye lad, the names Dunagan. I don't know about the trouble he has gotten you in before, and perhaps I don't want to know." The cleric of Torag sighs and takes a few bites of sausage. "We all have a few nicks, dents, and damage on the steel of our souls that must be mended. Sometimes the heat of the furnace required to mend them can burn those around us." The Dwarf takes a few more bites, "but, the alternative is far worse." He takes a long draw from his water skin, "If we do not mend our souls, the damage begins to add up. Ye see, when you do not tend to steel it begins to fracture and shatter little by little, so little that you can barely see it. These tiny fractures begin to add up over time... and then," Dunagan claps his hands loudly, "the steel will shatter when tested! The same goes for our souls..." He finishes the rest of his plate before completing his sentence, "the longer we go without mending our souls, the harder we must try to mend the damage that has been done. Thus, the more of those around us that get burned in the process."
The Dwarf dusts off his beard and lap. He sets the fork neatly on the plate and hands it back to Edrist, "I suppose we will be burned a few times more in Ironcoffer's attempt to mend his soul... Thank ye for the food. Yer steel is of good forge, lad."
Maybe Edrick had an axe to grind, and felt Dunagan would be open to joining in with some disparaging gossip on the subject of their mutual employer. Instead, he ended up receiving a forgemaster’s parable. By the time Dunagan has finished his brief homily, Edrick’s eyes have glazed over. Still he seems pleased to be considered “of good forge”, but when one of the oxen lows gently, he mutters an excuse about tending to the animals and wanders off.
-----
Beside the river, Delkaneth keeps a careful watch on everything but his charge as she bathes amidst the dancing lights. They phase out once more, and before Delkaneth can renew the light for a third time he hears Zriorinta whisper something arcane, and a new set appear. Whilst Delkaneth’s orbs were blue, Zriorinta’s are green.
Meanwhile, the apothecary’s cats have climbed into the overhanging tree. One carefully gazes out over the dark, swift-flowing Esk. Another looks upriver, another downriver, and the last keeps a careful watch on Delkaneth, perhaps to ensure his mantra of ‘no peeking’ holds true.
The Varisian reappears at Del’s elbow, her bathing complete. Her shift is wrapped around her again, her wet hair now clinging to her bare shoulders in coiling black snakes.
“I’ve seen Hellknights do the same,” she replies “But I think the worst of Vigiliant’s gallants beat the best of what Westcrown has to offer. I doubt Haisnar would try anything tonight, for we outnumber his men many times. On the morrow I’d expect a little mischief.”
The pair returns to the wagons, followed by a train of cats. Just short of the laager they pass Karannah making a patrol about the perimeter. She nods in greeting and raises her eyebrows at Delkaneth.
A little jealous, perhaps?
“I don’t have any potions for nightseeing, but my collection is extensive. If your coin is good, then perhaps we can do business at some later juncture. Good night Delkaneth*, and thank you for your noble protection,” says Zriorinta
With that, she and her strange pets return to the privacy of their wagon.
*We’ll assume they exchanged names at some point!
“I would like your assistance,” responds Dierik “but only as my seconds should Haisnar not find himself able to abide by the conditions of the challenge. Pellius, Pyotr, Bonegrit and Delkaneth, the dwarf too. Be ready at dawn, bring your weapons.”
Pyotr nods. "The rituals of formal combat are such strange things. I will see that the niceties are observed. Haisnar's hatred for you must be strong indeed, if it has turned his eyes from me. I hope it will not override his good sense."
"Commander Callan, a word, if you please." Pyotr's long strides brought him to the scarred man's side quickly. "I have been informed that Second-Master Santrian wishes us to take watch-keeping duties. I will be glad to do my part. Will you tell me the counter-signs, lest we spend the whole of the evening guarding against one another?"
"Then, perhaps, we can share a meal and a tale of your travels. I find myself bereft of knowledge of the wider world."
Deramil silently waves Bonegrit to his side. One of the mules was poorly saddled, and the half-elf is applying ointment to the sores that resulted. Unfortunately, the recalcitrant animal won’t keep still.
Bonegrit dismounts Amiro and strides over to where Haisnar and his group of thugs were arrayed moments prior. The half-orc spares a furtive glance around the rest of the caravan, then mills about the area casually. He sniffs the area out quite thoroughly, attempting to acclimate himself to the smell of the men the knight had chosen to accompany him into Dierik's chosen campsite. Much of the smell is overpowered by the horses, but the half-orc picks up a distinct waft of leather tannin and body odor from one or two of Haisnar's Oathless, his nostrils flaring wildly as he finds the distinction.
Satisfied, he makes to return to Amiro and find his usual place to settle for the remainder of the evening—the smell of Crinkle's culinary endeavors now reaching Bonegrit, and producing no small amount of salivating from the ranger. Given the rather unsightly protrusion of his tusked underbite, he grabs a bit of fabric from his pack and dabs away at the slobber that is already threatening to drip down his jaw. Smells good, whatever it is. Vegetable stew, maybe? He has nearly closed the distance to his usual place beside the foremost Sixbull when he notices Master Deramil waving him over. The half-orc shoots a longing glance towards the forming line about the halfling's wagon, but ultimately settles on hustling over to where the First Master is beckoning him.
Picking up quickly on the animal's discomfort, Bonegrit reaches his hands up to either side of the mule's neck, offering a firm but reassuring massage as he does so. His yellow eyes meet the animal's gaze, and he continues making a series of soothing hushes. "Hush now, friend, it'll all be over soon. And I'll make sure the mistake is not repeated tomorrow." His right hand moves to the muzzle, and he continues patting sympathetically as the First Master concludes his work.
As Deramil finishes rubbing the ointment on the animal, it continues flinching and offers a few ornery cries, though it seems content to weather the storm with little but vocal protests until the task is complete. Bonegrit gives a nod and smile to Deramil. "He may be a bit stingy for another day or two, but he shouldn't be too much trouble beyond that."
With his men patrolling in his stead, Crooked Callan is content to lean his back against a broad wagon wheel, and devour more than his fair share of sausages. He and Pyotr chew the fat, and the spices, and the stringy bits of gristle in between. As they do so, they talk.
The conversation is far ranging. Callan’s been with Dierik for a while, and relates a number of unlikely scrapes and endeavours he’s gotten into with his master. However, it’s clear he has great respect for Dierik, and harbours no concerns on how he will fare when he faces down Haisnar Rosenholt.
Pyotr tells him about some of the challenges he’s faced thanks to his heritage, and the Garundi listens sympathetically.
“Well, lad, we all have challenges set before us in this life. For close to twenty years I’ve enjoyed the ‘Crooked’ part of my name,” Callan tells, gesturing to his twisted leg. “It’s a sad fact that trolls don’t clean their teeth. One nearly gnawed my leg off in the River Kingdoms. Luckily for me there was a wizard at hand to send the thing to a fiery death, but no cleric to heal the damage. Infection set in, nearly killed me. I fought off the fever, but in the end my leg was twisted, almost useless. An’ there I was, a fine warrior reduced to a cripple.”
“But I learnt to the make the best of it. Gotta learn to read a fight, cos if I need to do a runner, then I’d betta start running a good few minutes before everyone else. Of course, the real trick is this. Never get in a fight you don’t think you’ll win. We’ve a long journey ahead of us lad, and we’ll face some hardships, that’s for sure. I know you doubt yourself, but you’ll do fine. And if you catch me running, then you’d better start trying to catch up quick as a hare in flight!”
“One final word. We don’t go much for military speak round here. Commander’s a bit lofty for a man with less than a dozen men to command. Now I’ll answer to captain, but truth is, Crooked Callan’s the best title you can give me. And if by counter-signs, your meaning passwords and such, I’m ‘fraid it never gets much further than ‘it’s me you idiots, stop tugging that bowstring like it’s some tart’s knickers’. And the most important part of that sentence is the first four words.”
Deramil nods in approval of Bonegrit’s words and his care of the mule. “It’s good to see your skill extends to humbler beasts than Isabellina’s Arrow.”
The half-elf doesn’t have anything more to offer after that, aside from another nod, which seems more to himself than to the half-orc. Then he wanders away to see to another animal.
“I would like your assistance,” responds Dierik “but only as my seconds should Haisnar not find himself able to abide by the conditions of the challenge. Pellius, Pyotr, Bonegrit and Delkaneth, the dwarf too. Be ready at dawn, bring your weapons.”
Pellius beams with pride and simply nods, "Yes, sir." Being the second of your childhood hero was not to be taken lightly.
He turns to the others, "I still don't trust what's going on and I know that man means to take blood with his honor so I suggest we each pull three-hour shifts tonight. Assuming we have 8 hours to cover then hours 1 and 8 will be covered with only one person, which is OK because a lot of people either sleep late or wake early so those hours are somewhat covered."
The magus stops just enough to make sure he has everyone's attention. "OK, listen up. I'll take hours 1, 2, and 3, Delkaneth will patrol for hours 2, 3, and 4, Dunagan will relieve me for hours 4, 5, and 6, Bonegrit will relieve Delkaneth for hours 5, 6, and 7, and Pyotr will take over for Dunagan for hours 7 and 8. Like I said Pyotr will patrol by himself for the last hour. Now I know it's tough and not sustainable but I think tonight merits this. We agree?"
Pyotr spends the last hour of his watch making his patrol alone. Aside from a handful of Callan’s men also on guard, no one else is awake. On the eastern horizon, the glow of Vigil’s night-time beacon flames can be seen plainly, a reminder that home is not too far away for now.
As dawn approaches, both camps begin to stir; the wide laager of the encircled wagons by the river, and the separate tent of Haisnar Rosenholt some way off. Haisnar’s men slept on their bedrolls without cover; fortunately for them the threat of rain never materialised, although the sky remains overcast.
As the day begins, two knights prepare for their joust. Haisnar’s retainers help him don his gold filigreed plate mail. His mighty black warhorse is similarly attired; heavy barding of steel strips polished to a mirror like sheen. Haisnar briefly tries on a hounskull bascinet, its muzzle-like visor protruding like a pig’s snout. Satisfied, he doffs the helmet again, favouring the comfort of going bareheaded until the joust begins. Before mounting his charger, he solemnly dips the head of his lance to kiss the lady’s token bound at the top.
Meanwhile, Second Master Santrian assists Dierik in strapping on his armour; also plate, but battered and dull. By the way both of them fuss; no doubt several years have passed since the last time Dierik wore this suit of steel. His great helm is hooked over the pommel of the Arrow’s saddle; his great destrier is unencumbered by barding.
Finally attired for battle, Dierik turns to his personal coach and draws a simple blackwood lance through its reinforced door. The length of the lance doesn’t seem to conform to the relatively cramped dimensions of the wagon.
Santrian and Dierik shake hands, then the trail captain mounts up. He looks to his seconds. “To your horses, men. We will ride to Calibar’s Monument, some half an hour’s journey at a steady walk.”
Dunagan's gnarled, iron-hard hands drag Pyotr from his slumber. He quietly dons his armor and greatsword, and moves to the perimeter of the camp. High above, a ragged 'V' of geese, returning north on their regular sojourn, squawk a protest at the caravan's proximity to the water.
After a short time, Bonegrit leaves his post to snatch a brief hour's sleep before dawn. Pyotr begins a slow patrol to cover the whole of the camp, while speculating to himself about the events to come.
“To your horses, men. We will ride to Calibar’s Monument, some half an hour’s journey at a steady walk.”
It's the work of a few minutes to saddle Torshen's Hammer. Pyotr retrieves a badly battered, rusted lance from his personal stores on the of the carts. He turns to Ironcoffer. "Would you be willing to offer him redress, if he would forgo his 'satisfaction'? Could you apologize, if he offered you that choice?"
Santrian and Dierik shake hands, then the trail captain mounts up. He looks to his seconds. “To your horses, men. We will ride to Calibar’s Monument, some half an hour’s journey at a steady walk.”
With one final prayer to the Lady, the magus jumps on Signior and falls behind Dierik, keeping a close eye on his potential opponents.
The lack of sleep is showing on the magus, whose eyes are lined with dark shadows. Pellius light skin was a dead giveaway of how rested he was. The magus thanks the Lady again for not having used his spells as he is in no shape to study his spellbook this morning.
This is definitely not how he expected his long trip to start but this is what he signed up for and the Magus was nothing if not obedient and loyal.
Dunagan is wide awake and ready for the day. He has been up since his watch started. The early wake up has yet to take its toll on him. He spent the few hours left in the morning after his watch to complete his usual routine.
Spell List:
0. Detect Magic
0. Read Magic
0. Guidance
1. Lead Blades
1. Bless
1(domain). Animate Rope
The Dwarf also ponders if he has heard anything about the monument. Particularly if it is any feat of engineering.
The ride on Cornalium is a bit rough. The horse snorts and huffs as it pulls away from the caravan and towards the monument. The Dwarf constantly has to tug on the reigns to keep the horse on track as it tends to wander away from the formation, making the Ironcoffer's line quite crooked compared to the image across from them, behind Haisnar.
Dunagan lets out a horrible whistling tune as the party marches towards the monument. The Dwarf seems rather unconcerned about the whole situation. He keeps an eye out to the horizon rather on the group across from him. "Them Orcs could sure take advantage of us today."
The adventurers saddle their horses and prepare to follow Dierik and his foe into the wilderness.
"Would you be willing to offer him redress, if he would forgo his 'satisfaction'? Could you apologize, if he offered you that choice?"
“Haisnar’s waited until now to seek me out. If an apology was all he wanted, then he could have found me over one of the several days we were camped outside Vigil’s wall. As for me, it’s not a situation I could redress, even if I wanted to. There is no apology I can make for him.”
Dierik says nothing more as they ride off north. His eyes are firm, his mouth a rigid line, and his face set in stone. Haisnar looks across at him several times as they ride, his enmity plain, but Dierik does not acknowledge these glances, doing no more than silently guiding Isabellina’s Arrow through the rough brush that lines the road to the open moorland beyond.
His men follow him, Dunagan struggling to keep Cornalium in line with the others. Mirroring them are Haisnar’s band. In the grey light of dawn it’s easy to study the warriors that accompany the Knight Captain. Further evidence that they are not native Vigilants is plain to see. They all have a fairly slovenly appearance, and scruffy beards of varying length are displayed on each chin. Delkaneth and Pellius recognise Chelish blood in at least three; it’s evident in the pale complexion, dark hair and sharp eyes. The others two are more difficult to place. One of the Chelaxians is suffering from a cold, and frequently blows his nose on a filthy rag. The other two mutter to each other in Infernal.
“Won’t somebody shut that wretched dwarf up?”
"Just wait a bit and I’m sure you’ll get an opportunity. You heard what Haisnar said. I don’t suppose these goons will sit around if things go poorly for Dierik.”
“Looks to be that way, don’t it. Which of the two half-orcs was Haisnar on about?”
“Not the ugly one."
"They're both ugly."
"The one which wears Iomedae’s sign.”
"Ah, I see."
Ahead a small tor rises from the moorland, a tumble of boulders some twenty feet in height. From the top protrudes a rusted iron pike, from which flaps a banner displaying Iomedae’s sword and sunburst symbol. This is Calibar’s Monument.
When a large force of heavy cavalry sallied out from Vigil to smash the orcs into oblivion, they returned to the tor. Calibar and his brave steed had been torn to pieces by their foes, but on the slopes and fallen boulders lay the remains of no less than forty-seven orcs. In honour of Calibar’s bravery, and the terrible account he held to the enemy, the tor was named after him and a flag bearing Iomedae’s arms erected. Although orcs do occasionally dare to venture this close to Vigil, the Monument has the never been vandalised, leading many to suspect Iomedae protects it in some way.
Dierik breaks his silence.
“Master dwarf, your whistling resembles the wind raking over the broken crenellations of a fallen keep, except without the tender melancholy. I’d prefer to face death without that siren’s song, if you don’t mind.”
A little short of the Monument, the parties dismount. Haisnar’s men secure their riding horses to a stick like tree.
The two challengers exchange a curt nod, they begin to lead their horses to the opposite ends of a stretch of flat ground in the lee of the tor. “Gorum guide your arm,” says one of the retainers as Haisnar fastens his helmet and remounts the black charger. His men gather at his end of the field to observe the joust.
Dierik climbs atop Isabellina’s Arrow and dons his own great helm, hefting the weight of the lance in his hand as he regards his distant opponent, who slowly turns his black horse to face him. A light breeze flutters the lady’s scarf bound to the tip of Haisnar’s lance.
Bonegrit's eyes show heavy bags this morning—a gift from the previous night's watch duty combined with Shambles' insistence on play time. He tries in vain to stifle several yawns as he goes about saddling Amiro for the ride ahead. Sheer strength of will not availing him, Bonegrit eventually makes his way over to the river and begins dousing his head and face in the cool waters between deep gulps. After a few minutes of this, the half-orc seems resolved to greet the day, and returns to secure what little gear he is bringing to his steed.
Amiro ambles his way near to the front of the party, though the ranger offers little in the way of conversation on the way to Calibar's Monument. His dull, yellow eyes regard both Haisnar and Dierik as he joins the string of riders. Seeing the aged, mounted knights tugs on a long buried memory in the recesses of Bonegrit's mind...
____________________
...He could taste blood. Whose blood, he could not say. His own, perhaps? The smoke that billowed throughout the orc hold stung something fierce, especially given Grauskuk's sensitive nose. His blurred vision strained to see through the veils of smoke and embers that rose to greet the heavens only to vanish into oblivion moments later. He hacked and wretched. It was definitely his blood. Eyes pouring tears from the constant affront of smoke, he glanced down to know what end awaited him. The feathered end of a bolt protruded from the child's stomach. The pain was excruciating. So much so that he almost failed to notice the quarreling pair of fully armored humans that stood mere feet from the half-orc youth.
"Iomedae preserve us! You've slain a child, Edric!" The voice was smooth and even, clearly not belonging to an aged man.
"An child, Balthas. I'm sure I need not remind you of what butchery this runt would one day unleash upon our men—all doing their duty, just as your father did." The second voice was rough and worn, almost guttural. The fury that spilled from his tone made it plain that he spoke through gritted teeth.
"Your sight is as tempered as your chivalry, Ser. That is a half-blooded boy." The hard-packed dirt of the ground scraping against sabatons betrayed Balthas' advance towards Bonegrit. "By the Inheritor, it still lives! Quickly, Edric! Help me with him."
"Are you daft, boy? I'll not sully my gauntlets on such filth, and neither should you. If Haisnar hears of this..."
"Fie on what Haisnar thinks. I'll not abandon a child to death on the heels of a bigot's folly." Grauskuk felt someone grasping at him, though his senses had nearly succumbed to the fire's toll. He remembered smelling lilacs as the young knight cradled him against his metal cuirass. The lilacs were the only thing that lingered above the pall of smoke and ruin...
____________________
Bonegrit's eyes regain focus, akin to someone shaking free from the malaise of a daydream. The retinues behind both Dierik and Haisnar begin fanning out to either end of the field in pursuit of their respective knights. Bonegrit shoots a scowl over his left shoulder to the lord atop the black stallion. "Haisnar..." Bonegrit spurs Amiro up to ride alongside Master Ironcoffer, though his eyes remain glued to the field the men are to ride upon. Dierik's helmet is fastened just as the half-orc catches up to him.
The look Bonegrit gives Dierik might pass for concern, but his tone does not betray any doubt. "Doesn't make sense to get yerself killed before the caravan's even made it outta Vigil, so I'll assume you're the better rider here. Either way, good luck all the same." Bonegrit nods and wheels Amiro away, dismounting a short distance later to join the gathered throng of seconds this end of the field.
Pellius peers down the other end not liking what he sees but resigned to what is about to happen. The magus wishes Dierik good luck and turns to checking himself, making sure he was ready for anything. His left hand sifts through the colored sand inside his spell component pouch.
After a few seconds, Pellius brings Signior near him. If something happens in the middle of the field, the magus would be too far and jumping on his horse was the best way to get there quickly.
He absentmindedly pets his horse, leaving green and light blue grains of sand on Signior's chestnut colored neck as he awaits the results of the joust.
Delkaneth guides his mount closer to Pyotr and turns his head to whisper.
"My former countrymen may not have the best intentions. They're expecting a fight if the joust doesnt go well for Dierik. And Haisnar has been talking to them about you."
Pyotr turns a worried look towards Delkaneth. "His hatred for Ironcoffer must be strong indeed, if he would pass the opportunity to draw my blood to those ruffians. I begin to wonder if Ser Rosenholt intends to honor the arrangements of this joust."
The sight of Calibar's Monument brings a solemn aspect to the already somber half-orc. While the jousters prepare themselves, Pyotr climbs to the summit of the hill and stands before the flag bearing Iomedae's emblem.
Lady, grant me the smallest portion of Calibar's devotion.
Pyotr gazes around the tor, to the pastoral scenery, wishing he could have visited this place on a brighter day, in brighter circumstances.
"I have little experience with such affairs. But, it is my understanding that the seconds of the challenged party usually offer the aggrieved party one final chance to turn aside from this whole affair. Delkaneth, perhaps you are the best suited to make that offer, even if it is only a pretense of formality."
The dwarf's pursed lips suddenly droop and the cacophony of sound bursting forth fades away, followed shortly with a huff. It is hard to tell if it came from the Dunagan or his horse. Slowly the two fall into line and form the line, but by this time it is far too late to make up for their display earlier.
Upon arrival, the dwarf begins to pull 50ft of rope from his backpack and loops it in his hand. He stands there awkwardly with a large bunch of rope in his hand. The loops brush against the ground as he walks towards the group across from them. He lays the rope out between the two groups and gives them the 'evil eye.' "Don't be crossing this line ya hear... He looks back to the seconds and Dierik and shouts, "That should give them a clear line not to cross."
Having overhead the mutterings of Haisnar’s men, Delkaneth has ample opportunity to pass on what he’s heard to the rest of his band, including Dierik, who does no more than nod his understanding.
"Lord Ironcoffer, as your second will you allow me one last chance to end this without bloodshed? I don't pretend to know much about codes of honour but we could make one last offer to settle this with words?"
Isabellina’s Arrow paws the ground restlessly, his ears flickering back to hear his rider’s commands, his eyes on the black stallion some eighty feet away. Dierik’s sigh sounds tinny from within the confines of his great helm. “Thank you Delkaneth. I am pleased at the concern my seconds have shown me, but my honour dictates that I see this through. Perhaps Iomedae is looking over me. If not, let’s hope Desna’s got my back.”
As Delkaneth steps back, both knights dip their lances at each other in readiness. With a kick of spurs, the two warhorses leap into action, their powerful legs working into a gallop as they pound across the loose soil towards each other. The lances lower, shields are drawn up, they close and close and close until . . . CRASH!
Haisnar’s lance, aimed at his opponent’s head, is intercepted by Dierik’s shield. The lance bends, then breaks, flying from Haisnar’s hand. Dierik rocks back in the saddle at the impact, but even as he wobbles his own lance slips under Haisnar’s kite shield, finds his breastplate, and sends the challenger tumbling to the ground. There is a sound like tin crunched in a fist as the armoured figure strikes the ground. Haisnar lies still, face down in the dirt. His retainers stir, looking at each other in alarm. Hands stray to the hilts of their weapons, then drift away as Haisnar twitches, groans, and begins to pull himself to his feet.
Dierik dismounts from Isabellina’s Arrow and approaches his fallen foe, pulling off his great helm as he does so. he cries as he marches towards Haisnar
Upright now, and only swaying a little, Haisnar raises the visor of his bascinet with his black gauntlet. His shield lies in the dirt where he dropped it. “Only when when your blood waters the earth beneath you!” he answers, drawing his longsword and lunging at Dierik, who catches the strike on his shield then draws his own blade. A breath later, they are engaged in furious battle, their swords striking sparks off one another.
bellows Haisnar
Haisnar’s party now have their own weapons in hand . . .
Dunagan
Del
Pyotr
Bonegrit
Pellius
Retainer 3
The other Retainers (grouped together for initiative purposes)
Please locate yourselves by providing the horizontal reference number first, followed by the vertical reference. For example, Dierik is located at H25/V16.
Haisnar’s retainers are red. The larger circles represent the horses, Isabellina’s Arrow and Haisnar’s horse.
The PCs horses are assumed to be tethered some 50-ft. from the bottom of the map, with the exception of Pellius’ horse Signior, which he specified he’d take with him. Pellius, please locate Signior adjacent to, but just outside the yellow box. Remember he occupies four squares due to his size.
The Retainer’s horses are tethered about 60-ft. from the right edge. They are unlikely to use them in the fight to come.
The star atop Calibar’s Monument represents the banner and pole bearing Iomedae’s symbol, and the cairn of stones that hold it in place. The elevated tor is littered with rocks and boulders, and is considered difficult terrain – each square counts as two. Something for Pyotr to consider if he locates himself there.
Dunagan; I’m afraid I can’t edit the map to include your rope; let’s assume it’s running along a vertical line running up from H24/V2 to H24/V12 (any further might have impeded the joust). Remember, your opponents must be within 10-ft. reach to be affected.
As the heavily armored forms of Dierik and Haisnar spur their destriers towards one another, Bonegrit holds his breath. Haisnar's horse, a foreboding beast sheathed in armor, thunders across the way in a great tumult, matching the fury borne by its rider. Isabellina's Arrow, ever the vision of perfection, is a brilliant white blur, undaunted by the the fast-approaching threat ahead. Don't you dare. I'll split your guts myself if you even attempt it, old man.
The lances slowly maneuver to find their marks, and Bonegrit finally exhales—a sigh of relief, surprisingly—shortly before they collide in a shower of splintered wood and clanking plate mail. Though by no means does Bonegrit approve of Haisnar's attempted tactic, he is grateful that the ill-tempered Ser opposing Dierik did not attempt to level his frustrations against Isabellina's Arrow. A satisfied smirk creeps across Bonegrit's face as Haisnar collides with the dirt beneath. The smirk fades to a frown and a growl, however, as Haisnar abandons all semblance of honor and begins lashing out wildly at Dierik.
“” bellows Haisnar “”
As expected, the Unmarked gentlemen across the way had no intention of honoring the joust, regardless of the results. Bonegrit's hands find their place along the horn and yew of his well worn longbow, and an arrow follows suit in short order, nocked and drawn as Bonegrit finds his mark. First one of you buggers to touch weapon... the thought is no more complete than one of Haisnar's men makes to follow Ser Rosenholt's command. The half-orc maneuvers his bow and arrow to point directly at the most ambitious thug, and he lets loose the projectile.
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Ser Haisnar Rosenholt lies on the grass, knocked senseless. Despite himself, Pyotr can't help but feel a glimmer of satisfaction at the sight. After a moments contemplation, he curses himself for such idle thoughts. Pride has no place here, in the shadow of Calibar's sacrifice!
Ser Haisnar's supine form begins to stir, as Dierik demands an end to the hostilities. Suddenly, the Knight-Captain lunges at the caravan master.
“Men!” bellows Haisnar “Help me put this dog down!”
Treachery? Here?! The holy chime hanging from the hilt of his greatsword, which had remained silent all morning suddenly rings an alarming peal, as Pyotr draws the massive blade from its scabbard.
Pellius watches the initial pass of the two jousters with apprehension and audibly exhales a breath he didn't know he held in when Haisnar is thrown from his horse.
His brief moment of relief is shattered when orders are issued and men start to move. Not really comfortable fighting from horseback, the magus is happy to see that everyone was on their feet. Forgetting about Signior , the magus sprints towards Dierik to protect the knight from further attackers.
Almost as if on auto-pilot, Pellius channels his arcane energy to his drawn blade. Although there is no visible change, the magus knows that his blade is sharper and stronger now that it is infused with energy. He feels a slight vibration from the blade and knows that the sword is humming, albeit very low for anyone to perceive in the heat of battle.
First off, a mistake by me. Animate rope doesn’t have 10-ft. reach, throwing a rope has a 10-ft. range increment. The rope can only attack those within 1-ft. See what happens below.
Initiative order:
Delkaneth, Pellius, Bonegrit, Retainer no. 3, Dunagan, other Retainers, Pyotr
PC starting locations:
Del H15/V9, Pellius (not specified), Bonegrit H15/V6, Dunagan (not specified) Pyotr, H17/V9
-Del moves to H25/V12
-Pellius moves to H24/V14
-Bonegrit fires at R3, strikes for 7 hp. R3 is disabled and staggered.
R3 drops longsword and staggers away from the fight, moving 20-ft to H34/V7
-Dunagan casts animate rope, activating rope stretched along H24 from V2 to V12
-R1 charges Pellius. Also triggers AoP from Del.
Del has axes in both hands. I'll assume he uses some luck. Attack Damage . R1 is felled before he reaches Pellius.
-R2 charges Delkaneth. R2 at H26/V12. But doesn't hit Delkaneth.
-R4 doubles moves to H24/V8, right over the rope. Reflex save failed, R4 is entangled by the rope.
R5 moves to H34/V8 to help his wounded friend.
Pyotr as last in the initiative order, I want to give you a chance to reconsider your action for Round 1. Pyotr can charge and attack R4, but may not want to considering he's already entangled by the rope and less of a threat. Dunagan's rope prevents him from charging R2, the most threatening retainer at present, although he could double move to H25/V11 alongside Del and attack next round.
Ending locations:Del H25/V12, Pel H24/V14, Bonegrit H15/V16, R3 H34/V7, R2 H26/V12, R4 H24/V8, R5 H34/V8. Dierik, Haisnar and horses unchanged
I’ve added +1 to the relevant rolls following Dunagan’s casting of bless.
Updated map: Calibar's Monument R2
The clash of swords rings out beneath Calibar’s Monument. Dierik and Haisnar are locked in fierce combat. At first, Dierik presses his opponent, who is still dazed from his unhorsing. For a moment, Haisnar is driven back, and it looks like his defeat is imminent, but Dierik fervour causes him to overextend himself, and a slicing riposte from Haisnar clangs against his foe’s gardbrace, smashing the spaulder free of the armour.
Meanwhile, at Haisnar’s urging his men run to intercede on behalf of their leader. Pellius and Delkaneth sprint across the field to intercept them. Delkaneth collides with the foremost, his axe slicing down to bury itself in the warrior’s collarbone and send him to the ground in a whelter of blood. The downed man’s companion charges into Del, who uses his second axe to turn aside the leading longsword.
An arrow sings from Bonegrit’s bow, arcing through the air and punching through the chain mail of a third retainer. The shaft quivering proudly in his torso, the man looks down, cries out in horror, drops his sword and stumbles away from the fight. He’s one of the Chelaxians, and another retainer, rather than joining the fight, rushes to his side with an anguished cry of “Brother!”.
The last of Haisnar’s men moves towards the archer as swiftly as possible. Halfway across the field, Dunagan intones some sacred words, and the boundary rope he laid out awakens like a snake, coiling around the man as he crosses its line and entangling him.
Delkaneth
Pellius
Bonegrit
Retainer 3
Dunagan and the other Retainers
Pyotr
As Bonegrit's first volley streaks across the field to find purchase in the unfortunate man's torso, Bonegrit has already replaced the arrow with another. The half-orc draws the string back and takes a quick survey of the field. Satisfied with Delkaneth's handiwork, he takes aim at the retainer rapidly closing the field towards where Dunagan and Bonegrit remain. Dunagan's "line-in-the-sand" proves to be far more, however, the rope coiling and lashing the man. His advance almost completely halted and thoroughly impeded, Bonegrit calls out to Dunagan without diverting his attention, "Nice one!"
The dwarf's spell affords Bonegrit more time to line up his shot, and a few moments later he releases a second arrow into Haisnar's men. No sooner than the arrow touches the air, Bonegrit begins beating a path in the direction of Haisnar and Dierik, trusting that the immutable danger posed by Pyotr's massive blade will deter any pursuers.
His legs carrying him swiftly across the field, Bonegrit calls out loudly to their attackers, ""
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The magus keeps one eye on Dierik and his opponents and another on the charging men. Nodding in satisfaction that his new found companions seemed to know a bit about fighting, Pellius nears the man who engages Delkaneth (R2) and strikes.
The humming longsword cuts a diagonal path to the man, hitting him between his neck and collarbone and biting deep into his torso. Pellius moves aside letting the man fall to the grass and looks back Dierik.
He calls out to Haisnar, "Your thugs are dead or pleading for their lives. This fight is over! There is no honor here; there never was!"
The magus keeps one eye on Dierik and his opponents and another on the charging men. Nodding in satisfaction that his new found companions seemed to know a bit about fighting, Pellius nears the man who engages Delkaneth (R2). However, seeing Del swiftly dispatch the man, the magus turns around and goes towards Dierik and Haisnar.
He calls out to Haisnar, "Your thugs are dead or pleading for their lives. This fight is over! There is no honor here; there never was! Put your sword down. NOW!"
Pyotr marvels, as within the first seconds of the fight, his friends turn the odds significantly in their favor. He moves to engage the mercenary squaring off against Delkaneth. Rather than charging in, he moves more deliberately.
"Your companions need your assistance. That one will bleed out unless we staunch the flow . There is no reason everyone cannot survive this day, but you must lay down your weapon."
At Pyotr's urging, the warrior (R4) bound up in the rope throws down his blade.
At Pellius' urging, the warrior (R4) bound up in the rope throws down his blade.
Dunagan marvels at the speed of the battle. "Thank you," the dwarf replies to Bonegrit's compliment. Never before had the forgemaster seen an enemy dispatched so quickly and soundly. He lets out a hearty laugh before he sprints off towards Sir Ironcoffer. His warhammer remains on his hip and his shield on his back. The Dwarf doesn't seem to be concerned about the few remaining goons.
At Delkaneth’s threat, his opponent curses in Infernal. He thrusts his sword into the earth between them, wipes his dripping nose on his mailed sleeve, puts his hands on his hips, his glare defiant but his actions unthreatening. The entangled warrior has also surrendered, a third man lies gravely wounded and bleeding at Delkaneth’s feet, and the two Chelaxian brothers are still hobbling away from the fight; one uninjured but supporting the other who was struck by Bonegrit’s arrow.
Only Dierik and Haisnar remain fighting, but as the adventurers close on the battling pair, the bald Knight Captain sees his hirelings surrendering or fallen.
“You’d let these whelps stab me in the back, would you?” he sneers at Dierik, as their locked swords slither against each other.
“I’ve got this lads!” calls out Dierik to his allies, then to his enemy “I give you one last chance to yield, Haisnar. Ignore it, and I’ll offer you no quarter.”
Haisnar’s only answer is to spit messily over the crossed swords, and break the lock by shoving Dierik back a few paces. Gripping his longsword in both hands, Haisnar follows, swinging his weapon in fierce arcs which clatter into Dierik’s shield.
Bonegrit down 1 arrow, Dunagan used animate rope and bless, Pellius used one point of his arcane pool, Delkaneth used one moment of luck.
Haisnar's mercenaries begin throwing down their swords. With relief, Pyotr begins to secure his own.
“You’d let these whelps stab me in the back, would you?”
"You have violated the rules of an arrangement whose legality is already questionable. There is no hope of victory for you, here. If you strike Ironcoffer down, you brand yourself a murderer. You are surrounded by witnesses. These men you have brought will not risk Vigilant justice to support you."
"You have surrendered your honor. Do not surrender your soul."
“I’ve got this lads!” calls out Dierik to his allies, then to his enemy “I give you one last chance to yield, Haisnar. Ignore it, and I’ll offer you no quarter.”
Feeling something between relief and anger that the fight was over without him striking a blow, the magus nears the last two combatants.
Pellius' left hand quickly goes in and out of his spellpouch. With multicolored sand between his thumb and index finger, he calls out to Dierik, "Just say the word, sir, and I'll knock out Haisnar so we can deal with him as you please. No one needs to get hurt..."
Dunagan shrugs at Delkaneth, "What do you want lad? I can't read yer mind!" The dwarf watches as Dierik and Haisnar trade blows. The show is quite thrilling. He strokes his beard while he watches the contest and the man nearby bleeds into the dirt. It's not that the Dwarf is ignoring the man's wounds out of some evil desire to see him die, it's just that the forgemaster doesn't think himself a healer. The burns he healed on Zriorinta's hands were the only ones he was used to healing with the power of the God of the Forge. Sword wounds were a different story, usually healed by apothecaries on the very rare occasions that Dunagan would wield arms in defense of Vigil.
Dunagan looks flabbergasted, "What in the nine-hells do you mean boy? If you didn't want them to die, then why'd you hit 'em so hard?!" The dwarf barely takes his eyes off the battle before him. He watches closely as his fore-bearer's sword dances in Dierik's hands. The forgemaster conducts an almost scientific study of the blows of Haisnar's against the shield and in turn Dierik's own blade. Each ring of steel on steel, each bend and nick the blades take. It is the experience of a lifetime for the cleric of Torag. Never before had he seen such magnificent arms used in battle before. As he studies them closer he begins to detect the magical properties.
Bonegrit overhears Delkaneth's plight behind him, and seems torn for a moment. His eyes shoot to the pair of aged men locked in combat, then to the horses arrayed a short distance beyond. Finally, the half-orc grumbles something unintelligible to himself then begins making his way to Delkaneth and the fool unfortunate enough to test the man's mettle. Let's see if they extend the same courtesy to the orcs in Belkzen, hah! Bonegrit snorts a bit derisively as he comes to stand over the felled retainer, his life blood soaking the ground.
His steps carry him beside Delkaneth, and Bonegrit drops to both of his knees as he begins scavenging something to serve as bandages from the bleeding human. At the expense of the wounded man's shirt, he finds some serviceable bits of fabric to staunch the flow properly, chiding both the unconscious person and Delkaneth as he goes about his work. "Not sure why we're so keen on gettin' any of this lot back on their feet. Seem just as likely to hound us for revenge than learn a lesson. If that becomes the case, I'll put an arrow through his nethers and be sure and remind everyone who insisted on sparing the fool."
Bonegrit manages to halt the flow of blood, though his patient remains still and unconscious on the ground. Satisfied with his performance, Bonegrit returns his attention to Dierik and Haisnar.
Dierik and Haisnar continue their duel. Seeing his heavy, two handed swings are not enough to batter through Dierik’s defences, Haisnar switches to wielding his blade in one hand, adopting a more measured, careful stance, trading the odd blow and circling, looking for an opening. As the frenetic pace of the battle lulls, so to does Dierik’s anger at Haisnar’s treacherous attack. He focuses on blocking Haisnar’s strikes with sword and shield, and eventually his eyes flicker to Pellius.
“Do it, then,” he orders, and Pellius’ hurls forth the coloured sand pinched between his fingers as Dierik quickly skips back a few paces to give the magus’ spell room.
“Ιρις” intones Pellius, and a vivid rainbow of colour pours from his outstretched hand, enveloping Haisnar in its coiling motes.
Haisnar's Will save vs. DC 14
Blinded and stunned
R4's attack roll against binding rope
Some way distant from the fight, the two Chelaxian hirelings have reached their mounts. The one shot by Bonegrit’s arrow cannot help but let out a cry of pain as he is hauled clumsily over a horse’s back. His companion clambers into the saddle, trying his best to keep his wounded brother steady.
A clanking of chain mail marks the noisy and futile efforts being made by the retainer bound in Dunagan's rope as he tries to squirm his way towards his dropped sword and cut himself free. It doesn't look like he'll have any success any time soon.
The other man who surrendered is making no trouble, and Bonegrit's attention has staunched the bleeding of the warrior struck by Delkaneth's axe.
Ser Haisnar Rosenholt staggers out of the Pellius’ rainbow of light. He drops his sword and waves his black gauntlet in front of his eyes.
“I’m blind, you wretch!” he cries in horror, windmilling his arms around feebly as if trying to stave off a killing blow from Dierik’s blade. However, Dierik does nothing more than sheathe his weapon.
“He doesn’t look very unconscious, young Pellius,” he observes “but the effect’s pleasing enough. Grapple him and bind him, lads.”
Dunagan detects potent magic emanating from the sword his forebear crafted. Although he cannot identifty any specifics, the sorceries woven into the blade are complex and multi-layered. Perhaps a more in-depth examination will be able to glean more, especially if the dwarf were able to inspect the ancient weapon with his own hands.