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Satisfied with what the tracks tell, Bonegrit quickens Amiro's pace to finish out the rough perimeter he is making on the caravan's north side. His chosen path is soon abandoned, however, as he hears the faint whistle of the arrow he had left in Pyotr's care carried on the wind behind him. "" The half-orc spurs his horse onward with no small amount of anxiety. Though unlikely that the orcs had made their way down this flank of the river, Bonegrit's worry gnaws at him all the same. Can't call yerself a scout if they're overtaken by orc warbands the moment you vanish...
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The caravan continues west. As they ride towards the great pillar of white smoke rising to the west, Karannah falls in with Delkaneth and Pyotr.
“He’s a strange one,” she confides, nodding at Agiz, who sits on the back of Dierik’s wagon, playing with an abacus and scribbling in a notebook “A master of numbers, but hard to predict for all his logic."
“I’d like to have known why those orcs attacked Lastwall too. But I guess my fellows just considered the spectacle back there a shooting gallery. What can you do, eh?”
“You seem an odd one to be travelling with us,” she says to Pyotr “I’ve heard about Pellius’ brother and the dwarf’s supposed forgotten heritage, but you don’t seem to fit amongst the merchants and the mercenaries.”
You feel the ‘ mercenary’ jibe was aimed at you, to see how you’d react to the moniker.
After an hour, the caravan reaches Fallenford.
Fallenford harks back to a time when the defences of Lastwall enjoyed better investment and resources. Once a great, fortified stone bridge spanned the Esk, wide enough for ten knights to ride across line abreast. At least a century ago, it was brought down (some say by orcs, other claim by men fearful of letting such a strategic crossing point fall into enemy hands). However, so massive was the structure that when it collapsed into the Esk it filled the riverbed, leaving only a foot of water passing over the canted stones and creating an easily traversed ford which gave rise to its modern name.
Fallenford was actually built at the same time as Harchrist’s Blockade, in 4237, and fell in the forty—sixth century. Apparently it was built by a band of dwarven engineers who joined the Crusade in the hopes of one day reclaiming Koldukar from the orcs. Their quest was in vain, but evidence of their efforts can still be found in some of the defensive fortifications of the era. Fallenford was constructed with an in-built ‘self destruct mechanism’ which allowed the bridge to be collapsed on turning a mighty windlass seven times round. Watch-Commander Dembroar was subsequently pilloried in Vigil who his supposed premature demolition of the bridge when a small army of worg-riders broke through the lines and swept along the Esk.
Across Fallenford is the cause of the mighty tower of white smoke, or in fact – steam, that has been visible all morning. The steam is being generated by a wall of fire cutting directly across Fallenford (in the centre of the river and parallel to the banks). The barrier has made crossing impossible, blocking of any retreat for the orc forces that have attacked Castle Firrine. As the water of the Esk flows under the wall of fire, it is vaporised in scores of gallons, sending the mightly plume of steam skyward.
The wall of fire radiates strong evocation magic. Powerful metamagic has altered it, providing a duration far beyond the usual bounds of the spell.
Most of the caravan pauses to stare agog at the powerful magic at work. After their wits have been recovered, Dierik and Santrian gather their latest recruits.
“Before any of you ask, I’m determined to push on with this journey. This massing of orcs is a surprise no doubt, and makes things riskier for us, but we’ll turn northeast towards the Freedom Town soon enough; I dare say things will be quieter in that direction. I want to bury those men, like I promised Paelinus, but I don’t want to get us all killed in the doing of it.”
“It’s much better if we only get you killed,” puts in Santrian, smiling weakly at his joke.
Dierik rolls his eyes. “Something like that. I don’t want to put us all at risk.” He points northwest. “There’s the Flood Road. From my conversation with Paelinus, the battle took place ten miles up the Road from here. I want you to scout ahead and see what you find. If there’s work to do, if there’re men to bury, send a rider back and we’ll bring the caravan up. If you find nothing, then get back to the camp by nightfall. Be cautious, keep your steeds on a tight rein, and gallop back the way you came if for a moment you think you’ve met something you can’t handle.”
From the banks of Fallenford, the promised Flood Road snakes away into the plains of Belkzen. It’s not much of a road, to say the least, but more like an empty riverbed, the larger boulders and stones pushed aside, its fundament still muddy from the spring rains.
"Oh, and grab something for lunch before you go," adds Santrian.
“You seem an odd one to be travelling with us,” she says to Pyotr “I’ve heard about Pellius’ brother and the dwarf’s supposed forgotten heritage, but you don’t seem to fit amongst the merchants and the mercenaries.”
"Am I? The priests and acolytes of the Cathedral said much the same during my time there. As did the soldiers and guardsmen of the War College." Pyotr gives Karranah a rueful smile. "It seems no matter where I go, I am 'the Unwelcome'... or at least the odd-one-out."
Pyotr holds up a hand to forestall the young woman's prostest. "I am still searching for my place in this world. Perhaps it lies on the Flood Road. In any case, you judge me by my actions rather than my skin. For that I am grateful."
As the recruits gather, Pyotr edges his way towards Dunagan. "In my studies, I have read that it was dwarves in service to Harchrist that built the original bridge that spanned the Fallenford. I know nothing of ancestry, but perhaps they were of the Haarglick Clan? Were ever your family stonemasons?"
"From my conversation with Paelinus, the battle took place ten miles up the Road from here. I want you to scout ahead and see what you find."
"It is well that our scout has returned to us, then," Pyotr nods as Bonegrit and Amiro trot back into the fold of wagons. He then turns to Agiz. "Within your vast stores, do you have a small piece of plain, white canvas? I believe we could make good use of such, if there are still groups of Firrine's isolated regulars in the field."
Seeing the wall of flame stokes his own curiosity, and after a few moments of mumbling and wiggling his fingers he stares at the unusual phenomenon. His eyes begin to widen with each pasing second.
"Seems like Castle Firrine's mage is quite powerful. That thing's going to be there a while."
The magus looks on as Del examines the firewall in place, cursing himself for not studying the particular cantrip this morning. "I think you're right. From my understanding of this spell, its duration is supposed to be much shorter and we've seen this thing for hours now."
Pellius nods, "Maybe one day I ought to meet this powerful mage I was unaware existed."
Delkaneth nods solemnly at the caravan master's instructions. Ah, to be a 'guard.' He nods again at Pyotr's request. "And some shovels or other digging tools might speed the work along if there are men to bury. Can you can spare them?"
With the common sense requests out of the way and the instructions clear, Pellius dismounts and makes sure that everything is packed well on his horse's saddle. He turns to Dierik, "Hopefully whatever is there can be taken care by us five and we'll see later for supper."
As the recruits gather, Pyotr edges his way towards Dunagan. "In my studies, I have read that it was dwarves in service to Harchrist that built the original bridge that spanned the Fallenford. I know nothing of ancestry, but perhaps they were of the Haarglick Clan? Were ever your family stonemasons?"
"Nay, I dun believe so. My family is more concerned with metal than stone, but out of my own curiosity I have dabbled in the study of architecture. I too know of this bridge and it provides even more evidence that Koldukar can never be re-claimed." Dunagan sighs, ""Suppose I am just one of them Dwarves that no longer feels that is my rightful home... it has been so long since we have lost it..." The dwarf sits introspectively upon Cornallium, their loud breathing matching. He tugs on the reigns towards the direction the small band has been tasked to scout, but makes a quick stop near the chuck wagon, picking up his lunch.
"Was that really a platinum coin he used? I'd hardly call hitting an orc with 2 weeks wages 'good economy'...unless I'm very mistaken about this caravan."
“Two weeks wages huh? I wish I was worth that,” Karannah remarks, before answering Delkaneth’s question “Yeah, the slinging platinum coins thing. We’ve seen Agiz do that a few times. Considering he’d dust down his paws after handling a piece of gold to see whether there was any gold dust left on those furry fingers, nobody really thinks he’s wasting money. Of course, as far as I can tell everyone’s too concerned with making up their own stories to just go on and ask him. I’ve heard Korrivur say that they’re just rocks illusioned to look that way, whilst Garra claims Agiz has got a magical pouch and that every time he pulls out a coin another appears in its place. Of course, everyone then asks the question as to why Agiz ain’t the richest rat in Golarion. Garra doesn’t have a good answer for that one, though he’s tried a few. Breven’s of the opinion that its got nothing to do with magic at all, and all those platinum pieces are counterfeits; apparently Agiz got fleeced one time in Kaer Maga, and the coins make better missiles than currency. I’m sure someone will come up with an even more outlandish explanation soon.”
-----
Crinkles provides each man with a small packed lunch wrapped in rough fabric; an apple each, a collapsing hunk of blue cheese, and a cardamom cake (“the last half dozen from Vigil,” Crinkles explains reverently as he slips the sixth cake into his pouch). Agiz provides Pyotr with a square of canvas, stained but white enough to be recognizable as a flag of truce and Santrian russles up a five worn-out looking picks should any wish to start digging graves.
Thus furnished, the little band of five ride out onto the Flood Road. It is about an hour after midday.
The sussuration of the Esk and the hissing of the great pyre burning over Fallenford fall away into silence. To the east runs open moorland, a plain of gently rolling, largely barren hillocks and knolls, here and there dotted with hastily erected and hastily abandoned fortifications built by Lastwall over the long years of war. To the west, the quiet, flat expanse of the Ghostlight Marshes squats malevolently. Despite the clearness of the day, the air rising above the swamp seems hazy and sinister. The marshes seem devoid of life.
The Ghostlight Marshes take their name from the will o’ wisps that haunt their reaches at night. Some say the will o’ wisps regularly lure orcs to their deaths in the swamp’s murky depths, but ignore humans unless they actually enter the marsh. The swamp was not always so desolate. In 4237 a circle of druids called the Council of Thorns, driven south by the rampages of the orcs and their unsustainable rape of Belkzen’s meagre natural resources, chose to sacrifice themselves in some unspeakable ritual. With their wickedly honed copper sickles, they let their blood mingle with the marsh water as they intoned the incantation of some long-forgotten, but formidably powerful, collaborative spell. Something though, went wrong. Whatever retribution that was planned on the orcs never came to pass. Instead, the Council of Thorns was destroyed, and the swamp became a lifeless, despondent place.
A couple of hours pass without much to remark on. There is no shortage of evidence with regards to the battles this week has seen, the muddy surface of the Flood Road is churned with the passing of armies, and the marks of countless booted feet and hoofprints headed both north and south. As the white plume behind the riders becomes less distinct, a new stain on the horizon emerges ahead of them. This cloud is black, and swirls around and around like a turbid whirlwind.
It doesn’t take long for the adventurers to recognise this cloud as a great wheeling flock of carrion birds.
And so, slowing to a sombre walk, their horses bring them to the battlefield . . .
There are as many carrion birds on the ground as there are in the sky. Almost every species of winged scavenger you’d expect to see in Belkzen or Lastwall has made it to the feast. The majority are stilleto billed rooks and scruffy carrion corbies, but there are also a number of Pharasman crows with their silvery flight feathers and a few massive butcher ravens. Many are already too stuffed with dead flesh to fly as the horses approach, and simply hop away in an ungainly manner.
The dead are everywhere, but are exclusively orcs but for almost a score of slain horses and a massive hill giant lying face down in the middle of the Flood Road. The question as to where the humans lie is answered in grim fashion, as one dense flock of crows rises off a small hill in the centre of the battlefield, revealing it to be not a hill at all, but a mound of slaughtered men piled atop each other. An enormous falchion, probably once the weapon of the dead giant, transfixes this heap of some fifty corpses. The effect is a crude facisimile of the symbol worn so proudly on the blood-stained breastplate of Erem Braggs; the holy symbol of Gorum, god of battle.
Dunagan sighs, ""Suppose I am just one of them Dwarves that no longer feels that is my rightful home... it has been so long since we have lost it..."
"I lament the loss of your ancient homeland." Pyotr does his best to appear sympathetic to the dwarf's plight. But, it is clear the half-breed orphan is struggling to comprehend the dwarven attachment to all things ancestral.
.....
Pyotr's first sight of a battlefield is nearly overwhelming. Despite having grown up feeding from the midden heaps, the smell is powerful enough to force the half-orc to cover his face with the sleeve of his tunic. Even with that guard in place, Pyotr wretches as a razor-billed rook savages the open eye of a fallen orc.
After mastering himself, Pyotr's gaze is inexorably drawn to the macabre holy symbol piled in the middle of the field. Morbid curiosity draws the half-orc closer towards the display, watching the ground and stepping carefully to avoid trampling the dead.
All along the ground, as he travels through the carnage, Pyotr spots shattered blades and broken hafts in plenty....
As he approaches the mound, Pyotr's unease increases significantly. The ritualistic display, the heaps of the fallen, and the eerie chorus of the carrion fowl all play on his nerves. He draws his greatsword as he closes.
The jingling holy symbol, hanging from his hilt, seems to steady Pyotr considerably, as does the apparent emptiness of the killing fields. With renewed confidence he shouts to his fellows, "If there are rocks enough, we may well build them a cairn and reconsecrate it in the Lady's name." Pyotr's breaths come short and heavy, as he steels himself for the task ahead. "Firstly, though, we must remove that monstrosity," he gestures toward the oversized falchion. "I'll not leave them long in this vulgar state."
Pellius tugs on the reins of Signior when the horse snickers and tries to shy away. He pats the animal on the neck while softly murmuring, "Aye boy, I smell it too and no, I don't like it."
The magus dismounts and frees the horse, tying the reins on the saddle so they don't drag on the ground. "You don't have to come with me but stay close. You come when I whistle." With that said, he gives the horse a light pat on its rump and send him on his way. The horse finds some tough grass and starts gnawing away at it.
Steeling himself against the smell, the magus walks slowly towards where the humans were piled making sure no enemies remained. In truth Pellius is rather careless thinking that nothing would remain in this hell to ambush them.
When he reaches the pile of dead, he signals Iomedae and looks up to the sky, "Receive them well My Lady for they fought your battle."
Pellius then walks around and tries to identify any of the dead or see if they have any personal items (lockets, rings, etc.) that could be returned to their families. The magus is also checking for well-made weapons or armor, anything better than the common weapons usually issued to runt soldiers.
He turns to his companion, "Can we burn the bodies?"
Dunagan slowly lowers himself from the saddle on to the ground as soon as he realizes the mound is made of men. Drawing on the reservoir in his mouth he spits on the ground and curses, "Sodding Gorum. To exist only for the sake of conflict and battle is repulsive." The forgemaster searches the pile, attempting to find anyone who may yet still breath. In doing so he mumbles a quick prayer to Torag for his divine guidance in protecting what may yet not be lost.
"A god born of the will of mortals," the dwarf continues as he searches through the bodies. "Such an affront to the order of this world. For mortals are born of the will of the gods, not gods birthed of mortal will."
As time goes on, Dunagan mutters another quick prayer and his eyes glow with a light blue aura.
Having satisfied his desire to search for survivors, Dunagan begins to take notice of any remaining arms and armor nearby. Of particular interest is the massive falchion lodged within the mound. The dwarf searches carefully amongst the men for any that may bear his family's mark or that are of superior quality to satisfy his erudite desire.
"A pyre large enough to burn this many would require as much work as a cairn. I suppose it is up to those who worship Iomedae to decide, but I'd leave the Gorum worshipers here as it is a fitting burial for them."
"War and conflict is a mean to an ends, not a means in itself. Gorum is like a breastplate that is not created to protect one's organs, but instead created to be only struck by a blade.." Dunagan pulls a small dagger from a soldiers waistband and eyes it carefully before speaking again, "Following suit, war for war's sake is a blade only forged to only strike armor. It is not made to have any effect other than cause a cacophony. It is why I only work with steel and not iron. Steel is honed and sharp while iron is blunt and dull. One has been created with purpose, the other, simply fumbled upon."
The adventurers congregate at the foot of the grotesque mound of bodies that rises more than twice the height of even Pyotr’s six foot four frame. The bloated corpses have lain dead for two days now, and the smell of decomposition is potent. The mobbing crows’ disfiguring work is just as distressing. Most of their armour and weapons have been stripped from them, along with other valuables. The only exceptions are a couple of lightly armoured scouts, whose bodies still occupy the stained remains of their leather armour. Sword Marks can be seen on the palms of some, but it appears that the majority of the dead hailed from Castle Firrine rather than Vigil.
The falchion buried in the reeking hill of flesh mirrors the sword transfixing the mountain symbol of Gorum. The massive weapon is crude and clumsy, a blunt and dull hunk of iron.
[ooc]Burial is the most time consuming option for dealing with the dead, and a massive task without the support of Dierik’s caravan. Even with Dierik’s retinue or almost fifty men, it would still take at least a couple of hours to dig a mass grave large enough to encompass all the humans, and perhaps more than three times that time if individual graves were dug. Creating a cairn would certainly be quicker, but would still be a lot of manpower. There are plenty of stones available, but they’d have to be packed pretty deep to ensure the corpses were not disturbed by the powerful terrestrial scavengers that roam Belkzen’s badlands. Burning is the most expedient option, and the caravan probably has enough oil to spare to get a pyre going.
Delkaneth’s dweomer-sight detects nothing magical in the mound of dead, or at least nothing magical in the outer layer of bodies which he can see. Whilst making his investigation, he notices a blood-washed chain around the neck of one butchered shoulder. Covering his mouth against the reek, he tugs the medallion out from under the corpse’s vest, revealing a beautifully worked holy symbol of Gorum. The mountain is wrought from polished bronze; the impaling sword is of course iron. It would probably be worth about five gold pieces to a devout Gorumite.
Pellius accompanies Del on his circuit of the corpse-hill. He recognises one of the dead scouts by the man’s long plait of ebony hair; Indarl Whitelake. He was a firm friend of Pellius’ old captain, Fymon Vekkatur (now captured and maybe dead alongside Pellius’ brother), and Pellius had met the man several times when Fymon’s and Indarl’s patrols crossed paths in the wilderness. A man of great wit, and an accomplished mimic of various commanders in Firrine and Vigil; his impersonations never failed to get the men laughing.
Perhaps other acquaintances lie in this charnel heap; the horrific wounds and colourless flesh make the men difficult to recognise.
One body near the top of the pile attracts Pellius’ attention, for a scrap of paper is clutched in the man’s rigid hand. It’s out of reach, but Delkaneth raises a finger, and a magical force snatches the parchment out of those cold fingers and transports it down to the pair.
It is a love letter. On one side is a long paean of devotion from a young scriveners’ apprentice named Dorla. She waxes lyrical about an imagined future, recounts at considerable length memories of romantic walks by the shores of Lake Encarthan and coyly hints at more intimate exchanges. There is also an address; Indobur’s Inscriptions, Mutter’s Lane, Vellumis.
On the reverse is a hastily scrawled response:
My darling Dorla,
No doubt you’ll hear my name in the songs of bards before this letter gets to you, for we are marching to battle, and I intend to make my mark! Castle Firrine is in uproar, for some orcs have made a foolish move against our borders and Commander Shallen leads us north to confront them.
Never fear, for my swordcraft is much improved after all the training we’ve received. I’d even venture to say I’m a match for your brother these days.
I hope I can find a rider journeying south who’ll carry this letter for me, but it seems everyone on a horse is heading north, on the same path to glory we follow.
I never tire of your messages, no matter how often I read them.
Your loving, loyal
Androthus
Pellius also finds a golden Iomedean wedding ring on the finger of a decapitated woman. It bears Iomedae’s sword symbol, and inscribed inside the name of the woman’s husband – Malsev.
Pellius also finds a masterwork dagger strapped to a boot sticking out of the pile, the remainder of the body lost beneath the stinking weight of its fellows.
Pyotr roves across the battlefield. There are more than thrice as many orcs slain as humans. He notes that many of them bear marks related to the gods they worship; Rovagug, the Rough Beast, and numerous orcish deities dedicated to destructive elements such as storms, fire and slaughter. Despite what has been done to the slain humans, he sees no evidence of worship of Gorum amongst the dead orcs.
He also stumbles across some coins scattered on the stained earth. One of the rooks, in its efforts to peck through an orc’s auroch hide jacket, has cut through into a hidden pocket of the garment and spilled its contents. There are thirteen gold pieces, seven silver, and nine copper.
Meanwhile, Dunagan’s eyes spot something curious amongst the wreckage of the battle. A fallen orc's outstretched arm is trapped beneath a dead horse, but the handle of a weapon can just be spotted in the brutish warrior's grasp. The heavy, squared handle excites Dunagan's interest as he recognises dwarven craftmanship. With a tug, he pulls the weapon out from under the horse and prizes off the stiff, orcish fingers.
It's a warhammer, made expertly from starfallen adamantine. Incredibly difficult to fashion, for adamantine is one of the hardest metals known to man or god, this warhammer is nonetheless of masterwork quality. It sits with satisfying heft in Dunagan's hand. A single forgerune marks the warhammer's head, a sigil Dunagan has never seen before.
Bonegrit dismounts beyond the worst of the carnage, sparing Amiro from the rotten heap just ahead. He fetches a pair of worn leather gloves from a bulging saddlebag, tugging them quickly onto both hands before retrieving a thoroughly stained handkerchief to tie around his face. Unlike some of his companions, however, Bonegrit is uninterested in paying respects or honoring faiths. Were it left up to him, they would have continued on their own course, rather than waste time and risk life or health on the already slain.
The lanky half-orc's long strides carry him quickly into the midst of the blood fed battleground. Though he makes no complaints, his makeshift bandanna does little to avail him against the decay's assault. His keen nose curls at the horrible stench, but he presses on, swatting away the bravest of the carrion feeders with the tip of his bow. He does not remain in close proximity to any one during their initial circuit, but tries to keep within earshot and eyesight of everyone. Though it is unlikely any orcs yet survived from the battle, Bonegrit remains vigilant. Stifling the wrongness and brief pangs of guilt, he is ultimately unable to resist the impulse to scavenge what might be worthwhile from the fallen soldiers and orcs that litter the area.
During his investigation of the dead, Bonegrit ambles over to Dunagan, intrigued by the dwarf's overt disdain for Gorumite practices. "So, that pile's a Gorumite effigy, yeah? Not heard of a tribe doing somethin' like that before. Could be a taunt, I suppose." Bonegrit reaches a hand up towards his chin, though hesitates and decides better of it after remembering where said hand has been. "Although, I only see one giant, and he's feedin' worms over there. I don't reckon he made the corpse hill in the thick of the fighting. Might be more of 'em." Bonegrit's eyes look to the ground, and he begins searching for oversized footprints that might betray the presence of more hill giants.
Steeling himself against the smell and the affront brought by his actions, Pyotr begins a slow careful assent to the top of the mound. He makes whispered apologies to deaf ears as the carrion fowl swirl through the air squawking their protests. Handholds and footholds are found in the liquid mass of remains, his passing giving vent to pockets of fetid air trapped within. Only a wrought-iron constitution, born of a childhood scavenging through filth, allows him to maintain his composure through the ordeal.
At the summit, he finds balance and purchase on the putrefying backs of men whose sacrifice he honors. "Grant me strength..." he intones as he throws all of his considerable power into pulling the repulsive falchion from the mass.
With a hideous sucking noise, the falchion gives under Pyotr’s mighty strength. There is a long sigh, not unlike the last gasp of a dying man, but in fact a release of noxious fumes as the massive blade grinds through bloated corpses. Suddenly, the resistance gives way and the falchion slides away, ejected from the pile with a cry by Pyotr. It tumbles to the bottom of the heap, and beneath the half-orc, the mound abruptly shifts and resettles.
Reflex DC 10
- - - - -
Near the edge of the battlefield, Bonegrit notices the body of an orcish bowman. Although its weapon is missing, a quiver of arrows remains strapped to its back. Most of the quiver's contents have been constructed with the base skill of Belkzen, but six arrows do not match their neighbours. Made from pale rose birch and fletched with swan feathers, they’re some of the finest arrows Bonegrit’s had the good fortune to handle, and each one is a masterpiece*.
The Flood Road’s still muddy from the torrent that tore along its bed when the spring storms were at their worst. It makes it easy for Bonegrit to make sense of the document of different tracks of hundreds of different beings that have trekked back and forth across the battlefield.
After some investigation, he seems confident of his growing hunch; two large columns of orcs have passed over this ground recently. The first army pursued Lastwall’s force south as Paelinus described, but the second arrived at least half a day later, and then returned north. No doubt these latecomers were responsible for the looting of the battlefield, and the grotesque altar to Gorum.
Bonegrit finds no more than one set of hill giant tracks, but he does notice some unusual three-toed hoofprints of an impressively large quadrupedal animal.
These tracks belong to a woolly rhino, a creature often domesticated by the orcs of Belkzen.
*
Pellius salutes his captain's friend and smiles remembering the man's antics.
The magus tucks away the letter, after reading it twice, and the wedding ring in his pockets for later delivery. He mumbles to himself as he continues to inspect the corpses, "Not sure how or when but I'll make sure these items are delivered."
He then pulls out the fine dagger from the soldier's boots and nods towards the soldier, "I'll make sure this continues to be well taken care of and used for its intended purpose."
He turns to the four of his companions, "Well, I guess it's time for some of us to head back. No sense all of us heading out and tiring the horses. Dierik gave his word so I'm sure he'll veer the caravan this way once he knows what's here."
He looks at Bonegrit, "I'd be happy to gallop my horse along you if you want me but I'll leave that up to you since you like to head off on your own."
While decisions were being made, the magus noticed something peculiar a few feet away as he continued to look for equipment...
With a squelching pop, and a sigh of released gasses, the enormous falchion slides free of the pile. Pyotr grunts as he heaves the oversized sword to land on a empty spot of the battlefield not far from Delkaneth. Taking even more care in his descent, he makes his way down the carrion hill and walks a good distance away.
Visibly shaken, and unable to travel far enough from the stench, Pyotr sits down on a bare patch of bloodied grass. For several minutes the only movement to be seen is the regular rise and fall of his pauldrons as he breathes, and an occasional half-hearted swat at butcher raven that waddles too close.
Pyotr shakes himself out of his stupor, and joins his companions. "With unlimited time and resources, I would see all these brave men interred properly, with all the rites and rituals accorded them. But, soonest is best."
"I do not know for certain if this would do honor to all of the fallen, but I believe a cairn, a great monument for the families and faithful, would be best."
Bonegrit's investigation of the tracks carry him directly past where Pyotr elected to rest away the troubles of the Gorumite effigy. Seeing that they returned north set the ranger's mind at ease, though he quickly recognized the tracks owing to no small amount of experience with the hordes of Belkzen. A few steps beyond Pyotr, Bonegrit pauses, then looks back to the nearly overwhelmed Iomedaean. His voice is somewhat muffled behind the ramshackle handkerchief that still covers his mouth, "The orcs got the worst of it, when all was said. There was a second warband that passed through after the brunt of the fightin', looks like. They did that." He swings the lower tip of his bow in the direction of the pile of dead men and women, now thankfully free of the falchion's presence. "Looks like they looted the rest. Reckon they burdened their wooly rhino with all they could manage and went on their way." Bonegrit turns to leave, but hesitates a moment longer, perhaps only just now understanding Pyotr's distress.
"I don't know much 'bout yer faith or theirs, Pyotr, but I know they died defending what they loved 'til their last. Someone smarter than me once told me that what we do with the dead is for the sake of the living. I like the ring o' that. What they have done with their lives is more important than what we do with their bodies." Nodding to no one, Bonegrit continues plodding his way towards the rest of the party.
As Pellius approaches Bonegrit, he gives a curt nod to the suggested course of action. "I can ride if ya want me to. Alone, if need be, though I welcome another pair of eyes at my back. Reckon it's a good chance the second band of orcs are a day's ride from us by now, but there's always the chance they're not. Probably better if it's you, I reckon. Don't mean to nitpick the others, but most of 'em don't seem to know their way around a saddle just yet."
To the orcs of Belkzen, the woolly rhino is referred to as a war rhino. Their belligerent temperaments appeal to the orcs, who favour them for martial purposes, such as hauling siege weapons. Many are clad in armour and sent to rampage through the lines of an enemy’s army.
1. Masterwork longsword
2. Dagger+1
3. 10 Masterwork crossbow bolts
4. 5 crossbow bolts+1
5. Masterwork Wooden Buckler
6. Alchemical silver shortsword
Pellius watches a pair of butcher ravens tussling over hunk of rotting meat. As the birds squabble, they stumble over a shattered shield and knock it aside, revealing something interesting beneath. The magus walks over to investigate, and discovers a remarkable weapon, of masterwork quality despite the gore that coats it. Although a longsword, its blade to covered in spidery runes of a like Pellius has not seen before. Its crossguard branches like the antlers of a stag.
Meanwhile, Delkaneth seems to have also found some measure of luck. The mound has shifted after Pyotr wrenched the falchion free, and one of the bodies that have tumbled to the bottom matches the description of Captain Senatine, flamboyant moustache and all. The moustache has of course been stained crimson by the Captain’s blood, and the broken head of the boar spear that slew him remains transfixing his trunk.
Pellius and Bonegrit turn their horses about and canter back down the Flood Road to rendezvous with the caravan, leaving Delkaneth, Pyotr and Dunagan with the crows . . . and the dead.
The hill giant’s body twitches, and begins to move . . .
Pellius watches a pair of butcher ravens tussling over hunk of rotting meat. As the birds squabble, they stumble over a shattered shield and knock it aside, revealing something interesting beneath. The magus walks over to investigate, and discovers a remarkable weapon, of masterwork quality despite the gore that coats it. Although a longsword, its blade to covered in spidery runes of a like Pellius has not seen before. Its crossguard branches like the antlers of a stag.
Pellius smiles amidst the carnage. He swings the blade back and forth admiring its balance and then brings it up to his face. He cringes at the smell but can’t help but wonder about the spidery runes on the fine blade. He traces one of the runes with his finger making a mental note to talk to Dunagan about them. Who knows, maybe the runes allow the blade to be enchanted or something?
The magus whispers arcane words while gesturing with his hand. His left hand acquires a purplish glow with which the magus starts to slowly caress the blade. As the fingers touch the blade, they leave nothing but beautiful, clean steel behind. The magus smiles and mutters to himself, ”A few more minutes and I’ll have you cleaned up nicely. I wonder what I’ll call you.”
Pellius and Bonegrit turn their horses about and canter back down the Flood Road to rendezvous with the caravan, leaving Delkaneth, Pyotr and Dunagan with the crows . . . and the dead.
The magus turns to Bonegrit and half-jokingly states, "Lead on, scout. I think Signior here is eager to get away from this place; what say we give the horses some free rein for bit?"
Delkaneth's spell does not detect any magical properties in the ornate sword . . .
" What they have done with their lives is more important than what we do with their bodies."
Pyotr smiles weakly at the other half-orc's words. He would have liked to respond in kind, but finds himself lost to speech. He spends another few agonizing moments trapped in the memory of scaling a mountain of carrion.
"Daemonia Stupri Filio Canis! That thing is moving!"
"May let them go for a bit, but we should make haste... to Dierik's... is that thing " The surprise in Bonegrit's voice is accompanied by a sharp tug on Amiro's reins, and the warhorse wheels around with more grace than befits its rugged appearance. His hands retrieve his bow hastily, an arrow nocked equally as fast as he calls out loudly to Pellius, "The giant ain't dead!" Worry creeps across Bonegrit's face like a mask. Though the giant is likely gravely wounded, the half-orc knows well that such a monster is still an immense threat to all those present. With any luck, it'll wander off...
"May let them go for a bit, but we should make haste... to Dierik's... is that thing " The surprise in Bonegrit's voice is accompanied by a sharp tug on Amiro's reins, and the warhorse wheels around with more grace than befits its rugged appearance. His hands retrieve his bow hastily, an arrow nocked equally as fast as he calls out loudly to Pellius, "The giant ain't dead!" Worry creeps across Bonegrit's face like a mask. Though the giant is likely gravely wounded, the half-orc knows well that such a monster is still an immense threat to all those present. With any luck, it'll wander off...
Signior is stopped short by a sharp tug on its reins and Pellius turns his head around following the ranger's sight. The magus' jaw drops but something inside of him wheels his horse around and starts after Bonegrit.
The magus is going through his attack options as he nears the behemoth, closing in with such a foe was akin to instant death. He squints at the giant trying to discern if it was truly alive and if so, how hurt, or if it had risen in undeath.
The hill giant continues to twitch, its right arm and blubbery flank flopping back and forth as a muffled groaning emanates. The rest of its body remains stiff and supine. It’s almost as if the giant was crudely animated via some outside force.
Then the muffled groaning manifests into recognizable words, spoken in a mixture of Infernal and Common.
“Baatezu folox pusulatus! It stinks under here!”
The hill giant shifts once again, and from beneath its gut extends an altogether human arm clad in plate mail. The arm gropes back and forth blindly, grasping for some kind of leverage.
“Well!” the muffled voice cries again “I hear the voices of men, tongues speaking Common. Are you going to get me out from under here or am I to suffocate?”
“Well!” the muffled voice cries again “I hear the voices of men, tongues speaking Common. Are you going to get me out from under here or am I to suffocate?”
Now a little more relaxed but no less wary, the magus dismounts and answers back, "Coming, coming. Not every day I see a hillgiant come back to life. Who might you be and how did you get under that big boy?
Pellius nods to Del and calls over his companions for help, "Bonegrit, Pyotr, I think it'll take all of us to get him out..."
At the calls of his companions, Pyotr abandons his torturous solitude and goes to investigate. The muffled cries of the man trapped beneath the body of the hill giant are so unexpected that in spite of himself, Pyotr breaks into a fit of laughter, quickly checked.
Surely, no one has survived such incarceration for two days...?
"Come, friend. Let me relieve you of that burden."
Once again, Pyotr puts his great strength to effect. Even the mighty muscles of the half-orc are not up to the task of lifting the massive giant, but they do at least shift its bulk slightly. It’s almost enough, revealing a knight in smeared and dented full plate trying ineffectually to wriggle out from underneath the giant’s ponderous gut.
“ You’re as unmerciful as Asmodeus.”
Who might you be and how did you get under that big boy?
“I am Modoru Redgrave, knight of Castle Firrine and paladin of Iomedae, you pacithexi, and if you dawdle any longer my cursing will offend the sainted ears of my lady the Inheritor . . .
"We can try doing it ourselves, I reckon. Or..." Bonegrit shoots an appraising glance towards the horses arrayed shortly beyond where the hill giant was felled, then calls back to the heaving form of Pyotr, "...we can tether the brute to Amiro and Torshen's Hammer and give a lift while they're pulling, aye?"
Bonegrit hops out of his saddle and begins rummaging through his bags for a sturdy length of rope. Lowering his voice, he speaks now to Pellius, "Though, if he keeps carrying on like that I've a good mind to leave 'em there."
"We can try doing it ourselves, I reckon. Or..." Bonegrit shoots an appraising glance towards the horses arrayed shortly beyond where the hill giant was felled, then calls back to the heaving form of Pyotr, "...we can tether the brute to Amiro and Torshen's Hammer and give a lift while they're pulling, aye?"
Pellius nods to the ranger, "Aye, good idea. Get one of you to pull from under his arm, slide that noose all the way to the shoulder while the other pulls from the leg, again with the noose all the way to the crotch. Your two horses pull one way to try and lift part of the giant and we'll help the our friend here the other way."
Bonegrit hops out of his saddle and begins rummaging through his bags for a sturdy length of rope. Lowering his voice, he speaks now to Pellius, "Though, if he keeps carrying on like that I've a good mind to leave 'em there."
The magus laughs, "Yeah but I bet you'd be cranky too if you'd spent the last two days under a hillgiant."
He turns to the paladin, "Hold up there. A couple of more minutes isn't going to kill you; we have to do this right. So how long have you left Cheliax and served the Lady?"
Pyotr pushes against the fallen behemoth with all his considerable might, but to no avail. With rigor passed, the body is far too pliant to allow leverage, and ultimately too heavy for anyone to lift, or even roll aside. With an apologetic grunt, Pyotr allows the shoulder of the monster to roll back into place atop the trapped knight. A squeak of protest sounds from the plate armor, or perhaps from Modoru himself, as he is smothered again by the dead brute.
"We can try doing it ourselves, I reckon. Or we can tether the brute to Amiro and Torshen's Hammer and give a lift while they're pulling, aye?"
"A worthy suggestion." He nods to Bonegrit, as he and Pellius jog to the horses to begin. Towards the hidden form of Ser Redgrave, he intones, "Have patience, Ser. And try to keep a civil tongue. Offering offense to the Lady, whilst her servants offer you assistance, is hardly chivalrous."
With Pellius’ rope looped around the pinned knight, and Torshen’s Hammer and Amiro harnessed and tied to the hill giant with Bonegrit’s rope, the adventurers’ plan is set in action. At Bonegrit’s urging, the two mighty warhorses take up the strain, slowly turning the behemoth corpse on one side, whilst Pyotr and Pellius tug sharply on their line, dragging Modoru Redgrave back out into the daylight.
He lies prostrate on the torn battleground, groaning faintly and sucking in great breaths of air not fouled by the rotting, muffling humours of the gargantuan body that has pinned him. The sword and sunburst symbol can be seen etched into his breastplate. He raises one gauntleted hand for aid.
“By the Inheritor’s good graces, she has healed my injuries and kept me alive since that monster engulfed me, but unfortunately her mercy does nothing for the cramp.”
Whilst he awaits a helping hand, he continues to speak. “My thanks for your assistance. A little water too, if you may, my throat is parched.”
The Redgrave family of Westcrown are nobility, but of little influence, although they do hold some power in the Church of Asmodeus.
Meanwhile, the sun continues to track across the horizon, the hours of daylight trickling away . . .
Pyotr recovers his waterskin from Hammer's saddle and places it in Modoru's outstretched hand. The half-orc grasps the protruding ridge of the breastplate, and with a touch of pain from his previous exertions, hefts Ser Redgrave into a standing position. He keeps a firm grip as the knight struggles to keep legs numb from long disuse underneath him. With his other hand, he swipes as much of the gore and filth as he can from the emblazoned holy symbol on the knight's chest.
"I am always more pleased to aid the living, Ser Redgrave... but, we have a monumental duty, still before us, to the dead. Are you well enough to tend our horses and take your ease alone, while we put our backs to the effort of honoring the fallen?"
Meanwhile, the sun continues to track across the horizon, the hours of daylight trickling away . . .
Pellius nods at the knight, "Glad you're safe. You should fill us in about the battle once we have some time."
Meanwhile, the sun continues to track across the horizon, the hours of daylight trickling away . . .
The magus turns to Bonegrit, "Ready to go? We better get a move on if we want the caravan here before dark.
Swaying like a drunk on his stiff legs, Ser Modoru takes a long gulp of water, pauses for breath, then takes another, before passing the waterskin back to Pyotr. Thus refreshed, both his voice and his stance seem a little steadier. With a grimace, followed by a long sigh of relief, he wrenches his helmet free; beneath his pale skin is blotchy with its long confinement, his dark hair dull and plastered across his forehead, and his heroic chin grizzled with stubble.
For a moment he regards Pyotr with a level stare. “I sense Iomedae’s grace in you,” he states simply.
"I am always more pleased to aid the living, Ser Redgrave... but, we have a monumental duty, still before us, to the dead. Are you well enough to tend our horses and take your ease alone, while we put our backs to the effort of honoring the fallen?"
Modoru listens earnestly to Pyotr’s words, his eyes flickering past the half-orc to take in the pile of dead beyond. The look of a man wounded at the sight of such death, yet inured to it through recurrent exposure, steals across his face. He sighs again, but blinks with alarm when Pyotr mentions the horses.
“Horses,” he mutters to himself “Ironring . . .”
Modoru scans the battlefield frantically, and finds what he’s looking for all too quickly. Not far from the hill giant, its legs held stiffly in the air and its neck twisted at a fatal angle, lies a fallen horse; a dappled grey both beautiful and powerful.
“IRONRING!” Modoru calls again, staggering over to the horse and collapsing over its wretched corpse. Inconsolable sobs burst from the knight.
Pyotr stares helplessly at the inconsolable knight. He shifts and fidgets, self-conscious of where he looks and where he holds his hands, unable or perhaps unwilling to walk away from the spectacle.
After several minutes, Pyotr whispers to Pellius, "Leave the spades when you go. Urge the caravan on with all possible speed."
Pyotr then walks over to Ser Redgrave. He places a hand on his shoulder to pull him away from the mangled steed. "Come, there is a hillock nearby where I found solitude enough to collect my thoughts. You mustn't stay here. This is... unseemly." He turns the crestfallen knight in the direction of the corpse mound. "We will add Ironring to the cairn. It will stand as a monument to the sacrifice and bravery of the fallen."
The dwarf studies his newly acquired warhammer almost expressionless. Only the crows feet around his eyes narrow when he rubs his fingers over the forgerune, removing the bloody mud from it. Suddenly a perplexed look scrunches over his face.
Dunagan saunters over to the Chelaxian bard. Stepping carefully over the bodies. He holds the hammer outstretched to the man while the others speak to the rescued knight. "Delkaneth. Ye mind taking a look at this rune? Bit curious if you might know anything 'bout it? Found it over there on that orc." His hairy knuckled-finger points off to the orc barely visible under a bloodstained pale-white horse.
Noting and agreeing with Pellius' suggestion that the pair get underway soon, Bonegrit finds his way atop Amiro once more and wheels him around to trot up to Delkaneth on the way out of the carnage. A short tug on the reins brings the horse to a stop beside the axe-laden Chelaxian. A perfunctory nod—a habit of Bonegrit's that has only worsened in the short time he has spent with First Master Deramil—is soon accompanied by a statement that barely manages to exceed being a series of grunts, "Best collect his saddle and things from the dead'n. We've got a spare horse at the caravan he could use, I reckon—unless the rest of ya object. We'll be back afore night."
Bonegrit urges Amiro forward to meet Pellius and Signior, eager to cover as much ground as possible before the oppression of night crawls across the land. The Belkzen hordes'll be bolder at nightfall if they haven't left entirely. Best get underway. His yellow eyes flit to meet Pellius' before he manages to bark out, "Ready when you are."
oppression of night
The hill giant remains with its face down in the dirt, but at a slight different angle following the operation to free Modoru. Delkaneth sees a masterwork longsword protruding from its stupendous belly, no doubt put there by Modoru in his battle with the creature. On the back of one of the behemoth’s mighty hands is a crude tattoo of simple runes in the giant tongue.
Pellius and Bonegrit canter off south to reconvene with Dierik and the caravan, leaving Pyotr, Dunagan, Delkaneth and Modoru with the silent company of the dead. The rescued paladin has recovered some of his composure after Pyotr spoke to him; he now sits quietly on a nearby hillock, soft tears tracking runnels through the grime of his face.
The others contemplate the mammoth task of erecting the cairn over the dead. Without the aid of Dierik’s men, it’ll be the work of days, but they can at least make a start. Fortunately, the spring deluges that give the Flood Road its name have carried with them plenty of stones and boulders for the task.
Dierik and Callan ride out to meet their returning scouts.
“I was starting to worry about you,” admits Dierik “What’s the look of things?”