“Do not assume that they are dead, Man of the Lake. They will regain consciousness in a few moments,” Thaegrin says as he continues onto land, passing the stunned guards. He looks over the cracked, sun-dried wooden boards covered by the sprawling slaves, inclining his head in quiet amusement. Michael was perfectly content with us roasting on this dock… Standing where the boards meet the earth, he raises his voice over the surf.
“All of you, get off the dock quickly. We do not have much time.”
As the last of his companions pass him, the former slave mutters an arcane word as he gestures, and a gout of fire sprays out from his outstretched palms, setting slaves and dock ablaze.
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The dry wood ignites with explosive power as the hungry flames devour the eager fuel. Black, billowing smoke rises into the afternoon sky accompanied by the screams of those that were unconscious.
The wizard leads his companions to a low-ceilinged warehouse not far from the dock. No sooner than the bar closes than the group hears footsteps thunder around the corner toward the rapidly collapsing pier.
Out of the frying pan… a smirk almost shows itself on Thaegrin’s face as he looks over the small warehouse. Considering the resources at his disposal, the prospect of stealth or infiltration begins to dwindle, and one solution, by far one of his least favorite, continues to resurface: Kill them all. He internally flinches, surprising himself not with the savagery, but at his aversion to do so to fellow former slaves. His logical mind bears down to abolish this moral inhibition. These slaves are damaged goods, and their freedom is illegitimate. They wandered masterless for too long, and rehabilitation is too costly to profit from their market value. Their existence undermines Rudianos slave trade, as would the demise of the chief agent of the house. The old Feraweni frowns, pushing away the dichotomy, and turns a cold look to the Thelkonlanders, the Man-Beast, and the Halfblood, his pointed ears well aware of the throng of footfalls outside the warehouse. The odds are against us, and it may be too late to run…
“A shame it is, to waste all this labor. But rehabilitation would be too costly,” he justifies impassively. He nods to the twin blades of Gorum, “Prepare yourselves, we will soon have a fight on our hands.” He follows the advisement with an utterance, and a shimmering force covers his form. A flick of his wrist produces a tightly rolled spell into his hand, which he exchanges from one of the scroll cases at his belt. He places a new scroll within the mechanism concealed by sleeves of his robe, retightening the spring afterwards. Looking up, he eyes the spymaster and Man of the Lake uncertainly, “Shall we, as a group, first seek a way of escape? It is not a question if this rabble will meet the wrath of the Rudianos, but when.”
Tholan shrugs, clearing his falchion in it's sheath. "Even if the're not difficult to kill, their deaths will still be a glorious sacrifice to Gorum." Tholan grins darkly, placing a glowing hand on his chest and muttering to himself. "Come, brother, let us march to battle."
Mouth closed in an irritated line, Facion retrieves the foul, spiraled, skin-mask from his satchel. Pulling the abominable article down over his face he immediately sees the lines of life pop and flash with other-worldly light from his companions veins. Drawing rapier and short-sword he backs into the shadows saying, "We are wasting time, lets make this quick." A low growl rumbles with his words as if his throat itself were straining to not let him speak. Gray eyes narrow as the whispering void begins to fill his mind with thoughts of unknown horrors.
As the fight approaches, Iskandarr prepares himself.
After a sideways glance at the Man-beast and the Halfblood for his partially answered question, he reaches into another scroll case and unrolls its contents. “To hole up here would be foolish. Even a simpleton slave would think to burn it with us trapped inside…” his eyes turn to the magically inscribed parchment before him and mutters in the arcane tongue. The ink shimmers blue before erasing from the page, and a scarcely discernable displacement of air appears in front of Thaegrin.
“Good afternoon, Sergio,” he greets the unseen servant, gesturing to the empty wine bottles left in the storeroom, “Please pick up two of those bottles.”
Two glass bottles float beside each other as Thaegrin produces yet another scroll from his pack. Reading aloud the incantation, one of his narrow, bony fingers traces over the blank parchment. The lines smolder orange to black behind his fingertip, forming letter and words of the common tongue.
All around the mulberry bush
the monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey thought ‘twas all in good fun…
With a straight face, he lifts the parchment to the floating glass bottles. “Sergio, take this. I am going to let you out of this room in a moment. I want you to find a small group of slaves, between twenty and forty feet away. If no one is near you, knock the bottles together until it draws someone’s attention. Present this paper to them until one of them seems to focus on the writing. Remember to cover a twenty foot distance before presenting the paper to anyone. Do you understand?”
The inscribed parchment bobs in the air in front of the two wine bottles, which the wizard accepts as acknowledgement. “Thank you.”
He pulls from his pack an iron stick, long enough to be mistaken as a short walking cane or a thug’s crude weapon. Next, the scholar shifts a few scroll cases at his belt, of spells that he expects to need in the conflict ahead.
He looks to the other four in the room, after they are as prepared as possible. “If you are all quite ready…” he carefully opens the door as quiet as he can, gesturing to the floating parchment to proceed out.
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The bottles float off down the path, and before too long, you all hear glass clinking and feet shuffling. Not a minute later, there is a loud pop and a rush of force rushes down the road driving dust and sand before it.
Shouts of fear and anger follow the muted explosion and the sound of many rushing feet can be heard far and near.
Combat not being his area of expertise, the man of shadows waits on the proper war-makers tactical decisions.
"Come brother. Let us give praise to Gorum." Ezkal says as he draws his greatsword.
The wizard gestures that the two brothers should exit first. "After you..."
Tholan grins at his brother, his blade slipping from it's sheath. "Our worship shall be glorious destruction." He nods to Thaegrin, and quickly moves out of the door, his blade held at the ready.
As Tholan exits, Iskandarr follows, his shape changing as he leaves the warehouse to that of a dire tiger.
Ezkal moves with his brother, covering his flank.
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The Blades of Gorum stride out onto the street accompanied by an oversized Iskandarr gone wild.
Across the quay, someone shouts,
Concern is quickly replaced with rage as those standing remember the explosion and the burning dock that took dozens of their comrades.
The masses surge forward, eager to bring the fight to the intruders.
The freedmen swarm around Tholan and and deal him some harm, but the mighty Gorumite is too disciplined to be distracted.
Ezkal surges forward and swings twice. "Gorum be praised!" Ezkal roars.
Sidestepping the mob, Anga looks for the weak-points, joints and veins, picks one to his liking and strikes.
Tholan moves up, his eyes aglow with a desire to bring praise to Gorum. "See me and fear, rebels." With a nearly manic light in his eyes, he lays a glowing fist against his chest, and begins to chant a warsong to Gorum, his fist shimmering, and his frame swelling. Enlarge Person
The seeker of knowledge hears the carnage before he sees it, and steps out to see the warbringers carving up the slaves. Seeing more of the rabble rounding corners and converging on their location, the aging scribe sees an opportunity, and begins rubbing his fingers together while speaking an incantation. Soon, the observant can see a small, fiery orange ball rolling between his forefinger and thumb, until it begins to smoke. Careful to avoid his traveling companions, the wizard leans back and throws the grape-sized, smoking orange sphere into the alley in front of them. For the masses of slaves, they do not see it land, but Thaegrin knows that it made contact with something when the alleyway, the buildings, and slaves around are consumed in an enormous explosion of fire. The roiling flames expand just short of the towering Drolleye, and the smell of burning wood and flesh fills the air.
“Will another salvo solve this, slaves?!” he calls to the survivors.
Ears flattened and a low snarl in his throat, Iskandarr targets the closest enemy and strikes.
for
for
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Tholan's roar and increased size leave the onlooking slaves in abject terror. in their fear, they fail to defend themselves from the druid's claws and fangs: Iskandarr rips 8 people to shreds.
Tholan's roar is punctuated with a deafening explosion of wood, flesh, and fire. When the smoke clears 16 lie dead and another dozen are crisped and smoldering.
A shame it is, that I lacked the foresight to prepare for a hail of arrows and stones. A simple wall of wind would avoid such unpleasantness…
Looking over the shining full plate armor of the giant Thelkonlander plodding in front of him, and remembering the speed of the fearsome, bestial Iskandarr stalking beside him, he shrugs. Well, at least I won’t have to weather their volleys…
Muttering a brief magical word, the Feraweni vanishes from view.
Once out of sight, the wizard moves to cover, in an alleyway to his left.
With a noise between a roar and a snarl, Tholan charges forward, his blade swinging in a broad arc at the slaves before him.
Ezkal, roaring with laughter, strikes the nearest crowd.
I am not needed here. Sheathing his swords, Anga steps back into the shadows and watches the fight progress, keeping his eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary.
Tholan steps forward, his eyes ablaze. "Feel the burning wrath of Gorum, traitors!" His hands stretch out as his shouts rings along the ground, and tendrils of flame lick about his hands.
Iskandarr moves forward to see the results of the flames.
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Quickly, the burning slaves move from the flames, break formation, and run further into the island's interior.
Those cut off by the wall, turn hard eyes on the massive form of Tholan. One brave soul in the crowd roars and they they charge. At the same moment, another knot of slaves emerges from hiding in a nearby building!
The slaves descend on Tholan and batter the big Thelkonlander.
Looking through the smoke and dust Anga searches for newly freed slaves furthest from the skirmish, grabbing some loose cloth from fallen slaves he dresses himself quickly adopting the look of a fellow freedom fighter.
Iskandarr rushes into the fray and attacks
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“Do you see now, freedom fighters?” the chief agent of the Rudianos bellows off the brick walls, “Freedom is a lie. An illusion. If you desire lawlessness, then I will give you the chaos you seek…”
He mutters an incantation, summoning a writhing, screeching mass of primates amid the throng of slaves. The furry critters crawl over the islanders, yanking weapons from their hands and raising cacophonous calls over the fires and screams of the victims.
As the slaves move in, Tholan reacts by swinging his huge falchion at the nearest horde of rabble.
Laughing wildly in the midst of the fray of peasants, Tholan's blade flashes about, cutting through anything too slow to move out of it's path.
Hearing noises around the corner, Ezkal moves toward the rabble, blade out and ready.
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The brave slaves are no match for the Wave of Thelkon whose blade cleaves flesh as the sea cleaves the shore.
Pressing on up and into the islands interior, the representative of the House Rudianos notice that the streets have gone more quiet than such a populated isle might be thought possible. Another unsettling detail is that the streets begin to fill with a thick, grey smoke making it very difficult to see very far ahead.
After a quarter hour, the 5 companions enter a smoke chocked square. All entrances to this square are blocked by high barricades save the one they now use.
Across the square a smug looking halfling wearing an over-sized tunic stands a top one of the barricades looking very small atop such a large structure. Michael...
Beside the halfling a languid man lounges lazily flipping a large dagger in his hand.
Also across the square, in a small doorway, an immensely fat halfling wearing a chef's hat and wielding a large meat cleaver stands atop a smaller barricade.
Behind each barricade, heard more than seen, are several hundred slaves: some clearly kitchen workers, some clearly miners, all clearly angry and better armed and armored than those faced previously. All hold readied slings.
Michael shouts across the square. "You have no chance! You are vastly outnumbered and we have the home-field advantage! We do not fight for parties not present! Unlike you, we fight to protect our homes, our families, and or precious freedom! Come a take them if you dare!"
"Let fly!" he roars...
... and a veritable rain of stones hails down.