Helix Moltaran's Untitled Campaign

Game Master Helix Moltaran

When I reached adulthood, I was adopted into the Garess family. A sign of alliance to the Fatherforge, and by extent, to the dwarves of the Golushkin Mountains. Although a very new experience for me, I didn't mind it. I was treated as nobility, and earned the title of Lady. I had access to just about anything I wanted, and I loved my human family just the same as my own kind.

In my youth I studied at the College of Lore, learning about the accomplishments and downfalls of both Humans and Dwarves. Numerous dwarven families have called for my assistance, validating historical records, or mitigating debates regarding our history. I greatly enjoy a passionate debate, and for leisure have entered in such things for both dwarven and human topics.

Recently, I studied at the College of Valor - probably my more favorite of the colleges. I learned tales of old heroes, songs of great battles, and legends who triumphed over impossible odds. The biggest hurdle for me was to accept the tales as shrouded myth, rather than concrete facts. Still, I cannot get enough of the great tales, and when no one is listening I will sing them.

I am no human, obviously. So as the years passed, my human family aged, died, or began families of their own. I have felt distanced from them, longing for a family I can cherish. For now, no such luck. I'm a great protector of those I consider family, and race has no influence on who I choose.

When I visited my dwarven family - as I do from time to time - they were appalled that I had not adventured yet despite my age. It's true that dwarves between the ages of 40 and 60 tend to make a venture into the world to make a name for themselves. I however, at the age of 99, had stayed within the colleges studying and practicing.

Recently I was made aware of a new venture to claim the Stolen Lands to the south. They would like men and women of educated status to accompany the fighters and rangers. Those who do have the possibility of founding a new civilization, and it would greatly benefit both the Garess and the Fatherforge if I were to join. So after much contemplation, I decided to sign onto the venture, and was accepted. I'm quite excited to begin my adventure, and hopefully meet some wonderful people along the way.

Misc.
Bard's Kit: 41gp
Campsite Kit: 12gp
Cooking Kit: 3gp
Fishing Kit: 5sp
Common Survival Kit: 5gp

Noble's Outfit: 75gp
Explorer's Outfit: Free
Jewelry: 50gp

Compass: 10gp
Heavy Horse: 200gp
Common Riding Kit: 16gp
Merchant's Scale: 2gp
Dwarven Trail Rations: 2gp
8lbs of Dwarven Stout: 4sp
Small Tent: 10gp
Remaining Gold: 19.1gp

Note: This will require a small thing- Primarily, not limiting me to NPC classes (No Arcane casting class avalable, unfortunately).
The primary reason I like this idea is because, if I remember correctly, this will end up going on for years, rather than months- As such, I'll be able to spread her character growth over the course of several years. Will be intresting to see how she'd play out.

His life on the streets stole his childhood, but he never noticed it was gone. Johnny had a great sense of compassion for the other children that had nowhere else to live but the cold streets. He constantly bought food and clothing for the other children, or stole it if necessary. He became convinced that he would live and die in the slums of Port Ice, but he hoped to get others out even if he couldn't.

Johnny met several people that supposedly wanted to help the street kids but they always seemed to be doing it for reasons Johnny didn't trust. There was one exception. A cleric that travelled to Port Ice from time to time named Brother Jonas. When he was in Port Ice he spent his time helping out the unfortunate street rats like Johnny, without wanting anything in return. When Brother Jonas was there he would help the street urchins like Johnny. He always talked about changing your lot in life, getting your compass to point north. Johnny always wanted to believe he could change but there were too many kids counting on him getting food and shelter for them. He knew if he wasn't there they would not have a chance.
Brother Jonas was always talking about leaving Port Ice and starting new somewhere else. He was famous with the kids for doing just that. He would get kids jobs working on a ship, ferry, guide, or farm hand. He always talked about taking control of your life like a ranger named Eldoran. According to Brother Jonas Eldoran was an orphan who now travelled helping people and guiding them from one place to another. It all seemed wonderful to Johnny but he knew it would never be something he could do.

Brother Jonas would tell Johnny he knew a lot of people that could help him out and he even introduced him to one once. Brother Jonas introduced Johnny to his friend Lord Saldereon. Some noble from some family, Johnny could care less. Johnny secretly admired him, the guy didn’t really do anything wrong and he had money. He was all about protecting the people of Port Ice but he sometimes got in the way of some of the “jobs” that Johnny did to survive. It wasn't Lord Saldereon's fault of course, the man had no idea what Johnny had to do just to survive and help others to survive. At one point, Lord Saldereon almost caught Johnny dead-to-rights on a robbery job where some not so innocent people got hurt… but Johnny was wearing a mask and slipped out just as Lord Saldereon came on the scene. Johnny felt bad about dodging Lord Saldereon, because all he wanted to do was try to protect the people of his community. But Johnny had to make money, and he had to make it fast. So he always avoided Lord Saldereon whenever Brother Jonas came to town. He could never let him know that sometimes when he was protecting Port Ice, he was protecting them from Johnny and aiding those that wanted to hurt those Johnny was protecting.

Though Johnny would resist it every time, Brother Jonas never stopped pursuing Johnny. It was like a mission that Brother Jonas wouldn't let go. Brother Jonas was always telling Johnny that he could change himself. Make himself better. Johnny wanted to believe it but he believed that his lot was cast and nothing was going to change that. Or was it. On Brother Jonas's last visit he told Johnny of a new adventure that could get him out of Port Ice. It was a diplomatic mission to the south and Lord Saldereon could get Johnny a spot. It all sounded very exciting to Johnny. It could be a fresh start it could be a change for the better.

Johnny was getting a name for himself as a great burglar and sneak thief. Getting a name for yourself in normal circles would be a good thing but not in the underworld of crime. You either work for a boss or you are a boss and Johnny was no boss. Then it finally happened he got noticed once too often and was told in no uncertain terms that either he started paying his fair dues for his burglary or he would be stopped permanently.

Johnny did not see why he should pay someone else for his work and had no desire to be stopped permanently. So he decided it was time to leave Port Ice.
And he knew just the way to do it.

Brother Jonas had told him just a few days ago about the diplomatic mission just before Johnny found out about the crime bosses demands. Johnny had two choices leave or stay and be a slave to the bosses. Johnny didn't want to be a slave to no man. Johnny decided that change was better and easier on his life. Johnny had saved some money from his days of doing business and bought everything he thought he would need and headed out to catch-up with Gerran and let him know if Lord Saldereon could still get him in he would go. Lord Saldereon was able to pull a few strings and get Johnny a spot on the mission.

Johnny is a people person even though he had to live for himself and keep other people's eyes off of him being a small time crook. He hates abuse of any kind and will go out of his way to stop it. In fact he spent most of the money he... well procured, on others to help them out. He wants a new life for himself where he can live without fear. And one day he would like to have a family and raise a son and treat him like he was never treated.

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OFFENSE
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Speed 30 ft.
Melee: Short sword + 3 (1d6+3/19-20x2), Elven Curved Blade -1 (1d10+3/18-20x2)
Ranged Shortbow +3 (1d6/x3) rng: 60 ft
Secondary weapons:
Daggerx3
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STATISTICS
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STR 16, DEX 17, CON 13, INT 11, WIS 13, CHR 11
Base Atk +0; CMB +3 ; CMD 16
Feats: Improved Initiative
Skills: (trained)
Acrobatics +, Bluff + , Diplomacy +, Disable Device +,Handle Animal +, Intimidate +, Perception +,Ride +, Sense Motive +, Stealth +, Survival +, Use Magic Device +
Knowledge skills: Geography +, Nature +

TRAITS
Traits: Brigand (campaign) +100 starting wealth, +1 trait bonus to bluff,diplomacy,intimidate,sense motive on Bandity types
Warrior of Old (race) +2 to iniatitive
Recklass (Combat) - +1 to acrobatics and always a class skill
Languages: Elven, Common, Dwarven

Combat Gear: Studded Leather, Short sword, Dagger x3, Elven Curved Blade, Short Bow, smoke stick, acid flask

Other Gear: Masterwork Thieves tools, Backpack ,Bedroll, Flint + steel, Belt pouch, trail rations (4 days), Water skin x2, whetstone,
Assets: 500 gp, sp, cp
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SPECIAL ABILITIES
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SNEAK ATTACK! - +1d6
Trapfinding

He packed up the next week and made his way to Brevoy, using the skills his parents had taught him along the way. In Brevoy, while trying to gather information about his parents disappearance, he began to make a name for himself, when the charter came about establishing some form of civilization in the River Kingdoms he jumped at the chance. Perhaps being there where they went missing would provide a clue, and if not, at least he was helping to make the place more stable and civilized so perhaps no other parents went missing.

-----Defense-----
AC 17, touch 13, flat-footed 14
hp 11 (1d10+1)
Fort +4, Ref +5, Will +2

-----Offense-----
Speed 30ft.
Melee Hatchet +5 (1d6+4), Two-weapon Fighting Hatchet +3/+3 (1d6+4/1d6+2), Great Club +5 (1d10+4), dagger +5 (1d4+4/19-20)
Ranged Hatchet +4 (1d6+4), short bow +4 (1d6/x3), dagger +4 (1d4+4/19-20)

-----Statistics-----
Str 19, Dex 17, Con 13, Int 13, Wis 14, Cha 7
Base Atk +5 melee, +4 ranged; CMB +5; CMD 18
Feats Two-weapon Fighting; Keen Scent
Skills Knowledge (geography) +5, Knowledge (history) +5, Knowledge (local) +5, Knowledge (nature) +5, Perception +9, Stealth +5 (+7), Survival +7, Swim +6 (+8)
Languages Common, Orc
SQ Bestial +2 Perception (racial trait), Frontier Forged (+1 Perception and +1 Survival), Rostlander (campaign trait +1 Fort Save), Mark of Slavery Flaw: take a -2 penalty to the next skill check or attack roll if you fail a skill check. Favored Enemy- Human

After wandering for several weeks, nearly starving death, Drawg met a half-elven elderly gentleman. Although blinded by the gray film covering his eyes, this man seemed to have no trouble moving through the thick underbrush of the forest. Nor did he seem to have trouble knowing where Drawg was hiding, evidenced by the hatchet that landed in the tree trunk next to his face. The man called out, in orc, for Drawg to give himself up or else the next axe would not miss. Drawg was surprised the man knew he was an orc and spoke his native tongue. When the man realized Drawg was merely a 10 year old child, he took pity on the boy and brought him to his home.

The half-elven man called himself Ragtun and answered many of Drawg’s questions while sharing a rabbit stew he had made. Drawg learned that Ragtun was a tracker and woodsman that had lived in this part of the wood for over 20 years. He also learned that Ragtun didn’t need to see because he knew every inch of the wood around his home for 20 miles. Ragtun then questioned Drawg. He wanted to know where Drawg came from and why a young half-orc boy was so far away from his clan. He asked about his mother and father. Drawg answered all of Ragtun’s questions truthfully and it was clear to Ragtun that the boy was filled with fear and anger at his clan and especially his father.

After several minutes of silence while they finished their meal, Ragtun asked Drawg, “Do you know how I knew where to throw my axe? I could smell you boy. I can smell your kind a mile off. Once your smell was in the air, I knew where to find you. It was a simple matter o f following the trail… tracking the smell to the source… stepping in your steps…feeling the trees, plants and the ground… listening to your raspy breath and the quickening of your heart once you knew I’d found you. When you know what to look for, boy, you don’t need your eyes.”

Suitably impressed and intimidated, Drawg asked Ragtun what he meant to do with him. After several minutes Ragtun asked Drawg what he would like him to do. The boy thought about it for several minutes and then asked if he could stay with Ragtun. Ragtun answered, “And what would I do with a scrawny half-orc boy? Orcs are violent, destructive creatures that care nothing for the very land that provides for them. And humans are no better, always encroaching on the domain of the forest. You have bad blood in you, boy…but then so do I. Maybe we can figure out an arrangement, you and me.”
And so Ragtun took Drawg into his home and under his tutelage. Drawg learned he had a natural gift for smelling the land and he developed his nose to the point he could track using it, much like his master. He learned of the woods, how to set traps and disable them, the art of the throwing axe and how to hunt for game. Drawg learned how to move quietly and gently enough to tap a deer on the behind before it realized he was there. He learned of the history of the world and of countries and kings. He learned to speak the common tongue. But most importantly he learned to always be aware of his surroundings. That was the most important lesson to learn, according to Ragtun.

After several years the two were as close as father and son and Drawg was experiencing happiness and contentment for the first time in his young life. However their peaceful life was interrupted one day by a group of rough looking men. As the group approached, Drawg ran into the hut to get Ragtun. As they emerged one of the men stepped forward and demanded Ragtun hand over his treasure. Drawg looked confusedly at Ragtun, and then the man, and blurted out, “There is no treasure.” The lead man told him to shut up. He looked at Ragtun and said, “We’ve searched a long time. We’ve come a long way and we know who you are old man. We know the stories and we are here to take what you found so long ago. Give it to us now and we will leave.”

Ragtun sadly lifted his face toward the man, “That was long ago and everything is long gone, friend. Please, leave us in peace, there is nothing here for you to find.” As he turned to go back to the hut, Ragtun rolled to the ground just before the twang of a bow and a streaking arrow flew where his back had been. He yelled to Drawg to run for the woods and came to his feet hurling an axe. The lead man fell to the ground with Ragtun’s axe buried in his head. Despite all of his training, Drawg was not prepared for combat. He knew how to use his weapon; he knew how to defend himself. But he did not know how to deal with the sudden fear welling up inside him. He stood there gaped mouthed as Ragtun took two more of the brigands down before a crossbow bolt finally found its mark in the old man’s gut.

The remaining brigands began to move forward to finish the job, still wary of the old man who was not dead yet and who had killed three of their members. As they moved closer and the blood began to poor from Ragtun’s body, Drawg learned how to deal with the sudden fear that had petrified him to stillness… anger. The first two men fell to the ground before they realized what was happening, one with a hatchet buried in his skull and the other with a hatchet in his gut. The last man looked up from his fallen comrades in time to see the young half-orc tumble into him frantically slashing with his remaining hatchet.

When Drawg’s arms were finally too weary to lift his hatchet anymore, he looked down at the pile of gore that used to be the brigand’s face. He turned his tear stained face to his mentor’s body and realized he was now alone. He then looked at all of the men lying on the ground and realized they were all humans. Humans again were responsible for the misery in his life.

He buried Ragtun’s body off the shores of his favorite pond and left the forest grove where he had spent the happiest times of his young life. He burned the bodies of the men after removing what little they had and set out for other lands. He eventually found a small village in Rostland, populated mostly by humans, and he watched them for several days before venturing into the village green. His dirty feral appearance was shocking, yet the villagers offered him a meal and a place to sleep. He warily took them up on their offer, suspecting their kindness a ploy. The next day he awoke with all of his possessions and a good night’s sleep. He was confused by these people and decided to spend several more days in the village if they would let him. He wanted to study them and see if they truly were as they seemed. He stayed there for a week and the people’s actions did not change.

On his last day in the village he discovered one of the villager’s young sons was missing. He offered to help find the boy and although the people seemed skeptical of his ability, they gladly accepted his help. Finding the boy was a simple matter. He asked for a piece of the boy’s clothing, got his scent and then followed it to a small cave. The boy’s body was in the cave and so was the man that had taken him. When the man saw the look on Drawg’s face, he cowered back and claimed it was an accident, he didn’t mean to hurt the boy. Drawg took the man’s head in one swing and quickly went to the boy’s body. The boy had been beaten but was still alive. Drawg took the boy’s body back to the village and his mother. He then led a group of the village’s men to the cave and showed them the body of the man who had kidnapped the boy.

When they returned to the village, the men thanked Drawg for his help and offered him a small token of their appreciation, a finely balanced hatchet. They explained they saw he used hatchets and the blacksmith had made this one to replace one of the worn hatchets that Drawg had. Drawg thanked them and left that evening. He was confused by the differing actions of these humans. It seemed there were humans who were able to live in balance and there were those who merely upset the balance.

As he continued his travels, Drawg encountered many villages and towns. He never stayed in one place too long and often preferred to sleep in the surrounding forests. He followed the same circuit of travel, about a 100 mile radius around the original village he found. He saw many injustices in almost every village and town. He always did his best to help those in need, even if that meant breaking the law of the land. He often felt these laws hindered people from obtaining true justice and he was not afraid to take the required measures to enact justice.

He learned his talents for tracking were always sought by many and he soon made a living and a name as the best tracker and trapper in the area. He became known as “The Hatchet”. Some said it was because of the hatchets he threw with deadly accuracy; some said it was because he twirled twin hatchets in his hands in battle; and some said it was because of his clipped and blunt manner of speech. But most knew it was because he would cut down anyone or anything that stood in the way of his quarry or that threatened the local villages.

It was this talent and reputation that enabled Drawg to join a local expedition to the Green Belt. He decided it was time to move out a little further and tame this land so the villages would be safe. Of course the promise of killing bandits always catches the attention of “The Hatchet.”

The fishergirl's eyes shone as she watched the column of mounted soldiers thunder past, and she only half listened to the hag standing beside her. The girl's breath had risen to the pace of the magnificent horses. She felt her face burning, a flush that had nothing to do with the heat. The day was dying, the sun's red smear over the trees on her right, and the sea's sighing against her face had grown cool.

'That was in the days of the Choral,' the hag continued. 'Pharasma roast the bastard's soul on a spit. But look on, lass. The King scatters bones with the best of them. Heh, They started with Choral's house, didn't they, now?'

The fishergirl nodded faintly. As befitted the lowborn, they waited by the roadside, the old woman burdened beneath a rough sack filled with turnips, the girl with a heavy basket balanced on her head. Every minute or so the old woman shifted the sack from one bony shoulder to the other.

With the riders crowding them on the road and the ditch behind them a steep drop to broken rocks, she had no place to put down the sack.

'Scatters bones, I said. Bones of husbands, bones of sons, bones of wives and bones of daughters. All the same to them. All the same to the House Surtova.' The old woman spat a second time. 'Three husbands and two sons, ten coin apiece a year. Five of ten's fifty. Fifty coin a year's cold company, lass. Cold in winter, cold in bed.'

The fishergirl wiped dust from her forehead. Her bright eyes darted among the soldiers passing before her. The young men atop their highbacked saddles held expressions stern and fixed straight ahead. The few women who rode among them sat tall and somehow fiercer than the men. The sunset cast red glints from their helms, flashing so that the girl's eyes stung and her vision blurred.

'You're the fisherman's daughter,' the old woman said. 'I seen you afore on the road, and down on the strand. Seen you and your dad at market. Missing an arm, ain't he? More bones for their collection is likely, eh?' She made a chopping motion with one hand, then nodded. 'Mine's the first house on the track. I use the coin to buy candles. Five candles I burn every night, five candles to keep old Rigga company. It's a tired house, full of tired things and me one of them, lass. What you got in the basket there?' Slowly the fishergirl realized that a question had been asked of her. She pulled her attention from the soldiers and smiled down at the old woman. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'the horses are so loud.'

Rigga raised her voice. 'I asked what you got in your basket, lass?'

'Twine. Enough for three nets. We need to get one ready for tomorrow. Dadda lost his last one—something in the deep waters took it and a whole catch, too. Ilgrand Lender wants the money he loaned us and we need a catch tomorrow. A good one.' She smiled again and swept her gaze back to the soldiers. 'Isn't it wonderful?' she breathed.

Rigga's hand shot out and snagged the girl's thick black hair, yanked it hard.

The girl cried out. The basket on her head lurched, then slid down on to one shoulder. She grabbed frantically for it but it was too heavy. The basket struck the ground and split apart. 'Aaai!' the girl gasped, attempting to kneel. But Rigga pulled and snapped her head around.

'You listen to me, lass!' The old woman's sour breath hissed against the girl's face. ' Choral the usurper king has been grinding this land down for a hundred years, and now King Noleski does the same. You was born in it. I wasn't. When I was your age this was a country. We flew a banner and it was ours. We were free, lass.'

The girl was sickened by Rigga's breath. She squeezed shut her eyes.

'Mark this truth, child, else the Cloak of Lies blinds you for ever.'

Rigga's voice took on a droning cadence, and all at once the girl stiffened. Rigga, Riggalai the Seer, the wax-witch who trapped souls in candles and burned them. Souls devoured in flame—Rigga's words carried the chilling tone of prophecy. 'Mark this truth. I am the last to speak to you. You are the last to hear me. Thus are we linked, you and I, beyond all else.'

Rigga's fingers snagged tighter in the girl's hair. 'Across the stolen lands the Lord’s will drive their knife into virgin soil. The blood now will comes in a tide and it'll sweep you under, child, if you're not careful. They'll put a sword in your hand, they'll give you a fine horse, and they'll send you across those lands. But a shadow will embrace your soul. Now, listen! Bury this deep! Rigga will preserve you because we are linked, you and I. But it is all I can do, understand? Look to the Lord spawned in Darkness; his is the hand that shall free you, though he'll know it not—'

'What's this?' a voice bellowed.

Rigga swung to face the road. An outrider had slowed his mount. The Seer released the girl's hair.

The girl staggered back a step. A rock on the road's edge turned underfoot and she fell. When she looked up the outrider had trotted past.

Another thundered up in his wake.

'Leave the pretty one alone, hag,' this one growled, and as he rode by he leaned in his saddle and swung an open, gauntleted hand. The ironscaled glove cracked against Rigga's head, spinning her around. She toppled.

The fishergirl screamed as Rigga landed heavily across her thighs. A bead of crimson spit spattered her face. Whimpering the girl pushed herself back across the gravel, then used her feet to shove away Rigga's body. She climbed to her knees.

Something within Rigga's prophecy seemed lodged in the girl's head, heavy as a stone and hidden from light. She found she could not retrieve a single word the Seer had said. She reached out and grasped Rigga's woollen shawl. Carefully, she rolled the old woman over. Blood covered one side of Rigga's head, running down behind the ear. More blood smeared her lined chin and stained her mouth. The eyes stared sightlessly.

The fishergirl pulled back, unable to catch her breath. Desperate, she looked about. The column of soldiers had passed, leaving nothing but dust and the distant tremble of hoofs. Rigga's bag of turnips had spilled on to the road. Among the trampled vegetables lay five tallow candles.

The girl managed a ragged lungful of dusty air. Wiping her nose, she looked to her own basket.

'Never mind the candles,' she mumbled, in a thick, odd voice. 'They're gone, aren't they, now? just a scattering of bones. Never mind.' She crawled towards the bundles of twine that had fallen from the breached basket, and when she spoke again her voice was young, normal. 'We need the twine. We'll work all night and get one ready. Dadda's waiting. He's right at the door, he's looking up the track, he's waiting to see me.’

She stopped, a shiver running through her. The sun's light was almost gone. An unseasonal chill bled from the shadows, which now flowed like water across the road.

'Here it comes, then,' the girl grated softly, in a voice that wasn't her own.

A soft-gloved hand fell on her shoulder. She ducked down, cowering. 'Easy, girl,' said a man's voice. 'It's over. Nothing to be done for her now.'

The fishergirl looked up. A man swathed in black leaned over her, his face obscured beneath a hood's shadow. 'But he hit her,' the girl said, in child's voice. 'And we have nets to tie, me and Dadda—'

'Let's get you on your feet,' the man said, moving his long-fingered hands down under her arms. He straightened, lifting her effortlessly. Her sandalled feet dangled in the air before he set her down.

Now she saw a second man, shorter, also clothed in black. This one stood on the road and was turned away, his gaze in the direction the soldiers had gone. He spoke, his voice reed-thin. 'Wasn't much of a life,' he said, not turning to face her. 'A minor talent, long since dried up the Gift. Oh, she might have managed one more, but we'll never know will we?'

The fishergirl stumbled over to Rigga's bag and picked up a candle. She straightened, her eyes suddenly hard, then deliberately spat on to the road.

The shorter man's head snapped towards her. Within the hood seemed the shadows played alone.

The girl shrank back a step. 'It was a good life,' she whispered. 'She had these candles, you see. Five of them. Five for—'

'Necromancy,' the short man cut in.

The taller man, still at her side, said softly, 'I see them, child. I understand what they mean.'

The other man snorted. 'The witch harboured five frail, weak souls. Nothing grand.' He cocked his head. 'I can hear them now. Calling for her.'

Tears filled the girl's eyes. A wordless anguish seemed to well up from that black stone in her mind. She wiped her cheeks. 'Where did you come from?'[b] she asked abruptly. [b]'We didn't see you on the road.'

The man beside her half turned to the gravel track. 'On the other side,' he said, a smile in his tone. 'Waiting, just like you.'

The other giggled. 'On the other side indeed.' He faced down the road again and raised his arms.

The girl drew in a sharp breath as darkness descended. A loud, tearing sound filled the air for a second, then the darkness dissipated and the girl's eyes widened.

Seven massive Hounds now sat around the man in the road. The eyes of these beasts glowed yellow, and all were turned in the same direction as the man himself.

She heard him hiss, 'Eager, are we? Then go.' Silently, the Hounds bolted down the road.

Their master turned and said to the man beside her, 'Something to gnaw on the Sword Lord’s mind.' He giggled again.

'Must you complicate things?' the other answered wearily.

The short man stiffened. 'They are within sight of the column.'

He cocked his head. From up the road came the scream of horses.

He sighed. 'You've reached a decision, Cotillion?'

The other grunted amusedly. 'Using my name, Ammanas, means you've just decided for me. We can hardly leave her here now, can we?'

'Of course we can, old friend. just not breathing.'

Cotillion looked down on the girl. 'No,' he said quietly, she’ll do.'

The fishergirl bit her lip. Still clutching Rigga's candle, she took another step back, her wide eyes darting from one man to the other.

'Pity,' Ammanas said.

Cotillion seemed to nod, then he cleared his throat and said, 'It'll take time.'

An amused note entered Ammanas's reply. 'And have we time? True vengeance needs the slow, careful stalking of the victim. Have you forgotten the pain they once delivered us? The Brevoy’s back will be against the wall. They might not fall without our intervention. Where would be the satisfaction in that?'

Cotillion's response was cool and dry. 'You've always underestimated the Lords. Hence our present circumstances… No.' He gestured at the fishergirl. 'We'll need this one. The Lord’s raised the ire of Moon's Spawn, and that's a hornet's nest if ever there was one. The timing is perfect.'

Faintly, above the screaming horses, came the shrieks of men and women, a sound that pierced the girl's heart. Her eyes darted to Rigga's motionless form on the roadside, then back to Ammanas, who now approached her. She thought to run but her legs had weakened to a helpless trembling. He came close and seemed to study her, even though the shadows within his hood remained impenetrable.

'A fishergirl?' he asked, in a kindly tone.

She nodded.

'Have you a name?'

'Enough!' Cotillion growled. 'She's not some mouse under your paw, Ammanas. Besides, I've chosen her and I will choose her name as well.'

Ammanas stepped back. 'Pity,' he said again.

The girl raised imploring hands. 'Please,' she begged Cotillion, 'I've done nothing! My father's a poor man, but he'll pay you all he can. He needs me, and the twine—he's waiting right now!' She felt herself go wet between her legs and quickly sat down on the ground. 'I've done nothing!' Shame rose through her and she put her hands in her lap.

'Please.'

'I've no choice any more, child,' Cotillion said. 'After all, you know our names.'

'I've never heard them before!' the girl cried.

The man sighed. "With what's happening up the road right now, well, you'd be questioned. Unpleasantly. There are those who know our names.'

'You see, lass,' Ammanas added, suppressing a giggle, 'we're not supposed to be here. There are names, and then there are names.' He swung to Cotillion and said, in a chilling voice, 'Her father must be dealt with. My Hounds?'

'No,' Cotillion said. 'He lives.'

'Then how?'

'I suspect,' Cotillion said, 'greed will suffice, once the slate is wiped clean.' Sarcasm filled his next words. 'I'm sure you can manage the sorcery in that, can't you?'

Ammanas giggled. 'Beware of shadows bearing gifts.'

Cotillion faced the girl again. He lifted his arms out to the sides. The shadows that held his features in darkness now flowed out around his body.

Ammanas spoke, and to the girl his words seemed to come from a great distance. 'She's ideal. The Queen could never track her down, could never even so much as guess.' He raised his voice. 'It's not so bad a thing, lass, to be the pawn of a god.'

'Prod and pull,' the fishergirl said quickly.

Cotillion hesitated at her strange comment, then he shrugged. The shadows whirled out to engulf the girl. With their cold touch her mind fell away, down into darkness. Her last fleeting sensation was of the soft wax of the candle in her right hand, and how it seemed to well up between the fingers of her clenched fist

The old woman was right. As usual. These people had been under the boot so long they actually liked it. Well, Aragan thought, the education begins here.

It had been a bad day, with the local captain roaring off with three companies and leaving not one solid rumour in their wake about what was going on. And if that wasn't bad enough, the Lord's Inquisitor arrived from Restov not ten minutes later, using one of those eerie magical Gates to get here. Though he'd never seen her, just her name on the hot, dry wind was enough to give him the shakes. Mage killer, the scorpion in the King’s pocket.

Aragan scowled down at the writing tablet and waited until the corporal cleared his throat. Then he looked up.

The recruit standing before him took the staff sergeant aback. He opened his mouth, on his tongue a lashing tirade designed to send the young ones scampering. A second later he shut it again, the words unspoken. West Pool 's Captain had made her instructions abundantly clear: if they had two arms, two legs and a head, take them. The campaign was a mess. Fresh bodies were needed.
He grinned at the girl. She matched the Captain's description perfectly.

Still. 'All right, lass, you understand you're in line to join the Restov Marines, right?'

The girl nodded, her gaze steady and cool and fixed on Aragan.

The recruiter's expression tightened. Damn, she can't be more than twelve or thirteen. If this was my daughter…

What's got her eyes looking so bloody old? The last time he'd seen anything like them had been outside Gronzi Forest, on Sagava—he'd been marching through farmland hit by five years' drought and a war twice as long. Those old eyes were brought by hunger, or death. He scowled. 'What's your name, girl?'

'Am I in, then?' she asked quietly.

Aragan nodded, a sudden headache pounding against the inside of his skull. 'You'll get your assignment in a week's time, unless you got a preference.'

'Stolen lands campaign,' the girl answered immediately. 'Under the command of General Dujek Onearm. Onearm's Host.'

Aragan blinked. 'I'll make a note,' he said softly. 'Your name, soldier?'

'Sorry. My name is Sorry.'

Aragan jotted the name down on his tablet. 'Dismissed, soldier. The corporal will tell you where to go.' He looked up as she was near the door. 'And wash all that mud off your feet.' Aragan continued writing for a moment, then stopped. It hadn't rained in weeks. And the mud around here was half-way between green and grey, not dark red. He tossed down the stylus and massaged his temples. Well, at least the headache's fading.

==//==

High General Dujek marched back to Jack's side, his hard expression softened slightly with relief. From the trapdoor, voices rose in argument. 'They've arrived,' Dujek said. 'Giving your new recruit an earful about something—and don't tell me what because I don't want to know.'

Jack's momentary relief was shattered by what he only now realized was the secret hope that Sorry had deserted. So his men had found her after all, or she had found them. Either way, his veterans did not sound happy to see her. He couldn't blame them. Had she tried to kill Hubert? That seemed to be the suspicion of Ben and Alam.

Alam was doing most of the bellowing, putting more into his role as corporal than was warranted, and Dujek's searching glance at Jack was enough to push him towards the trap-door. He came to the edge and glared down into the room below. Everyone was there, standing in a menacing circle around Sorry, who leaned against the ladder as if bored by the whole proceedings.

'Quiet!' Jack roared down. 'Check your supplies and get up here, now!' He watched them scamper, then gave a satisfied nod and returned to where the High General waited.

Dujek was rubbing the stump of his left arm, frowning distractedly.

'Damn this weather,' he muttered.

'A healer could ease that,' Jack said.

'Not necessary,' Dujek replied. 'I'm just getting old.' He scratched his jaw. 'All of your heavy supplies have been delivered to the drop point. Ready to move, Sergeant?'

Jack eyed the ridged saddles on the horses, then nodded sharply.

They watched as the squad members emerged from the square doorway, each wearing a raincape and burdened with a heavy pack. Some were engaged in a whispering argument, casting a glare back at the barbarian who'd trodden on their heels. The barbarian had attached his entire collection of charms, trinkets and trophies to various parts of his burly body, looking like a bedecked leadwood tree during the Kanese of the Scorpions. The recruit, Sorry waiting at the horses. Her satchel was no bigger than a bedroll, and the raincape she wore was more like a cloak—not standard issue—reaching down to her ankles. She'd raised the hood. Despite the dawn's burgeoning light her face remained in shadow. This is all I have left. Jack sighed.

Dujek asked quietly, 'How is she doing, Sergeant?'

'Still breathing,' Jack replied stonily.

The High General slowly shook his head. 'So damn young these days . . .'

A memory returned to Jack as he considered Dujek's words.

On a brief attachment to the 5th, away from the siege at Pale, in the midst of the Sageva Campaign, Sorry had joined them from the new troops arriving at Nathilog. He'd watched her put a knife to three local mercenaries they'd taken prisoner in Greydog—ostensibly to glean information but, he recalled with a shudder, it had been nothing like that. Not an act of expedience. He had stared aghast, horrified, as Sorry set to work on their loins. He remembered meeting Alam's gaze, and the desperate gesture that sent the black man surging forward, knives bared. Alam had pushed past Sorry and with three quick motions had laid open the men's throats. And then came the moment that still twisted Jack's heart. In their last, frothing words, the mercenaries had blessed Alam.

Sorry had merely sheathed her weapon, then walked away.

Though the woman had been with the squad for two years, still his men called her a recruit, and they would probably do so until the day they died. There was a meaning there, and Jack understood it well. Recruits were not brothers. The stripping away of that label was an earned thing, a recognition brought by deeds. Sorry was a recruit because the thought of having her inextricably enfolded within the army burned like a hot knife in the throat of everyone in his squad. And that was something to which the sergeant himself was not immune.

As all of this flashed through Jack's thoughts, his usually impassive expression failed him. In his head, he replied: Young? No, you can forgive the young, you can answer their simple needs, and you can look in their eyes and find enough there that is recognizable. But her?

No. Best to avoid those eyes, in which there was nothing that was young—nothing at all.

'Let's get you moving, to Restov.' Dujek growled. 'Mount everyone up.' Without turning to Jack, the general said ”She may be ideal for the stolen lands. The Sword Lords are funding adventurers.”

The High General turned to say a few last words to the sergeant, but what he saw in Jack's face killed those words in his throat.

DEFENSE
AC 17, touch 12, flat-footed 15 (+2 Dex, +5 armor)
HP 12 (1d10+2)
Saves Fort +4, Ref +4, Will +1
Special Defenses none

OFFENSE
Melee Greatsword +4 (2d6+4) or gauntlet +4 (1d3+4)
Ranged Composite Longbow +3 (1d8)
Special Attacks favored enemy (humanoid (humans)) +2

STATISTICS
Str 16, Dex 15, Con 14, Int 11, Wis 12, Cha 10
Base Atk +1; CMB +4; CMD 17
Feats Armor Proficiencies (light, medium), Point Blank Shot, Power Attack, Weapon Proficiencies (simple, martial)
Traits Pioneer (Perception), Armor Expert, Trailblazer
Skills Climb +7, Handle Animal +4, Knowledge (nature) +4, Perception +6, Ride +6, Stealth +6, Survival +5 (+6 to track)
Languages Common
SQ Track, wild empathy +1
Gear: 40 arrows, 20 cold iron arrows, greatsword, gauntlet, composite longbow, masterwork chain shirt, armored kilt, saddlebags, bedroll, belt pouch, flint and steel, iron pot, mess kit, rope, torches (10), trail rations (10 days), waterskin, explorer’s outfit, cold weather outfit, fishing kit, antitoxin, light horse, riding saddle, bit and bridle, 10 days animal feed, 89 gp, 5 sp

SPECIAL ABILITIES

Favored Enemy (Ex): At 1st level, a ranger selects a creature type from the ranger favored enemies table. He gains a +2 bonus on Bluff, Knowledge, Perception, Sense Motive, and Survival checks against creatures of his selected type. Likewise, he gets a +2 bonus on weapon attack and damage rolls against them. A ranger may make Knowledge skill checks untrained when attempting to identify these creatures.

At 5th level and every five levels thereafter (10th, 15th, and 20th level), the ranger may select an additional favored enemy. In addition, at each such interval, the bonus against any one favored enemy (including the one just selected, if so desired) increases by +2.

If the ranger chooses humanoids or outsiders as a favored enemy, he must also choose an associated subtype, as indicated on the table below. (Note that there are other types of humanoid to choose from—those called out specifically on the table below are merely the most common.) If a specific creature falls into more than one category of favored enemy, the ranger's bonuses do not stack; he simply uses whichever bonus is higher.

Track (Ex): A ranger adds half his level (minimum 1) to Survival skill checks made to follow tracks.

Wild Empathy (Ex): A ranger can improve the initial attitude of an animal. This ability functions just like a Diplomacy check to improve the attitude of a person (see Using Skills). The ranger rolls 1d20 and adds his ranger level and his Charisma bonus to determine the wild empathy check result. The typical domestic animal has a starting attitude of indifferent, while wild animals are usually unfriendly.

To use wild empathy, the ranger and the animal must be within 30 feet of one another under normal visibility conditions. Generally, influencing an animal in this way takes 1 minute, but, as with influencing people, it might take more or less time.

The ranger can also use this ability to influence a magical beast with an Intelligence score of 1 or 2, but he takes a –4 penalty on the check.

TRAITS

Pioneer: You have long lived along the southern border of Brevoy, in the shadow of wilderness known as the Stolen Lands. Life has been hard, but through hunting, trapping, trading, and coaxing crops from the freezing earth, you’ve learned how to survive on
the rugged frontier. With the wilderness ever at your door, you’ve also learned much about its denizens and the wild creatures that lurk in that unwholesome land. Your family might even claim holdings in the Stolen Lands, with elders telling stories of being driven from or robbed of a lost ancestral homestead, fertile farmlands, bountiful orchards, or a hidden mining claim. Whether because of your personal expertise and familiarity with
the borderlands or in order to reclaim your family’s land, you’ve joined the expedition into the Stolen Lands. You begin play with a horse. Also, choose one of the following skills: Climb, Handle Animal, Knowledge (nature), Perception, Ride, Survival, or Swim—you gain a +1 trait bonus on this skill.

Armor Expert: -1 Armor Check Penalty

Trailblazer: While traversing any wilderness, you gain a +1 trait bonus on Survival checks, and gain a +1 trait bonus on Fortitude saving throws against diseases.

A lot of people would have chosen to move elsewhere, to more fertile, less dangerous lands, but not Bolys Quinn’s family. The way Bolys’s grandfather told it before he was killed by a pack of wolves, they’d owned a great deal of land further south in the Stolen Lands. His great-great-and then some grandfather had been a prosperous farmer. They’d been driven from their home by – well, it changed with each telling. Sometimes it was brigands, other times vicious fey creatures. Sometimes it was an invading barbarian horde. Whatever it was, this was as far as they’d been willing to go from their ancestral home, and they weren’t going to go any farther. Bolys never believed it. The Stolen Lands were savage and wild. No one could tame them without an army, and he’d never heard of any nations existing down there. Still, they were nice stories to listen to at night around the fire.

His whole family – aunts, uncles, cousins – all lived on the farmstead. Like the rest of the family, Bolys learned how to farm the hard land, and eventually how to hunt and survive in the woods on the frontier. He found he was quite good at the latter, if not so much the former, so when he was 13, he began hiring himself out as a guide for the occasional prospector who’d heard a rumor of some vein of precious metal, or for parties of noblemen who wanted to go hunting in the “savage frontiers.” The money ended up being pretty good, and his family was grateful for the extra income, which they would use to buy equipment on the few occasions they went into the villages a couple days to the north. Bolys saved some of it away from each job, though, until one day, whenever “one day” came.

Then, while guiding some young noblemen from Restov on a stag hunt, he heard them talking about some expedition to the Stolen Lands – how the Swordlords were going to reclaim them and sponsor kingdoms down there. Bolys thought, How much could I make if I offered my services to one of these expeditions? Plus, I could go see the Stolen Lands, and maybe see what grampa was always talking about. So, once the noblemen had left, he told his family his plans, gathered up his equipment and gold, along with his horse Surestep, and left for Restov. Once there, he purchased some new armor to set himself up to make sure he looked spiffy, and presented himself as a guide available to any of the expeditions. This was his chance to really make a name. His family would be proud.

Surestep is a shaggy brown horse with a slightly darker shade of brown for his mane and tail. The fur just above his hooves is white, as is the diamond on his nose.