"Felthune, I thought I recognized you." Araton said with a small smirk, his eyes taking in the young man. There was something wrong though, the confidence that was there was now missing. He remembered the charisma that Felthun spoke with, the bravado showcasing his talent for the Infernal texts and the dialects between the different levels of Hell itself. He had been pivotal in helping unlock the secrets of his family's tome, bringing Araton into contact with his "uncle". That man was gone and the haze around him was reminiscent of an illusion. "Much has changed since we last met. It is...good to see you surviving. I had worried that the Inquisitors had gotten their talons into you. I am simply Araton now, my lands were seized after my...heresy...was discovered."
The man that Felthun had met before was sicklier and frailer; the one before him brimmed with new power. Strapped in full plate, a sword on his hip, there was a palpable aura of menace that exuded away from him. His smile was polite but nonetheless, there was a predatory quality to it that could not be missed.
His attention turned back towards the other woman, the one bulking with muscle and standing with a less ostentatious presentation. Her weapon and relatively simply decor was analyzed carefully for a moment, information stored away in his mind. He had seen what the unassuming were capable of when it came to combat and he had no doubt that if she had Thorne's favor, she must be useful.
The last figure appeared absolutely perfect. Every part of them was made to look exquisite, placed exactly where it belonged. Even with Sarela, the woman had her momentary lapses of human failing but upon this subject was perfect. Unnaturally so. Araton nodded his head towards the strange figure. His actions even more so as he tilted his head.
His head twists quickly to the side, quirking to the side as if something spoke into his ear. His eyes widened for a moment, nodding his head gently before pursing his lips.
"Interesting..." Araton murmurs to himself, stepping forward to look over the contract offered. With a slightly sharpened nail, he cuts his thumb and drips enough blood to wet the pen before writing his name upon the infernal contract. With it sealed in blood, he turns to the others.
"For you, my comrades." He offers it to each of them in turn, eager for their true training to begin.
Araton focuses, in his training, on his reaction speed. To hesitate against their enemies would invite ruin and death. Striking faster and harder would make him fierce, deadly, and more useful to those within his compact. The armor sat upon him more naturally, his ferocity and strength growing. His Uncle's whispers were becoming clearer as the darkness in his blood began to manifest itself. Soon enough, their time would come.
Mercy's blood smells of turpentine. Turpentine and linseed." Felthun notes it in his head for later, but says nothing. It wasn't his place.
"Forgive me Lord Fal, but even stripped of your lands your nobility cannot be denied. Now more so than ever. The Lord of Lords Asmodeus has smiled upon you. You will always be Lord Fal to this loyal servant."
Taking the knife, the observant of you notice that it takes a good deal of Felthun's effort to actually penetrate his skin. Either the knife had gone dull, the man was far weaker than he appeared, or something else was afoot here.
Despite the perceptual mismatch between Felthun's hands and the object that he held, the quality of his signature was unmistakable. There was still a remarkable artist behind those broken eyes.
=====
During training, it becomes evident that although his newfound companions are highly resilient, Felthun is in a league of his own. It takes a great deal more force to harm him than it does the others. He can run longer than anyone. Anyone, save Mercy. It bothers the artist that the seemingly perfect stranger refuses to tire, no matter the circumstance. His physical strength was tremendous, seemingly only matched by Ophelia. But the truly bizarre thing was the way he fought. Felthun was a lumbering brute, easy to land blow after blow on. But he shrugged them all off, firing off dangerous blows that only seemed to increase in strength the more enemies he took down consecutively. There was a seething rage beneath Felthun's more placid demeanor that came out when he fought. It was unclear if that rage had any bottom to it's capacity. Under the tutelage of Cardinal Thorn, he learns to focus that rage on his enemies, and not his allies.
Outside of the training, Felthun will avoid Mercy. He's beginning to think he may have an idea on what he might be, and as a creator himself, it scares him. He will try and spend more time with Lord Fal, and Sarela.
The half-dragon woman nods politely to Mercy, a slight smile on her face. "A pleasure. Thank you."
She turns her attention to Sarela, inclining her head once more. "Looking forward to working with you. I do so enjoy a good fight."
When the contract and knife are presented, Ophelia nicks her shoulder, opting not to harm her hands unnecessarily should she need them for violence in the future. She signs the contract with a curling, looping signature that one wouldn't expect from the massive woman, then nods curtly to Cardinal Thorne.
During the training, in the comfort of their facilities, Ophelia would reveal her true form. The half-dragon, half-human woman was much larger than she appeared and covered in misshapen patches of green, shining scales. Green, leathery dragon wings were against her back--not strong enough to carry her yet, but large enough that when spread wide, she cut a robust and intimidating figure. Her eyes reflected yellow and gold, taking on a more reptilian cast, and green, curving horns poked out of her long, auburn hair.
She lashed out during training with massive, clawed hands and a tearing bite, choosing an aggressive, yet calculating, approach to battle. Her bladework was as dangerous as her gods-gifted natural weapons, the massive woman somehow managing to sneak up her sparring partners more than once.
Ophelia would seek out Felthun, relishing the chance to spar with someone who could match her strength and ferocity. Her new companions would find her rather quiet and gruff, but more than willing to work together and alongside the others. Whatever it took to avenge her mother.
"You are too gracious, Felthune. Perhaps, when this is done, I will rise back to my blood's height. I will certainly remember your aid for this and will be your patron." Araton remarked, his voice cool and calm. A sinister quality seemed to infect him but the words were spoken in honesty. This assortment of villains was one of quality and power, tools for him to use in his rise back to the top. As would be proper, he would be their tool as well. A distant member of House Barca, royal blood pumped in him even with as tainted as it was.
Working with Araton shows that while the man lacks the stamina of the others, he makes it up by combining intellect, wisdom, and presence into a heady mixture. Quick on his feet and quite strong despite his sickly disposition, what is most noticeable is the fact that the man is certainly not alone.
Shadows move with him, voices whispering into his ear, and he seems to stare off into space seeing something no one else sees. At times, he cocks his head as if listening to a voice that no one else can hear before spouting wisdom that even his well-read self would not know. Most of all, he acts the part of the humble nobleman. If one needs knowledge, he is there to help. A sparring partner? He is willing to practice. His education is stern but never too condescending, his barbs meant to illuminate weaknesses in thought or in form.
The man seemed capable of strange miracles, guided by the unholy power they served but something else. If one looked at him in the peripheral, they may catch sight of it. An older, decrepit tiefling with horns amidst the gaunt shapes of others of House Fal, his kin and his and their victims.
Araton would visit the terrified squire, seeing a chance to hone his craft on breaking the young man's spirit. A true faithful of Mitra was a test but with his master's death, a crack had been formed. So began his nearly daily task of bringing the young man the rich foods he savored in Cardinal Thorne's employ, a benefit of serving hell when mere days and then weeks ago, he was preparing for death.
"Hello Timeon..." Each day would start with Araton's wicked smile before he closed the door to show Timeon the pleasures and horrors of Hell.
During the training Mercy focuses on speed. Not that he wasn't fast already - his strikes with those daggers are lighting-fast, just flicker on one's vision. And they keep just appearing on his hands, as he dances around his sparring opponents. Mercy learns that he is hardy the strongest one around, so tries to keep his distance to his opponents, and send daggers flying to their weak spots.
The others learn, that despite his lean appearance, Mercy seems to be quite sturdy, barely flinching when he receives a blow (and actually landing a blow on him is no small feat).
Between the days spent in training, Mercy follows Araton to his visits with the squire Timeon. Mostly out of curiosity, but he quickly joins to the game of temptation.
It only takes 5 weeks to break the Squire. Timeon was of weak mind and easily manipulated. Now he is loyal to you and eager to gain retribution from Talinguarde. He learns to rather enjoy commanding the slaves. He stays as far away from Tiadora as possible as he fears her for some reason.
Squire Timeon of Balentyne
Male human aristocrat 1
LN Medium humanoid
Init +1; Senses Perception -1
DEFENSE
AC 15, touch 11, flat-footed 14 (+4 armor, +1 Dex)
hp 9 (1d8+1)
Fort +1, Ref +1, Will +1
OFFENSE
Speed 30 ft.
Melee longsword +2 (1d8+1/19-20x2);
Ranged shortbow +1 (1d6/x3)
STATISTICS
Str 13, Dex 13, Con 12, Int 9, Wis 8, Cha 10
Base Atk +0; CMB +1; CMD 12
Feats Animal Affinity, Weapon Focus (Longsword)
Skills Craft (armor) +3, Craft (weapons) +3, Handle Animal +6, Knowledge (nobility) +3, Ride +6
Languages Common
Combat Gear chain shirt, dirty tabard
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Araton finds himself deep within the library of Cardinal Thorne, looking through the various blasphemous texts that account unholy rituals, heretical secrets, and dark knowledge. He could spend years here, wandering the dim corridors surrounded by the dark bookshelves. Yet he can hear the whispers pushing through his being, calling him deeper into the shadows, his Uncle's voice teasing into his ear with promises of power. Soon the bookshelves begin to show the dust upon them, the books becoming leathery and worn, the journals of madmen and women blessed by the nine layers of Hell to spill their secrets. Traveling down one path, Araton stops and hears the chorus of voices rise in his ear.
Like a spilling tidal wave, they all spill from one book. The cacophony becomes almost deafening until he grabs the spine of a tattered journal, retrieving it from the shelf as silence consumes him. His eyes look over the simple design but two things catch his eye. The first was the insignia of House Fal upon the corner. The second was the initials of "R.F." signed inside the cover.
Rozas Fal.
"Is this it, Uncle?" Araton asks softly, opening through it. Though imperfect, not nearly as precise as it was before, was the ritual he had been in the process of enacting before the Inquisition had seized him and destroyed his home. Rage and excitement ran through him as a dangerous smile spread across his face. There was no time like the present.
Within the ritual room, nestled deep within Thorne's manor, Araton knelt within the many-pointed star dedicated to the Prince of Darkness. Slaves stood nearby, blank-faced as they slit the throat of farm animals taken from nearby farms. The blood spread across the floor, spilling into the lines of silver and sulfur, as Araton chanted in the dark tongue of Hell itself. Grabbing a beautifully crafted dagged, he lifted it to his chest and over his heart.
"<To you, my lord, I give my mind. To you, my lord, I give my body.>" The infernal dripped off of his tongue as he pushed the dagger into his chest, just enough to spill red down upon the scattered papers. He carved Asmodeus's simply into his chest, his eyes flickering brightly with his true heritage. [b]"<To you, my lord, I give my soul. For the glory of Hell. For the glory of you. For the glory of me>" The words escaped him as he finished the symbol. A last act of faith, he rose the dagger and plunged it towards his heart. Pain surged through him as he pierced deep, a shallow cry escaping him. Warmth spilled down his hands and for a moment came a chill of the grave. Was he not worthy? Was he forsaken? Araton's eyes flickered upwards to see a man standing before him. It was not Asmodeus but a tiefling, red-skinned and with a wicked smile upon his face. His chest was carved with the very same symbol and Araton knew he was gazing upon his long-dead uncle. The chill became warm and then...it began to burn.
It was like a fire had been born in his chest, piercing through his very being. His eyes stared at the room to see the devils and victims assembled, pleased grins and horrified expressions alike. His uncle burned before him like ash, falling apart bit by bit into that glowing wound. Since he had performed the first ritual, he knew his Uncle was somewhere within his mind guiding him. They were pushing him further along, always further along, this dark pathway. Yet now that vagueness gave way to certainty as the weight of his late uncle's consciousness poured into him. It sat upon his own, pushing downwards, crushing him. Crushing him.
"A-a trap..." Araton whimpered for a moment as his fingers dug into the ground hard enough to crack his nails, staining his hands red with blood. "You...you want to take me?" He could feel the cage surrounding him slowly, his vision blurring as his ancestor infused into him.
"It was always the plan, my dear nephew." Araton said smoothly, smirking slightly with a wicked smile. "I have so much still to do and you...you have had your fun. You may watch and I will lead us. Sleep now, I sha-" His hand snapped to his neck with an impossibly tight grip, choking the words.
"I-I will be no prisoner. I will be no servant. I am Araton Fal, last son of House Fal, and...I...will...be...!" Araton screamed, fighting against the darkness. He seized that weight in his mind and lifted it, twisting it in his failing body, before finishing the cage. He could feel the screams of so many betrayed in his whole being, his body shuddering as he pulled the dagger out and threw it to the ground. No blood stained it but he could feel the burn of Lord Asmodeus's sigil upon his chest. His body felt exhausted, breathing hard as he leaned back on his knees. A low laugh escaped him, his grin spreading wide as he felt that pressure in his head.
"Good try, uncle, good try. I was chosen. You may watch, you may guide, and I will take us to the summit of this path. Praise Asmodeus." Araton said, running his fingers along his pale chest and the dark markings that had sunk into his skin.
The next day, his fellow Bound would recognize that the nobleman had changed. Faster, stronger, more vicious, the aura around him felt positively vile. Against the effects of those aligned with the higher planes, his body had grown resistant and durable. Araton could feel the will of his ancestors and the Dark Lord mix into a potent power. He was ready to be unleashed upon Talingarde.
After the three months, Cardinal Thorn announces that you are finally ready. You are summoned to a banquet in your honour. There is the finest food and drink, nothing is spared. Also attending the banquet are the other group lead by Elise Zadaria a human and her White Ravens Dostan Alfson half-elf, Tallus “Trak” Rackburn and Titus “Trik” Rackburn humans. The slaves serve, constantly refilling cups and bring out more and more food.
"Soon old Talinguarde will fall and a new one will rise. You all have shown you are worthy. You will all hold positions of great power under the new order. Tomorrow my seventh knot," he looks to Elise Zadaria, "And my ninth knot," he looks to you, "Will set forth to begin the breaking of Talinguarde. Though your missions and purposes different, you all work towards the same end goal. Remember this, remember the contract you all signed. To revenge. To Asmodeus!" He toasts.
"Hear, hear! To Asmodeus!" Mercy slams the table and raises his goblet. One toast after another he is all smiles and laughter, although the wine never touches his lips.
At some point of the revelry, he elbows Araton who is sitting next to him. "So we're the ninth knot, and they are the sevent..." Mercy whispers, nodding towards the other group.
"So where's the eight?"
"The other knots are where they need to be. This is all you need know. That way, if one knot dies or is captured, the enemy will not be able to know our next move. Tomorrow I shall reveal your part in my plan. For now, eat. Drink. You have done well."
"To Asmodeus, and a new Talingarde!" Sarela still wasn't particularly religious, but this Asmodeus seemed more her kind of deity. Besides, she had signed a contract that she'd obey him, and what was praising his name compared to that?
Regardless, she ate and drank. She still needed to, but she felt that it was slowly becoming optional. She probably still would, of course - after all, what good was immortality if you couldn't enjoy the finer things in life?
Idly, she wondered, Nine Knots, eh? I wonder how he decided on that number. What could our task be? Maybe murdering that little chit Bellinda? For a moment, Sarela indulged herself in a mental fantasy of slitting the princess's throat. Well, probably not. Whatever our orders, they will be challenging, but I doubt the Cardinal would send us on a suicide mission. Then again, we're servants of Asmodeus in Talingarde. Existing is a suicide mission. Chuckling at such a grim thought, she took a bite of a small potato and said to Mercy, "Since we don't need to worry about where the others are, you should really have some more of this wine. It's simply delightful."
A new confidence brims through Araton as he seats back in his seat, slowly swishing his wine in his goblet with a look of smug satisfaction. They would be put to work but pleasures like this were only the beginning. They were declared as the Ninth Knot of the Nine Hells; the Nessian Knot and the home of their dark lord. Lifting his goblet to the air, Araton cheered with his fellows.
"To Asmodeus, a new Talingarde, our Master, and ourselves!" Araton added, drinking deeply from his glass until another slave came to refill his glass. Elbowed by Mercy, he tilts his head to listen and goes to answer but is interrupted by their keen master before he has a chance to do so. "A cunning move, master. If one of us shall fall and fail, we can provide misdirection as to disturb the Mitrans from our true goals. Tomorrow, we begin our most righteous of crusades."
"My family used to have such a cask. It is quite the rarity. Our master has quite the connections. One would expect such from our Cardinal." Araton says to Sarela, chewing on a piece of steak. Only three months ago, he was enjoying the dredges of Brandenscar. Now he was about to take the fight back against those holy hypocrits.
"A taste of our reward should we remain loyal and steadfast. As long as we follow the contract, we shall persevere." Araton thought to himself, grinning and nodding to the whisper in his ear. Rozas, disgruntled as he was, was ready to see their next steps as well.
Mercy smiles at Sarela. "I am sure it is, dear. But alas, wine does not... suit me. I'll rather..." He raises the goblet, and swirls the wine a bit. "...indulge myself with it's rich color ."
"You're quite the connoisseur, Araton." he says, now turning towards the man. "I take your family is rich or influential as well?"
Behind his calm smiles, Mercy keeps thinking of the Cardinal's words. Nine knots... Sounds like he is merely a pawn in a bigger game, ready to be sacrificed if need be. Well, such must be the way of their dark lord. To take his thoughts away from the topic, he leans towards Felthún.
"How is the progress with your painting, friend? Are we able to see the masterpiece before our Cardinal sends us away?"
Felthun raised his glass to Asmodeus, but remained silent. Once he would have reveled in this feast. Now he eats little, primarily spending his time feeding the raven on his shoulder. He tended to that raven far more than he tended to his own safety. He also gazes rather openly at Sarela. He sits next to Ophelia, who he feels a level of kinship with, being the only person in the group who could come close to matching him in sheer physical prowess.
He starts when Mercy leans towards him. The normally fearless man seems unsettled by Mercy still, despite the 3 months they spent together. "Do you like paintings Sir Mercy?" Felthun meets Mercy's implacable gaze, desperately trying to read what the eyes that met his own were thinking. Sarela may have been one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but even she sweat. Mercy's grace was strictly unnatural. As an artist Felthun feared Mercy, what he suspected the man might be, and what he was terrified it might mean for his own works.
But they had signed a contract. Mercy couldn't hurt him. Probably.
"It is nearly finished. If you will it, I will show you all after this feast."
Ophelia's appearance is more normal; more human for the banquet. She has let her dragon horns stay visible, but the wings, her scales, and her size are all altered to appear a little less unsettling. The half-dragon woman welcomes Felthun's company with a quiet grin, feeling a similar kinship to the massive artist.
At the toast, Ophelia raises her glass, reclining in her seat and crossing her thick, muscular legs daintily. "To revenge...and Asmodeus," She says in that smoky, sultry voice. She did not particularly care for the machinations of the gods, but she would not offend her benefactor.
The half-dragon swept her eyes across the room at the others. She was not the best at starting a conversation, but she found the gathered crew a rather fascinating bunch. Sarela commanded attention with unearthly beauty; Araton's newfound confidence certainly caught one's eye. Mercy was a bit of a mystery, one she was glad to have on her side.
"I like paintings," Ophelia said conversationally, turning in her seat to regard Felthun with blue, piercing eyes. "I would like to see it, too."
"Oh, Felthún, please.. No need to 'sir' me, just call me Mercy." Mercy lets out a charming laugh. "And I do love paintings! One could say I... live for art."
With Ophelia taking part in conversation, Mercy threw his hands in the air. "See, Felthún! None of us can wait seeing your work!"
One final infernal ritual remains. During the feast, Cardinal Thorn summons forth a barbed devil and asks you to pick a slave to offer to it. The devil gleeful rips the slave apart and feasts on the blood. Adrastus then draws forth some of the devil’s blood with a silver athame and bids you each draw near 1 at a time. Adrastus traces the unholy symbol of Asmodeus on the forehead of each of you in the mingled blood of devil and sacrifice. "Behold," he proclaims, “The Nessian Knot is forged.”
Soon after he retires from the feast, as does Tiadora, leaving the slaves to serve you for as long as you stay. Since tomorrow you start on your first real mission, it would serve you well to not feast too long.
"My family was influential at one time. Proud descendants of House Barca, Fal is a cadet branch of the main house. We split away early in the founding of Talingarde, focusing on the worship of Asmodeus." Araton narrated, swirling his glass of dark wine as he ruminated on his family's history. "Our known allegiance to the Dark Lord cost us much in terms of business opportunities and land grants, revocations by the mad king and his entourage. It only grew worse when the Asmodean Purges began. Now...I am all that remains." There was a bitterness in his words as he stared at the glass for a moment, sighing before a small yet cruel smile spread across his face.
"Now though? Now is my opportunity. House Fal will rise again and, when we succeed, I will ensure the rise of each of you as well. Asmodeus rewards those who save themselves and who stay true to their purpose." He finished the glass and placed it down. Thorne's words were wise; tomorrow they began their task.
The slave is coldly chosen, a sacrifice of blood to bind the knot together. The mark of the Prince of Lies is placed upon his head much like it had been placed upon his heart. Tomorrow began their real task. Rising from where he had knelt for a dark blessing, he regarded the others.
"Rest well, comrades. Tomorrow, our crusade begins."
Sarela wasn't too concerned with the ritual, but she made sure that the chosen slave was one that, in her opinion, provided less satisfactory service than the others. A proper fate. Perhaps the others will work harder. It's a shame we have to leave soon.
After the ritual, she finished her wine and said, "Indeed, I shall see you all on the morrow. Pleasant dreams - or whatever you dream about that you find pleasant."
After the great feast and a peaceful(?) night, you meet the Cardinal at a small river dock not far from the manor.
“Just in time,” Cardinal Thorn remarks. “My ship has arrived.” On the river dock behind the manor, a square-sailed longship sails into the slip. It sits heavily in the water, laden with a substantial cargo.
You notice the 7th Knot is not here and neither is Tiadora.
“Welcome, my children,” he says in a deep resonant voice that has an almost inhuman quality to it. “Training is at an end. You have proven yourself worthy. Now, it is time for you to use that training and take on your first mission."
"Your mission is war, my children. You will bring war to Talingarde. You have two objectives. First, you will see a shipment of munitions delivered to a bugbear chieftain named Sakkarot Fire-Axe. He makes his camp on the northern coast of Lake Tarik beyond the Watch Wall. With this shipment, the Fire-Axe will have resources enough to unite the barbarous humanoid tribes of the north and light the fire of war."
“Sitting on the dock as we speak is the longship Frosthamar captained by Kargeld Odenkirk. When the ship is resupplied it will be your transport. The captain is a ruthless mercenary and not to be trusted. He knows nothing of the specifics of our mission and you should keep it that way. He knows he is smuggling cargo to the north beyond the Watch Wall. That is all he need know."
“Once the cargo is safely delivered, he will take you just south across the lake under cover of darkness and land you near the town of Aldencross. There our contract with Captain Odenkirk will be concluded."
“It is shame how greedy he has proven. I had hoped to let the captain serve me again but it seems he is too much of a liability. Kill him. Kill his crew. Burn his ship and leave no survivors. It is crucial that no one suspects our involvement and that loose ends are taken care of. Be sure to reclaim the coin I gave him. Best not to be wasteful."
“That done, you will begin your second task. We will do more still to aid our ally the Fire-axe. The bugbears are mighty warriors but poor siege engineers. You will infiltrate the tower Balentyne, keystone of the Watch Wall, kill its commander and open the gate for Sakkarot’s horde."
“Once the shaggy monstrosities pierce the Watch Wall, the bugbears will pillage and lay waste to the townships of the north and the local garrisons will have no choice but to meet the Fire-Axe in the open field. Sakkarot is the most brilliant, gifted and murderous bugbear of his generation. I expect these battles will go poorly for the knights and yeoman of fair Talingarde."
“Do all of this and then when your task is done, break this clay seal.” He hands you a delicately carved clay seal adorned with a tangled knot of thorns surrounding the holy symbol of Asmodeus. “I will have more instructions then. Succeed and I will see you rewarded handsomely. Fail or betray me and you will pray for the comfort of Hell before I am done with you." He warns.
“The mission you start upon today is a holy mission. The people of Talingarde think they have seen the last of the mighty Asmodeus. Soon enough we will remind them that there is no escaping the grasp of Hell. Let us toast our success.”
He pours one glass of deep red wine for each of you and then finally pours one for himself. He raises the glass and offers a toast.
“To war.”
"And we can trust the bugbear? He will not simply take your munitions and go on his way?" Mercy has not ever met a bugbear in person, but from the stories he has understood they are savage and chaotic, and therefore not entirely trustworthy.
He takes the clay seal from the cardinal, flips it to look at it from both sides, and then passes it to Araton. The man seemed to be the most devout follower of Asmodeus, so it's proper he'll carry the holy symbol as well.
Then comes the toasting time. Again, Mercy swirls the wine in his glass, smiling. "Poor Captain Odenkirk, such a fate awaiting for him. Perhaps I should compose a ballad in his memory..." He sighs, and raises his glass to toast.
"To war."
Sarela considered the mission placed before them. Escorting weapons to the Watch Wall and killing Odenkirk seemed fairly straightforward, and if this Sakkarot proved troublesome, she would likely be able to manipulate his mind into staying on course. She doubted he was any stronger-willed than most of the other people she'd used her powers on in her life - probably less so, in fact. Infiltrating the Watch Wall Balentyne, however...this was the true challenge. They were hunted, all of them, for their crimes against Talingarde. The circlets would help hide their true identities, but they would still need to be careful. Such a magical charm could be pierced, and once they began acting against Balentyne, the officers would likely start to investigate. This would require a great deal of subtlety. The Cardinal clearly had great faith in their abilities, to grant them such a crucial mission. The danger, however, was equally great, and not just from the Talirean soldiers, but as a consequence for failure. She only hoped her companions could be patient and subtle enough to succeed.
Raising her glass, Sarela joined in the toast, "To war." As she drank, a disturbing thought came to her. I hope he doesn't expect us to fight on the field of battle alongside these bugbears. I don't care how intelligent this Sakkarot is, the Cardinal can't expect such savage beasts not to kill anything human-looking in the heat of battle.
For the ritual, Ophelia picks the strongest-looking slave as her offering: an offering of strength that matched her own. She stands passively during the ritual, performing the movements as instructed, appearing as pious as was required. She was passionate about the cause, less so about the religion, but it didn’t bother her to go through the motions to please her Master.
If Felthun offers the chance to actually look at his painting that night, Ophelia will tag along, interested in the strong man’s work. If not that night, then Ophelia would retire not long after the Cardinal, saying her polite goodbyes to her comrades. She had no desire to receive her first set of orders hungover and tired.
—---------------
The next day, Ophelia stood with the others and listened to their orders from Cardinal Thorne, her face passive. She wore the disguise circlet as she had done the night before, her draconic horns still present, but the rest more or less human. Just a strong, intimidating woman.
The half-dragon listened to the orders carefully, intrigued at the idea of working alongside bugbears. She glanced around at the others, attempting to gauge their thoughts on their orders. She would certainly have time to get to know her comrades better later, but for now, she would focus on the mission.
The half-dragon grinned widely, all her teeth slightly pointed, and took the wine with pleasure. She raised her glass in the toast, pleased to finally have a goal in mind.
”To war!”
The Frosthamar is a single-masted knarr with a square sail. It is similar to a Viking longship but wider and with a deeper hull better suited to carrying cargo. And the Frosthamar is obviously loaded with cargo. Sitting heavy in the water, she holds twenty four tons of weaponry, arrows and shields emblazoned with a flaming axe. The captain is a grizzled north-man with a wiry beard, pale blonde hair and countless scars. This is Kargeld
Odenkirk and he is, as promised, a ruthless mercenary with little thought of anyone but himself. His crew consists of a half dozen grim sailors who speak little of the common Talirean tongue.
“You will guard our boat all the way north, yes?” he asks of whomever arrives at the boat first. If answered yes, then he grunts his assent. “Then I will take you to the cursed north past hope and life.” Any questions about his boat, crew or past receive a mere grunt. He is not a very talkative man and doesn't seem to care what story you give him as long as you are there to aid him in getting to his destination.
For all Kargeld’s grimness, the Frosthamar is a fine ship, seaworthy and strong hulled. Its clinker-built hull is resilient but flexible and well suited to surviving the rough icy seas of the northern ocean. It is smartly rigged and lovingly maintained. Kargeld, it seems, loves nothing save for this ship. And if you want to immediately earn Kargeld’s undying enmity all you need do is insult her even once.
The first leg of the journey is placid and peaceful. Everyone has plenty of time to gain their sealegs and get acclimated to shipboard life. The Frosthamar may be a fine ship but it is not a ship that caters to delicate sensibilities. It has no cabins and everyone must sleep under the stars with the rest of the crew. There are no garderobes or chamber pots. The crew simply relieve themselves over the railing. The rations are hardtack and small beer, though Kargeld does stop a couple of times to hunt deer along the wilder part of the coasts.
It takes half a day to sail down the Varnyn River and out into the open ocean. The Frosthamar hugs the coast and from the ship you can see countless farming communities and fishing villages go by. More than a few fishermen wave at the Frosthamar. Kargeld is always sure to wave back. “Wouldn’t want ‘em to get suspicious, eh?” he says with a glower.
The Frosthamar is not swift so heavily-laden and averages about forty eight miles a day. It takes a week for the ship to pass along the settled coast of Talingarde passing the great city of Daveryn, the largest center of civilization along the western coast. Kargeld is quick to squash any talk of stopping there. “This is no pleasure cruise. Besides, I won’t get our cargo within a mile of a Talirean harbormaster.”
Map of Talinguarde
Journey so far (10 uneventful days)
The Frosthamar
Once the toast is done and they depart the Cardinal, Sarela looks over her companions and says, "We should try to make friends with this Captain Odenkirk. If he thinks we are his friends, he is less likely to see our betrayal coming. I doubt this man has anything close to the necessary sophistication to see through such a deception. What do you all think?
"As for this Sakkarot, let's take the measure of the bugbear first. Cardinal Thorn has confidence he won't betray us, and we'll have to rely on that for now. Balentyne, however...do any of you play an instrument?"
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"We will guard your boat to the north, Captain Odenkirk, rest assured." Sarela answered, giving the Captain a smile. However, Sarela is less than pleased to find that there are no accommodations on board the ship, and she has to sleep on the deck like the common crew. The fact she has to relieve herself over the railing brings even more annoyance, and she wastes no time in coming to an arrangement with Ophelia to screen her from the crew and Captain Odenkirk when she must do her business.
Otherwise, she attempts to engage Captain Odenkirk in friendly conversation, trying to learn more about him and otherwise try to befriend him. "So, Captain, how long have you been sailing these seas? Do you often journey between the mainland and Talingarde?"
Ophelia is no stranger to survival in uncomfortable places, but she is grateful for Sarela's presence and gladly agrees to the proposed arrangement to shield each other from view, even going so far as to suggest they stick together when they need to rest at night in case anyone attempts to harass them on the voyage over. Should anyone attempt to harass the women, Captain Odenkirk would find himself short a sailor due to the half-dragon tossing them over the edge.
Ophelia stalks around the ship during the voyage, doing whatever she can to keep herself distracted. Between mild seasickness and being stuck in unfamiliar and close quarters with strangers, the normally taciturn woman finds herself seeking conversation with her new comrades.
She approaches Felthún in the evening, peering at the little raven that seemed to accompany the man everywhere. She, herself, had an affinity for animals, having spent more time in the forests of Talingarde than in civilization. She leans on the railing of the ship, crossing her arms over her chest, and nods in greeting. "How is your bird holding up?"
"Thank you Mercy." Araton takes the seal with reverence, putting it away carefully and enveloping it with soft cloth. "I had begun learning the tongue of the goblinoids, as primitive as it is." The scholar offers in response. They have their purposes and if Cardinal Thorne had use of the beast, so did Araton. It was the captain and their more important task. His concern mirrored Sarela's but there was also a look of pride; they were entrusted with setting the very first fire of war. The crusade's very first blow would be theirs to strike. It was a true honor.
"To war." Araton said, lifting his chalice high to their cause. Tomorrow, it would begin in earnest.
With the sacrifice completed, Araton turns his attention towards the others and listens in as Sarela explained her plot for dealing with the captain. Nodding in agreement, he finished his chalice of wine and place it onto the table with a comfortable, practiced ease. "I concur. Words are like a spider's web; shelter for the clever and a trap for the foolish. We shall see where this man settles. I do not know how to play an instrument though; I dedicated myself to more scholarly pursuits."
Approaching the Frosthamar, Araton wears a hooded cloak that settles over his armor. Fur-trimmed and dark, only the occasional glow of his eyes flicker from underneath like that of a dying flame or the reflection from a cat in the dead of night. He looks over the heavily-laden boat, taking it in before boarding the ship and turning his attention towards the grizzled captain.
"We are here to guard your ship and ensure the delivery of its supplies, good captain. Your ship will be safe in our care." Araton offers with a coy smirk, stepping on board. The circlet had already created a disguise for him, casting him in heavy furs rather than the heavy metal armor that he wore. Araton offers no explanation nor asks any question; they were both men with a task to do and time to do it. The ship, hardy and flexible, was a good vessel for what they needed to accomplish. It would earn no complaint from him.
The vessel begins its journey northward, moving towards where the hobgoblin expected them to be. The lack of any reasonable privy or cabins earned a scowl from the dark paladin but he did little to complain; this was just a test and what was a bit of misery but a flavor of freedom. He should be dead by now, executed and burned alive. This was child's play in respect.
The man spends most of his time on his own, respecting the captain's wish to focus on his sailing and letting the more attractive and amiable Sarela attempt to earn his ear first. Mostly, he spends his time watching the others and getting a feeling for what the crew feels. They were all going to die when this journey was completed at long last but it was important to ensure that they were not suspicious of their fate yet. Better yet, it was important to ensure that they did not already intend their own betrayal.
"Instrument, dear Sarela?" Mercy asks, eyebrows raised. "I don't know how to play one, I'm afraid. I've always wanted to learn. However, never found the time for practice. Why you ask, do you have some devious plan in mind?"
Mercy appears on the dock in his usual, colorful silken clothes, just a hooded cloak added to dim down the extravagance. He keeps his good humor throughout the journey, trying to befriend the captain, talking to the crew and entertaining them with his tales. He jokes, he learns their names, and mimics their style of talk. Makes it easier for him to fit in, but could be a useful tool for later as well.
At one point of the journey a crewmember wonders why he never seen Mercy taking a piss. Mercy claims he is shy about such matters, and holds it in until he can relieve himself in the cover of darkness. But from that point on, he takes note to go stand by the railing a couple of times a day.
Sarela answers Mercy, "I would not call it devious, merely an easy way to establish cover. A traveling group of entertainers and musicians is generally welcome in every town, and even a military commander might welcome such a group to entertain his men. It gives us a reason for being outsiders in the area, and people aren't as curious about why you're there.
"Actually, didn't Timeon say he was from Balentyne? Someone get the boy. We shouldn't leave him here, anyway. I doubt the Cardinal will take him anywhere."
Felthun doesn't seem to put that much thought into the selection of his slave. He didn't quite have the stomach for killing someone merely for the sake of killing. Glory, revenge, convenience, none of these concerned him when it came to taking a life. But this callous indifference to the master's role to provide rubbed Felthun the wrong way. What will become of us when we outlive our usefullness? he wondered to himself. Still, as the cardinal directed he did as he was bid.
Felthun merely listens attentively to the planning around him. But at the mention of musical skill, he speaks highlighting the dichotomy between his appearance and his destroyed voice. "Once, I had music at my fingertips, the skill to play the most exotic of brass instruments, and a voice to match. But those skills were robbed from me."
===
Felthun avoids speaking to the crew as much as possible, not wanting to disrupt the delicate balance his more linguistically inclined compatriots were seeking to cultivate. He does his best to warm up to Mercy, but still finds it difficult. He wonders what would happen if he splashed paint thinner on the man, but doesn't dare try it. He will ask Sarela to ask the crew not to touch any of his painting supplies, not because he isn't capable of dealing with such issues himself, but because it would be best to avoid any large scale conflict before the time is ripe for it.
Ophelia catches Felthun as he looks over the side of the boat. He did not find her quite as attractive as Sarela, but the fact that the woman could keep up with him physically endeared her to him; he felt the most comfortable around her. Araton was ex-nobility and Felthun's superior, Sarela had a terrible grace and beauty to her, and Mercy... well it was well known to everyone at this point how the artist felt about his strange companion. But Ophelia was straight forward in a way that Felthun appreciated. "His name is Stephan." Felthun says affectionately. "He was my first companion after... my unfortunate incident. The Asmodeans gave me purpose, but he kept me sane." Felthun has often alluded to some incident involving fire in his past, but no one has ever seen him without his illusions.
Showing an uncharacteristic genuine care for someone else's comfort, Felthun asks, "And how has the boat been treating you Ophelia? Have the sailors been giving you any trouble?"
Felthun avoids speaking to the crew as much as possible, not wanting to disrupt the delicate balance his more linguistically inclined compatriots were seeking to cultivate. He does his best to warm up to Mercy, but still finds it difficult. He wonders what would happen if he splashed paint thinner on the man, but doesn't dare try it. He will ask Sarela to ask the crew not to touch any of his painting supplies, not because he isn't capable of dealing with such issues himself, but because it would be best to avoid any large scale conflict before the time is ripe for it.
Ophelia catches Felthun as he looks over the side of the boat. He did not find her quite as attractive as Sarela, but the fact that the woman could keep up with him physically endeared her to him; he felt the most comfortable around her. Araton was ex-nobility and Felthun's superior, Sarela had a terrible grace and beauty to her, and Mercy... well it was well known to everyone at this point how the artist felt about his strange companion. But Ophelia was straight forward in a way that Felthun appreciated. "His name is Stephan." Felthun says affectionately. "He was my first companion after... my unfortunate incident. The Asmodeans gave me purpose, but he kept me sane." Felthun has often alluded to some incident involving fire in his past, but no one has ever seen him without his illusions.
Showing an uncharacteristic genuine care for someone else's comfort, Felthun asks, "And how has the boat been treating you Ophelia? Have the sailors been giving you any trouble?"
Ophelia's face breaks into the slightest smile over learning the bird's name, her slightly draconic eyes flickering toward the bird and then back to the man's illusory face. She had heard him hint at some horrible thing that happened to him, but he had not been forthcoming, and, quite frankly, it was none of her business.
At his question, the half-dragon woman grunted softly, a scowl forming on her face for the briefest moment. "Little seasick. Trouble, though, only once..." She made an irritated sound, flexing her fist. One of the sailors had tried peeking at her and Sarela relieving themselves and Ophelia had made certain the man wouldn't try again. "Not used to this many people."
"Sailors..." Felthun says bitterly. "A group well known for their complete lack of civility, or appreciation for the arts. I wil not miss them at the end of the trip." He looks off into the distance for a moment, clearly something on his mind. "Opheia," he asks out of the blue, "Do you enjoy killing people? I mean the actual act of killing itself. Or is it merely a means to an end for you?"
"Sailors..." Felthun says bitterly. "A group well known for their complete lack of civility, or appreciation for the arts. I wil not miss them at the end of the trip." He looks off into the distance for a moment, clearly something on his mind. "Opheia," he asks out of the blue, "Do you enjoy killing people? I mean the actual act of killing itself. Or is it merely a means to an end for you?"
Ophelia gazes at Felthun for a long moment, narrowing her draconic eyes and considering the question carefully. She crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her chin toward the sky, and takes a deep breath. "Depends on the killing," She says quietly. "I don't kill for the hell of it, there has to be a righteous purpose. But enjoyment? Mmmh..." The massive woman trails off, her gaze dropping back to Felthun's face, studying his illusory face before shrugging. "Sometimes. It's a little poetic. There's something about the ease with which one can be destroyed; the beauty in the fragility of life." She pauses a moment, a small smile playing across her face before she shakes her head, her long, brown hair swishing. "But mostly, a means to an end."
He grunts and shrugs. "Jus 'tabout me whole life I reckon." He isn't very chatty, answering most questions with one word answer if he can. "Mainland's me home. If I stop working for the Cardinal I probably go back there."
The sailors smirk at Sarela and Ophelia shielding each other, talking amongst themselves with many glances your way. These men are simple, keeping to themselves and their tasks. They do not speak any language that any of you recognise. Like the captain they aren't from Talinguarde. This makes them lees than interesting traveling companions and attempts to communicate with them fail. The Captain also seems to be giving them orders to leave you alone as an eye from him whenever you are near sends them on a seemingly random task. All in all, you've likely never been more bored in your life and have only yourselves for company.
Timeon does not fare well for the first few days, seasickness afflicting him heavily. After finally adjusting to the ships motion he manages better, but still complains and can't wait to get to their destination. He talks of home, his wealthy parents that sent him to be Balin's squire and how he isn't sure how they will respond if he ever returns to them as he is.
It is the morning of the 10th day of your journey. Today you will pass the Watch Wall and truly be in the unclaimed north. You have noticed it already start to get a little cooler.
Unfortunately, a Talinguard patrol ship has spotted you. Luckily you notice with Mercy the first to spot it. Kargeld grimly pairs down their options, “She’s seen us, sure as damnation. And there is no way the ‘Frosthamar’ will outrun her loaded like this. One look at our cargo and they’ll know us for exactly what we are – weapon smugglers.”
You have 10 minutes before the patrol ship will catch you.
Pinnace class boat, 30ft long. Comfortably fits a dozen or more.
"Oh, look. A patrol ship! How exciting!"
Mercy squints his eyes, looking at the approaching ship.
"So, they are going to catch us no matter what?" he asks the captain. "That leaves us with a few options... We could try to hide the cargo, we could try to sweet-talk our way out of this, or..." he shrugs, rather care-free. "... we just kill them."
"Oh, I've never been to the mainland. Tell me, what's it like over there?"
======================================================
Sarela narrows her eyes as she watches the patrol ship come in. "Well, first of all, we'd better not look like ourselves. I'm sure pictures of us have been circulated amongst all the Talirean soldiers. One look at us and the game is up real quick." Sarela considers their options for a moment, then says, "If nothing else, deception will let us get in position to attack them. Araton, can you masquerade as Sir Balin? A Knight of the Alerion will likely cause them to lower their guard. The rest of us should masquerade as Talirean soldiers. If we can convince the captain of that vessel that this entire endeavor is sanctioned, he'll let us go on our way. If anyone has a way to make our cargo look like something besides weapons, that would be good, as well. We can't hide how heavily laden the ship is, but we can make it look like we're carrying something else - perhaps iron ore or steel ingots?"
After a moment, she has another thought and says, "We should also come up with a code word to alert people when the time has come for violence."
Felthun's form ripples, as he shrinks about a foot, his frame shrinks in size. A soldier's coif and livery appear around him. His face twists into that of a plain individual. "I follow your leads."
"I have...experienced...Sir Balin's arrogance. I will impersonate him. Timeon, to me. You are my squire." The sickly man's form would shift and change, turning into the imperious and stern appearance of Sir Balin. He cleared his throat a few times, practicing his words before looking to the captain.
"Let me handle the conversation. You and your sailors maintain the ship." Araton orders, turning his attention back to the others. When the discussion on what to disguise the cargo as, his eyes grew misty like that of a blind man and when he spoke, his voice carried a nearly ethereal, musical quality. It was as if more than one voice spoke at once.
"Balentyne is a small, albeit prosperous, gate to the North. This is what would serve us best." Araton murmured, educating his companions as best and as quickly as he could. Once done with that, he steps up to where they would be boarded, a look of slight irritation upon his face.
As soon as the patrol ship gets close enough, the Talirean sailors begin shouting “Heave to in the name of the king!” Kargeld and his men comply, slowing the ship and awaiting the approach.
The captain and four armed sailors board the Frosthamar. "I am Captain Sambryl, who is in charge here?" The captain demands to speak to whoever is charge, looking around suspiciously. 8 of the soldiers remain on the patrol ship holding longbows.
Kargeld looks at not-Araton with Timeon standing beside him looking nervous.
Before the ship approaches, Ophelia also shifts her appearance to that of someone plainer, blending into the other sailors. She stays close but lets not-Araton take the lead.
Before the patrol ship catches them, Mercy changes his appearance to match the style of Araton's disguise. Then he casts silent image on the cargo, hiding the weapons from plain sight. Then he waits, as Araton claimed he'll handle the conversation.
As the other ship approached, Sarela worked on getting herself into a completely different mindset, using the circlet to test several different appearances until she settled on the one she wanted. Now, she appeared to be wearing a high necked traveling dress, embroidered and well-made, suitable to a prosperous merchant or low-ranking noblewoman, with her hair done up in a tight bun. Here eyes were a soft brown, and her hair had darkened, as well. She then turned to Ophelia and said, "Hold still a moment." Sarela's voice was now more alto than soprano, as well. In fact, her companions could swear that had they not witnessed her changing, they were talking to a completely different person. Concentrating, she set up a little trick in Ophelia's mind that would be useful for the woman.
"That would be me, Captain." Sarela strode forward, graceful yet with purpose. As she did so, she undermined his psyche, weakening his will and resolve. "I am Lady Cristiana Mercoles. We are transporting materials to the Watch Wall. May I ask why you have stopped our vessel?" She stared down Captain Sambryl, impatience in her gaze.
Ophelia grins at Sarela, taking place near the woman and doing her best to look menacing behind her.
"My Lady forgive me. We saw an unidentified vessel and had to identify her. Standard procedure here at the Wall. May I see your manifest? What materials are you transporting? I will inspect the contents of your crates and we can give you an escort. The east end of the wall is merely a few hours from here."
You of course are heading further north and landing with the Captain at the wall here would be the end of your mission. Kargeld looks at Captain Sambryl menacingly, not liking anyone that boards his ship uninvited.
Felthun looks to Sarela for guidance, crossing his arms. He holds no weapon, for he needs none, but he is ready to spring into combat at a moment's notice.
Sarela impatiently says, "Yes, yes, Captain. This way." She brings him behind a stack of crates that impedes his men's view of them, then turns and says, "I'll get the manifest out. That crate is open - you can check it."
Once his back is turned, she quietly draws out her scimitar and prepares to strike his vulnerable spots.