The rain finally stopped around midnight. But the clouds remained. Day had not broken so much as it slowly faded in, revealing a gray-cast world beneath a leaden sky. The low clouds were even closer for the wagon trundling through the high hills, wooded slopes rising on either side of the highway. It was the middle of March, Monday the 16th in fact. Winter would soon be over. But for now, the trees were still barren, skeletal arms with twisted black and gray fingers. And of course, the road was nothing but soupy earth.
The trees alongside the road seemed to stoop and bend out. Where they sheltering the travelers from some possibility of further rain? Or were they wickedly trying to splatter them with the heavy droplets falling from the leafless branches? It was hard to tell.
The light and trees were not all that was strange. The sound in the hills echoed oddly. Words spoken mere feet away seemed muted and distant, yet far off sounds sometimes came clearly through the mist. But on the whole, the world was quiet, hushed; expectant?
It was hard to see what it might be expecting. It was hard to see much of anything. The hills were shrouded in a ghostly fog, the fallen rain rising back to the sky. The world seemed to disappear at thirty yards in all directions. It was a strange morning indeed.
So perhaps it was appropriate that the six travelers found themselves in the company of such a strange halfling. He simply called himself Faz. To start, he was alone; of course there were the six travelers he’d picked up, one even a fellow halfling (not that they knew each other). But he was not part of a caravan, a clan, he had no family with him. He was traveling alone. He was unusually bright for a halfling, dressed in vibrant yellow with a few splashes of orange. His hair was even odd, a bright dirty-blonde. It had an unusual sheen to it, likely indicating some type of dye.
Faz had another interesting feature: he couldn’t stop talking. He droned on and on, telling of the places he’d been, the things he’d seen, the people he’d met, and often their life stories to boot. It was hard to get a word in edgewise. The exceptions were his off the wall questions: Do you think humans should dance more? What about singing? How do orcs treat their livestock? Even then, he often simply rattled on about his own ideas, rather than actually letting anyone answer his questions.
The travelers themselves; they were a strange lot, too, most carrying with them armor and weapons. Four were human; there was the second halfling; and an orc. They had come to be in this place by a strange way; in the telling, they were like a snowball, growing larger with every stop they made. The Ornathi in the group had first seen it come round a bend, pulled by two ribbon-clad ponies pulling a halfling and an orc, of all things. But he felt the gods spoke to him, so the Ornathi climbed aboard. In Dyn, the second halfling asked where the wagon was bound and climbed aboard. On the road again, the wagon came round a bend and in climbed a human with a wide-brimmed hat. When they’d stopped at some road-side inn, the only place to stay in a nearly nameless hamlet, some sort of mage asked to come along. And just a few hours ago, a tired youth had emerged from the brush alongside the road and asked if he could join the procession.
And so, by choice or chance, the seven strangers rode to Versonton on that quiet morning, the silence broken only by clopping ponies, creaking wagon wheels, and chatterbox halflings.
Until the somnolent spell is broken. To the right, up the slope of the hill, a flock of crows bolts from the treetops, cawing in panic. Their cries fade into the mist, returning to silence for a mere heartbeat, before an otherworldly cry splits the air. It rings out high and shrill, piercing to the bone. Another follows, closer. Much closer.
Initiative=5. By Erelune's ears! What was that sound?!
The ponies neigh and prance skittishly at the sounds. Faz attempts to calm them, "Whoa, my pretties, easy now!" But the animals look like they want to bolt.
Harmen stands slowly and draws a green tinted roll of parchment from under his sleeve.
“Ho there now girls.” he coos softly to the ponies, “nothing to be afraid of.”
Azuma throws off the brightly coloured blanket he was wearing against the chill. He stands calmly, half-draws his blade, and listens for any sign that may identify the hellish sound.
Marcellus sits up at the sound of the wail and reaches over to grab his greatsword.
Looping the weapon over a shoulder he mumbles, "I think I agree with the horses. That didn't sound natural."
He tries to position himself to make it easy to jump from the wagon and confront whatever made that noise - assuming the driver looks like he's going to stop. He's taking his cue from the driver.
EDIT: If necessary, my spot check is 11.
Dripping with ma-gick, defend me from might
encasing my co-il, with darkness' light
Oddly glowing tendrils of blackness seem to be pulled from the air, collecting about Xendril's form in a sheet of glowing black before fading from view.
Armaros stares in wonder at the sound of the beasts.
Screw this, I didn't come to this land to get eaten by the local wildlife!
He stands up to slide to the back of the wagon and await his window of escape... and yet, all of his recent comrades seem eager to engage the coming foe.
Who are these men who leap towards the jaws of the unknown? Or more importantly, what is it?
Stepping onto the side of the wagon to get some height, he peers into the trees...
To the right, up the slope of the hill, a flock of crows bolts from the treetops, cawing in panic. Their cries fade into the mist, returning to silence for a mere heartbeat, before an otherworldly cry splits the air. It rings out high and shrill, piercing to the bone. Another follows, closer. Much closer.
The ponies neigh and prance skittishly at the sounds. Faz attempts to calm them, "Whoa, my pretties, easy now!" But the animals look like they want to bolt. Simultaneously, Harmen stands and draws forth a roll of odd-colored paper; “Ho, there now girls, nothing to be afraid of," he says to the animals, but his motion does not match his words and the animals go uncalmed.
Azuma and Marcellus step out of the wagon and peer into the mists, their large blades at the ready. The Ornathi squints his eyes and tilts his head to listen; he seems to hear something and consider the sound for a moment. Meanwhile, chanting behind, Xendril is surrounded for a mere instant by a dark light as the sound of his song echoes strangely in the air.
Armaros, for his part, decides not to bolt along with the horses into the woods, but actually finds himself with Marcellus and Azuma, looking for whatever strange noisemaker comes their way.
The orc leaps from the wagon, wolf-skin cloak whirling behind him. He bares his axe aloft, uttering what sounds like an orcish oath. In Common, he adds "There!"
Just as he points, two figures burst from the treeline, forty feet ahead. Dark, black shapes born aloft by leathery wings, they emit a shrill whine as they veer towards the group, bearing down from above. Closing, the seven companions are met with a sight of terror; they are human heads, hideously deformed to the color of a bruise, covered in writhing tentacles and each sporting a pair of oversized wings. Their eyes are filled with naught but a hellish green glow, same as the light beaming from their rictus grins.
The monsters dart forward in erratic paths with quickling speed. Before any can get a bearing or react, one drives directly at Marcellus, eyes flaring, mouth distending grotesquely to bear its jagged fangs!
Surprised, Marcellus cannot defend himself properly. The snarling beast flits within his defenses and clamps down firmly on his shoulder. The wound is not deep, but pain lances through the warrior's arm, along with a sickly sense of corruption.
The other terror wings up a short distance before Azuma. From its foul jaws comes another shriek, slicing through your ears like a javelin and piercing your brains. A sense of dread wells up within each of you; you feel your death is near!
Fortitude=6! Yea me!
Marcellus winces at the sharp pain of the bite and struggles to free himself from the fiend's jaws.
Marcellus shakes his arm vigorously, throwing off both the wriggling head and the ill feeling creeping through his veins. It is at this very moment the sonic blast hits his ears; but, stealed against the first assault, he struggles mentally through the second. The fear washes over and then fades from him. Azuma wages and wins a similar mental battle. Perhaps Armaros did as well, calling on some reserve of courage, or maybe he just learned how to duck and roll with his mind.
Not so lucky are Harmen, Xendril, and the orc cleric, Rugrok. The shriek fills them with fear of their own death; looking at the floating, severed head, they are consumed with the knowledge that they could come to the same fate. They stand paralyzed with fear.
Marcellus shouts his war cry and moves to attack the flying head that bit him. The ringing in his ears has apparently affected him more than it seemed at first, for he misses badly.
Azuma's eyes widen at the disgusting creature hovering before him. Mainly to steel himself, he returns the favour and roars in the monster's hideous face.
Azuma swings his blade in a fierce uppercut but he too must be more shaken than he appears - the blow goes wide.
Enraged at the monsters assaulting his new comrades and feeling emboldened by their courage, Armaros leaps and rolls underneath the beast recently thrown off by the fighter, unsheathing a dagger.
Thinking he sees a soft spot behind the wing, he sinks in the dagger to give the fiend something to really screech about.
As the mighty blades of the warriors swing and hit only empty air, the little fiends flapping circles around around the long blades, an unexpected figure leaps to the fore! Coming behind one of the nasty things, he lets its own momentum carry it onto his small blade. But its length is enough to do the job. The dagger pierces the wicked thing's head-body. From the other side, Armaros can see its eyes and mouth open in pain and fear, glowing brilliantly with their green light. The emerald radiance becomes flames, licking around and consuming the tiny thing in but a moment, leaving only a quickly vanishing puff of jade smoke.
Its ally continues the assault, however. It dives at Azuma as the other did before. But the mighty Ornathi brings his sword out back around into a guard. He connects with the flat of the blade, batting the bat-fiend back to a safe distance, to its shrill cry of distress.
"Nice kill, friend!"
Marcellus takes advantage of the remaining beast's fascination with Azuma. He advances, greatsword swinging in a deadly arc.
Marcellus' blade comes down soundly upon the monstrosity, cleaving it nearly in twain and driving the chunks towards the ground. They never make it, each consumed by the green fire which poured out of the skull cavity when the blade connected. With one last lingering scream upon the air, the foes vanish from this world and silence reclaims the woods.
For a moment. "Are they gone?" comes a voice from beneath the wagon. It's Faz. The halfling crawls out from his hiding spot and looks around with a grin on his face just as the crippling fear fades from the orc, Xendril, and Harmen. "Knew I'd be glad to have you lot around!" he beams.
Marcellus offers the halfling a hand up, then examines his blade for any remains of his enemies.
"Does anyone know what in the hells those things were?"
Following Marcellus' eye, Armaros eyes his own blade as well. "I've never seen anything like them," he replies examining the ground where the ashes seemed to fall.
His eyes flashed back up. "We should leave before some creature comes in search of spilt blood. Everything within a few miles probably heard those cries."
"Agreed." Azuma scuffs his feet in the mud and looks up at the cloudy sky. "Little Devils. I heard wings, but I wasn't sure..."
Harmen slides the parchment back up his sleeve with care. He straightens slowly slightly shamed at being frozen with fright while a bunch of tree legs did the work. And to think that his kind had always thought of humans as jumpy and skittish. Still standing on the wagon he puzzled over what to do with the strange band of warriors he had stumbled upon.
The only thing I know about these men is that they're all dangerous. Two swordsman, an orc, possibly a song sage, and the boy with the knife has "hard life" written all over him. They may be useful, or they might get me killed. Best to stay attentive for now.
"Wow! you gentlemen sure made short work of those beasties! I owe you all a great debt today. Leaping to fight when I could scarcely move."
Then he notices the wound on the swordsman's shoulder. And turns to the armored orc that has said so little on the journey.
"I agree that we should get moving, but first, master orc. You wear the trappings of a holy man. Is there something you can do for his wound? I'd hate to leave anything dealt by those... things... unattended for very long."
Rugrok nods with a grunt. "Let me see your arm," he grumbles, approaching Marcellus. Murmuring in Orcish as he looks over the wound, he shakes his head. Then he chants in a voice like a growling animal, his holy symbol, a wolf's head, glowing for a moment. What blood was seeping from the wound stops, and the pain fades from Marcellus.
"I do not find poison in wound," he growls to the group. "But monsters were not natural. I am young shaman, may not find secret curse if there. We should hurry, reach town, find greater healer than I."
"Ah, we've a bit of luck there," Faz declares. "We're not far from Versonton, not far at all. Should be able to see it once we get out from between these two hills, if the fog clears, that is." The halfling pats his ponies, looking over them to make sure they are all right. "Good girls, good girls, you're fine now," he says, satisfied. He climbs back onto the wagon and takes the reins. "All aboard! We'll be to Versonton within this half hour, barring further misfortune!"
Another sound rings out at that moment: soft, distant, tinny. A lonesome church bell, perhaps? It comes from the direction the group was headed in, the direction of Versonton. The bell rings only once; no more is heard.
"My thanks. The wound no longer troubles me at all." He pushes a finger trough the tear in the shoulder of his outer coat and makes a mournful expression.
"If we're close enough to hear the church bells, I wonder if the town is also having troubles with devils such as these? Perhaps we should hurry."
Marcellus sheathes his blade and climbs back onto the wagon.
"I agree. Faz can we cut that half hour down a bit?"
Harmen pulls the key to his chest from his hiding spot
So much for going in unnoticed he thinks to himself as he tugs on the stiff leggings.
"I'll do my best, kin and friends, but with the road the way it is and my pretties spooked, it probably won't be much faster. But on we go!" He flicks the reins and the wagon lurches forward. He works through words and the reins to bring them to a quick trot. The wet wagon wheels squeel softly. It seems that much louder, though, alone on the mist.
Within minutes the wagon clears the two hills. The ground recedes all around, along the sides it rolls out to form the face of the hillsides, running beyond sight to east and west. Below, the ground slopes down, running in the furrow of two arms of the hills protruding into a small river plain. As the wagon descends, it leaves the hilltop mist and the world becomes visible again. The clouds still hang low and gray over the flat land below. Small farms dot the valley, perhaps five miles wide between the eastern curve of the river and a jutting arm of the hills to the west.
“See there, about two miles on is the Telwynd, running right parallel to these hills, save of course that bend to the east it makes around their feet. The river looks very choppy, probably all the spring melt and the rain we’ve been having. Hope you don’t plan to go for a swim,” Faz points out what everyone can see. “And over there, that’s the western end of the valley. The hill bulges out towards that tall pinnacle, a hill all of its own really. It’s like the big hills are a parent reaching out over the cleft towards a child, if you want to get metaphorical. There’s a footpath winding up the hill, see it going past the guard tower and up to that gatehouse above? Then it runs out onto that bridge over to the castle. Not a very story-book castle, is it? Not really tall and majestic, though I suppose it does have some towers. Square and round on the same building, isn’t that a hoot? Humans! No offense to present company, of course. Still, I guess they’re less worried about prettiness and more about invasions here. It does give a sense of solidity and practicality, now, doesn’t it?” Faz beams as he asks the question, never looking to his passengers.
“And there they are; the walls and gates of Versonton! See, road runs straight as an arrow down to them. Can you make out the banners? I’ve seen them before- field of green above and blue below, crossed by the dark silhouette of a bridge. That’s the bridge over yonder, the one the flag represents. Tall thing, isn’t it? The banks rise up and are very steep there, allow the bridge more height, you see. So much so that most riverboats can pass right under the thing with no trouble at all! You’d think dwarves built it, but you’d be wrong,” Faz laughs.
“We can see a bit from this high, can’t we? Look over there, it’s the harbor. Or river port, I suppose. Can you have a harbor on a river, or is that just oceans? No matter; see the big lop-sided tear-drop area in town? Canals! It’s bordered by canals running through town. I think halflings would have just built more along the river’s edge, rather than going through all the trouble of digging a ditch to get water when there’s water a plenty just a short walk away, but to each their own, you know?”
“Well, Selwey’s stars, looks like more luck! See, friends, no demons, devils, or spooks of any sort!” It does appear Faz is right; at first glance nothing seems terribly amiss in the valley below.
Marcellus is sure his halfling guide knows what he's talking about.
Azuma shrugs, barely listening to the chattering little fellow. He gazes at the stolid castle and the low clouds and can't help but be reminded of the ancient ruined wall near his village. People build, but the wind and the rain will wear it all away in the end.
Still, it is impressive.
Armaros eyes the castle, searching for any sign of a weakness...
"Where... where are the people?" Armaros asks thinking of his own dark home across the river.
No visible people outside and no smoke from chimneys.....Hmmm. Looks like something is up here. Caution would be advised, I doubt it is a good idea to roll a load cart full of people into a dead town.
Caught here in a lonely place... *Xendril's impromptu song trails off as he works some lyrics in his head*
Harmen looks on to the deserted farms not even noticing them until the others spoke.
"All those farms by the hills.... Not raided, they'd be torched and ransacked. What the devil happened out there?"
He looks to the bloodied hole in Marcellus' coat. perhaps a poor choice of words he thinks to himself. With that grim reminder Harmen resolves to keep his armor on. He had planned on entering the town unnoticed and in disguise, but considering recent events he was atching a new plan with a bit more security in mind. Until I have a more information It'd be better to stick close to some strong sword arms
He turns to the humans in the wagon.
"I don't believe I've properly introduced myself yet. The name is Harmen Pinwhistle."
Feeling secure with this group Harmen drops the polite voice and reverts to his usual mannerisms.
"I'm sure the rest of you fellas have business in Versonton. As for me I'm not doin much until I know more 'bout all this funny business around town. After them critters what jumped us out in the woods, I say we stick together. If I've got trouble commin I'd rather be beside a couple of stout blades than on my own." As he speaks he pulls his fathers long fencing knife out of his trunk and fastens it to his belt. Followed by a dark green woolen cloak to obscure his armor and blade. "Whaddiya say gents?"
Faz shuts up for a minute. He squishes his face up in a funny way, looking around. "Well, the town looks all right," he says. "But, you know you're right, there aren't as many people running around out in their fields as there ought to be. The road's a bit flatter here, I think the ponies can handle some more speed." He flicks the reins, setting the wagon a bit faster (and making the ride over the pitted road that much bumpier).
"Oh, Selwey's stars, let's hope were not running into a plague. That would be rather unpleasant, and I'd rather not get deathly sick so close to spring, you know? Although, it might be a good chance to see some priestly magic, which is always fascinating. I do prefer wizard magic, though, so much flashier! Did I tell you about the time...." Faz continues to rattle on with an outlandish tale as the wagon draws closer and closer to the gates.
The oaken double-doors in the town's stone wall are shut. Two imposing guard towers flank the entryway, watchmen visibile on the top. They look on as the wagon approaches. There are actually a great many watch towers around the walls encompasing Versonton. It looks to be a well-fortified place.
Perhaps fortunately, you reach the gates in a matter of moments and Faz hushes again, drawing the ponies up to a stop. A watch guard speaks from atop his tower:
"Hail, travelers! Spring must be close indeed- you're the first coming by road this season. You look well armed; we still welcome you to Versonton, but you will need to peacebond those. And before we open the gates, we must be certain of our safety. Tell me, what news do you bring of the Shrieking Ghost? We heard its cries within this very hour past. You must have as well. What news?"
"Skittish about weapons, are they?" Armaros mutters leaning over and moving his sheathes under his jacket onto the left side of his chest, pulling his shirt over them for good measure. "Well then, let's not scare the poor townsfolk now, eh lads? I'm sure they like feeling safe behind those high walls," he said with a quick nod towards the gate.
"Well met Harmen, I think your suggestion has merit. Do you know of this town? What is this peacebonding that they speak of?"
I agree Harmen. Safety in numbers and all that.
*under his breath* Peace-bonding, fine by me....my music's my weapon and I am well armed!
"Peace bonding?, all you do is take a little strip of leather or rope and tie your weapon to it's sheathe." "We don't get our blades confiscated and the fine folk in town can see we don intend any harm."
Harmen currently has two of his throwing blades tied around his upper arms concealed under his leather and tunic. But his third knife is placed on the other side of his belt. He will assume belt knives aren't subject to peacebonding unless he would know otherwise.
"You townies call them flappin purple heads Shreiking Ghosts do ya?" he rambles as he ties his weapon. "We met two o tha little blighters 'bout a half hour back. Nasty little buggers them. Looked like a demon got his head loped off an was two stubborn to die. Flappin around on filthy little bat wings with green fire out their mouth and eyes. Screamin like to tear your ghost out your body." He tries to draw the guards into his tale. He intends it to spread and grow through the town before the day is done. "We saw fit to take care of 'em for you. Stuck 'em through with steel an their bodies roasted away in there own green hellfire. Unless there was more than two of 'em. I 'spect your ghost problems are over."