Old Soldiers
Tomb robbing and treasure maps lead fools to their deaths.
As does loyalty.
I race to their aid, heavy sword in hand, heavy armor in my back, to save them. I am tired, so tired. But I race, again, to save them.
We left the comforting crib of court. Armored, armed, aimed.
Following Peter, masked and sinister, new minted law of the land, following the hope of a leatherworn map, to a lonely Barrow, over the hills, eastward, eastward, past the bones of wolves, pawprints long past mourning. Following Peter, though other paths presented. Old Beldame asking for Black Rattlecaps, mushroom collecting. Arvan Fisherman asking for Old Crackjaw killing, murderous turtle meddling. Baron Kenzil asking for slaughtering Trolls, echoing Swordlords saying “Kill Kill.”
But no, Peter wants the dead man’s Flail. So tomb-robbing first. But dead men have tight grips.
So we came to the Lonely Barrow. We outwitted the hungry bats. We shrugged off the poisonous breath and broke many bones. And while I rested, as ordered behind, Winterheart’s wolf at my side, guarding, tired, they pressed on, to fight the dead man for his prize.
A shriek and a scream, and I am stumbling, rushing, hobbling forward, wolf at my side. Limping forward I find them struggling, Gregor dead but walking, sneaking, so I cut him down; one, two, three strokes of my blade and he dies, again, he dies. This time never to rise again. Peter taking the brunt, arrows from Winterheart and Tyrok flying, the Lonely Warrior finally falls, dead as dead.
Weak and weeping for the dead, we limp out to wait the sunrise. Peter has his prize. But was it worth the price?
8th of Gozran, 4712
Well, here we are in Olegrad, and I must say, after all I’ve been hearing, I suppose it could have been worse. Oleg’s Outpost still stands - indeed, if anything it’s quite a bit bigger since we last visited. Naleska seems to have set up shop, playing madam to a whole nest of girls in wagons out behind the stables, while outside the Outpost a shantytown of the desperate have sprung up.
After a brief run-around with the guards at the gate (all cleared up once Holland and Pa got hold of Captain Garess), we were let in to find former Southshielders Bryn the Barbarian and Mortlin the Sage (the latter was trying and failing to teach chess to the former). Holland and Pa went in to speak to Oleg, but he was deep in his cups (depressed over Southshield’s collapse, apparently), so Svetlana invited us all back for dinner once he was sober, and let us know the Greenhands still had free rooms here. Outside, Mortlin enthralled us with the terrifying tale of the Southshielder’s failed mission to Carrion Hill for Middenstone, and of how his master Jan One-eye had been the only one of the trading party to make it back alive (if not quite right in the head) after facing the Spawn of the Old Ones that had been released to wreak havoc there. Allistair Lancery was dead, his blood drained to feed the hunger of the monster, while no one seemed to know the whereabouts of Lady Sonja or the former Baron Variel. Sir Jan has apparently headed south to see what aid he might provide Witchhaven against these rumored Trolls, leaving poor Mortlin here to fester.
At dinner we found out from a sobered up Oleg that with Southshield’ collapse they haven’t had the manpower to protect the outlying farms, and have been getting refugees fleeing the depredations of ambushing giants. So it has been decided, as a matter of good will, Holland will lead the others to hunt these marauding monsters, while I remain behind to negotiate the possible incorporation of Olegrad into the Yossen Barony.
9th of Gozran, 4712
Holland and company have returned victorious, with the heads of two Thawn on their spears. Captain Garess has run them up on posts outside Olegrad’s walls, which has most pleased the peasantry! Everyone was half sold on joining us at the mention of Springfest next month anyway, but this! Oh, if they did not love us before, they do now!
And I am so glad of Holland’s return! While I would say normally I am a much better speaker by far, my city-born ways seem to have rubbed Oleg quite the wrong way, so the Thawn’s defeat has quite saved the negotiations, and the Levetons have agreed to come down to next month’s court to finalize their joining our august little nation.
Turtle & Mushroom stew
We came up from the earth, slept, wept.
With morning came new allies to replenish the dead:
Tamara the Green, Yossen spymaster, rat-witch, friend...
Jan One-eye, runty knight, boar rider, shell-shocked hero...
Aquila of the Olovsky, gnomish hexbinder, attention snatcher, innocent...
Kale Malakir, Riddleport mercenary, thinks we’re friends,we’re not.
With a week comes nature, fury, exploration. The Gudrin river leaves only one ford to pass, and plugs it, again, and again, with Elk stags rutting, Thylacenes hunting, and rain-thickened waters high. But all things pass. We Elves know this to be true.
We pass south, ford the river, skip the dangers, eat well on the slow Elk the herd leave behind. More than the Thylacenes can eat. Enough for all to share. Another week, more fury, more exploration. And turtle soup.
Old Crackjaw, caught in his pond. A Wisp thought to lead us into it, stumbling, blind, foolish. We are wise to its’ ways. I scream at it in the night. I tell it I can see it. I can. It knows. It leaves us well enough alone. So with day comes the old turtle, large, ornery. And then, soup in a shell the size of my shield.
Days pass, nature pisses on us and we laugh. Southward still, to a crack between the hills, to a foul smelling pit of mud, Black Rattlecaps rattling, bells on the feet of a giant. Tentacles snatching, Winterheart snatched, swallowed whole. Fire and sword, glaive and flail, and the mushroom mountain falls, explodes, and Winterheart is born again from the sap and muck.
We clean ourselves off, dry our selves out, and head home to find our day not yet done.
A bad wolf has been killing the sheep.
Barmaid Saki will serve no more.
The Baron of Witchhaven is not pleased.
10th of Gozran, 4712
Well THAT was a waste of a day - well, except maybe for all the pork. Mmmm - I do love bacon!
This morning we sent Nathaniel the Grinning Man (or is that “Grinning Dwarf”? Reincarnations are so confusing!) off with Oleg’s answer about joining the Barony of Yossen, while we set out along the southwest road towards Elkholm. We never even made it to Tyg’s bridge! Perhaps 2 hours into our trip we had a nasty run in with some surly Wild Boar that seemed to think we had stolen their truffles or something! Well, we showed them! We whipped them soundly! I even managed to use my patron’s gift to put one into a magical slumber! Ho! Me, using magic! What would my parents say, to find their son dabbling in witchcraft! Well, at least I’m no infernalist - they warned me good enough about that from their days under the whip of their damned Chelliax masters!!!
But I digress. Pigs were killed, and we strung them up for Oleg’s guards to fetch later as we limped back to Olegrad (I felt fine, but others in our party had met the boar’s charge head on, and needed some rest and recovery). Pa & I have procured the assistance of Ms. Naleska to aid in tending the wounded (Pa & I tend to our party, while she is tending to him - “tending” - hah! That is NO way to wrap a bandage! And ones nurse should NOT be fraternizing with her patents in such a way! They’ll just reopen all his stitches going at it like that, and we’ll have to sew him right up again).
13th of Gozran
Well, this is one long day I am glad is over! After several days at Olegrad due to recovery and wet weather, we finally again set out for Elkholm.
We paused briefly for a comical encounter with a creature Pa tentatively identified as a “Carbuncle” - a fittingly silly name for a dubious creature. After several strange interactions with the floating lizard, who was obviously more frightened of us than us of it, Talya managed to woo its’ affection with a jar of Svetlana’s preserves and a bit of jerky to dip in it.
We reached Elkholm by nightfall. That idiot Baron Gregori had built orbiting shanty towns, including one next to the town dump, placed decoratively next to the road coming in so the full aroma of the situation hit us as we arrived. Further in we could see the Temple of the Elk sitting in the statue of a massive monument to Baron Gregori himself astride his horse, sword pointing to the heavens. It seems various parties had defaced it in the last month, prying his head from his shoulders. Dimly we could see another shanty town on the far side, many with red lanterns out front, from which faint laughter could be heard.
By the monument we found a lone soldier sitting on Gregori’s head, quietly observing the tribute to vanity. We approached and assorted introductions were given. The man in turn gave his name as Barney Crae, one of the Crows of Carrion Hill (a mercenary of some sort, I gather). He too was a stranger to town, telling us he had come in search of someone in charge to aid in his finding members of the Southshield Trade delegation that had been sent there some months before, but with the collapse of Southshield’s government, the city had polarized between the zealots of Erastil and the city guard. Worse, undead had sprung up in the graveyard, and with the fictionalization of the town, nothing was being done about this ever growing concern. Mortlin the Sage, who had decided to follow and assist us however he could in negotiations with Elkholm (he having been assistant to Shouthsheild’s Magister Allistair Lancerey in the old administration), admitted that he had been an assisting member of the Shouthshield expedition, and asked for Barney to give his story.
Barney, as it turns out, was one of a number of road-agents sent by the Crows in search of the would-be heroes the Lord-mayor had hired to deal with the Terror that had now for some months been laying siege to their town, resulting in the deaths of thousands. Mortlin’s former master Allistair, along with many others, had attempted to stop the creature, only to die by it’s... well... die in the attempt, at any rate. But before he did so, Allistair and his associates had found a copy of the Pknotic Manuscripts which, with the aid of other sages in the Lord-mayor’s employ, had given many hints as to the nature of the Spawn of the Dark Tapestry and the old gods that spawned him. But after Allistair’s death the book disappeared. It was suspected that survivors might have taken the book away with them when so many others fled the city. With things so grim, the Lord-mayor thought it best to send agents abroad to seek the Manuscript, as that damned book of dark lore might still hold keys to how the Spawn may be dealt with.
Mortlin then surprised us all in revealing that he in fact had the tome, and handed it over to the surprised mercenary. Pa muttered suspiciously, but Barney profusely thanked the bookish elf, tucking it away and setting out forthwith.
At that point we split up, Pa leading Talya and Bryn off to find trees to spy on the Graveyard and perhaps find the source of the undead plague, while the rest of us followed Holland off to the Temple of the Elk in hopes of speaking to Elder Jhod, whom Barney had informed us was still in charge. Fraulina agitated to go speak with Akiros Ismort, former Warden of the Barony and head of the guards’ faction, but the Temple was closer, and we generally believed if we needed help with the undead, the Temple would be the best place to start. Though we were challenged at the gate, we swiftly managed to persuade them to let us in and speak with the high priest. Sadly, Elder Jhod has seen better days. He seems to believe that the entire collapse of the Barony here is his fault, having had an “indiscretion” with Naleska - something that many of my associates saw no issue with (indeed, apparently many of them have repeatedly been “indiscreet” with the former Southshield diplomat) - but Jhod insists he must be held to a higher standard, and have married her first, as any good priest of Erastil would. I am starting to see why this religion makes poor Winterheart so crazy!
Elder Jhod told us that any agreement he made with Baron Yossen would be meaningless. With the civil strife between the guardsmen and the faithful, he could not possibly negotiate about Elkholm being incorporated into the Barony of Yossen. Until matters in Elkholm are settled, there is no unified face to present. Moving away from the Elder to discuss these developments in private, we agreed that if we were to pick a side to support, Elder Jhod was much too ashamed and indecisive to back. About this time Pa and company rejoined us, and told us of their own little adventure.
Almost as soon as the had gotten into position they espied someone walking in the gloom to the center of the graveyard, where they were then met by lopping, stooped figures. The first figure seemed to point in our direction, and wave. The other figures immediately began charging towards their hiding spots, while the figure wandered away, whistling a cheery tune. Bryn charged out to meet them, while Pa and Talya fired from the trees. Pa dropped one and wounded the other enough for Bryn to take it down with only minimal injury to herself. Moving in, they quickly identified the creatures as ghouls! Following their tracks back, they noted other tracks crisscrossing the graveyard in soil made soft thanks to the recent rains. At least six ghouls seemed to haunt the place, along with one pair of feet wearing boots. Following this last set they found the gravedigger’s shack, and within, etched into the wall, was graffiti - one item they identified as an ancient symbol of the Old Gods, while near by they found a scrawl of “Varney was here,” along with a stick figure making a most obscene gesture!
The current suspicion now is that we have been had. Barney and Varney seems to alike to be circumstance, so the common thought is that the road-agent was a minion of the Old Cults, seeking the Manuscript for worse evil, not for repairing damage already done! We made plans to rest for the night at the temple, and to speak with Akiros in the morning, or perhaps set out after Varney, but Holland’s head-count revealed us one short, and insisted we head back out into the night to find Fraulina.
Presuming she had set out on her own initiative to speak with the Guardsmen over where they’ve barracked themselves (the local brothel!), we came to find ourselves late to a battle already done. A half-dozen nervous guards stood in front of the brothel, the area well lit by torch light. Blood blanketed the ground, and another guardsman stood dead, pinned to the wall by Fraulina’s spear. Fraulina was nowhere to be seen.
Outraged at apparent skullduggery, Pa and Holland announced themselves loudly as representatives of Yossen, and demanded to see Akiros over this potential diplomatic misstep. The guard captain (whom I and a few others recognized as one of the Stag-lord’s former men) smiled lazily and sent someone in to “wake the sleeping lion,” and soon the man himself arrived. Akiros seemed as surprised as we of the scene of carnage outside his door, and took a moment to confer with the watch-captain (who’s name we caught as Dovan). He then greeted us and had some of his soiled doves bring out stools and refreshments while his men watched nervously on. He explained that our warrior-woman, Fraulina, had come to the door and attacked his men, killing one on the spot with her spear (gesturing at the figure still pinioned behind) and slit the throat of another (gesturing at a huge, dumb-looking brute he refereed to as Auch standing nearby, as scarf around his neck, looking sad and pained). Thus, their misstep somehow became ours, and we agreed to his keeping Fraulina’s gear as weregild, in return for her return (they had taken her down, but not out, as the guards apparently saw it in poor taste to kill a woman on the steps of a house of the flesh - injured, but otherwise untouched, they assured us). The negotiations continued, with Akiros assuring us that while he might consider the Baron’s offer of inclusion into Yossen, he could not in good conscience do so while the rest of the town was at risk from that “mealy mouthed milk-sucker” and his band of barely controlled firebug fanatics. The Erastilites had apparently tried to burn down the whorehouse and surrounding shantytowns after they’d run Baron Gregori out of town, and would had succeeded if Akiros hadn’t rallied his troops. On the subject of the ghouls, they’d had some trouble, not having the protection of the divine the zealots had, but (gesturing to several misshapen heads on spikes just outside of the torch light) they had been managing without their help.
It was while discussing the undead menace that Mortlin felt that he had to disclose the business with Varney, and his handing over a powerful book of eldrich might to adversaries possibly intending to make a repeat of the events at Carrion Hill here in Southshield, and somewhat understandably Akiros did not take it well. Shooting up, a bit of froth flying from his mouth, he shouted “what!?!”
And Bryn, our own Restovian battle-maid with anger-management issues took a swing at him.
As the rest of our delegation backed away, hands in the air, decrying the attack, Bryn managed to cut him once with her ax, before Auch stepped up behind to snap her over the head with his club and Akiros’ own blade snapped out by instinct and finished the job. She bled out before anyone had a chance to stem the spray.
“This negotiation is OVER!” Akiros shouted. “Speak with me again when you have FIXED YOUR MESS, or speak not with me AT ALL!”
14th of Gozran, 4712
We arose from our stay at the Temple of the Elk, and while planning our next move Nathaniel the Grinning Man arrived, along with an associate of his, a gnome named Poli (a rather chatty, social fellow -Aquilla & he hit it off right away). After they we brought up to speed we all set out after that scoundrel Varney. Pa had no trouble tracking him, and by evening we found ourselves at the Thorn river ford, once a haven for bandits, and by the look of carnage about the place it had become so again, as Varney and his ghoulish friends had had quite the party here.
We could spot four by the fire: Varney, of course, along with two obvious ghouls, quite busy chewing on bandit remains, while the fourth was swaddled in hat and coat, remaining a mystery. Having avoided detection, several of us scuttled up a nearby tree after Pa to lay ambush and cover-fire while Holland led a ground assault across the river into the camp and meet the undead head-on. The moment the first shot was fired Varney handed the Pknotic Manuscript (that vile book that seemed the source of so much consternation) off to the figure in the hat, who promptly tucked it under his coat and - following Varney’s direction to “get it to Witchhaven” - snuck off while he and his minions held us off.
It turned into a bloody slog of a fight. The ghouls proved not much trouble, going down under a flurry of arrows, but Varney, oh... that man was a monster. Fraulina charged up to challenge him first. Without even drawing his sword he simply reached out and... touched her, unholy energy writhing about his hand. She dropped swiftly, her life draining out before any of us could save her. Next he gestured, and with a word Holland was running for his life. He fought us to a standstill, with sweeping bursts of negative energy, biting and clawing when anyone got too close... he never drew his sword... he just laughed, slashing with his hand so blood from the Grinning Man’s brow blinded him, dancing between us, blocking most of our shots or blows with his shield.
But eventually he fell. Numbers and successive blows proved too much for him. Looking over his body we found, on closer examination, he was a ghoul as well, a very human-like monster to be sure, but still, a ghoul. On him he wore a symbol Mortlin recognized from the book, yet another symbol of the Old Cults that had bedeviled Carrion Hill. The man in the hat had escaped into the river’s edge in the confusion, but he had left a most horrid smell, and some wise ones amongst us suggested he may be a ghast.
Weary, we gave Fraulina a swift burial and camped amongst the carnage for the night.
16th of Gozran, 4712
We are camped near Riverford, and have met and are sharing food with a local hunter and his (admittedly creepy) nephew. No sign of the man in hat, but we occasionally find traces by the river, confirming our suspicion that he is still headed towards Witchhaven.
17th of Gozran, 4712
We have arrived in Witchhaven, and have found we aren’t the only ones having fun. Master Kenzil tells us Peter’s expedition arrived earlier that day, and has tasked everyone with finding whomever is responsible for killing his favorite barmaid, Saki Stackhome. Something has been killing sheep and their shepherd as well, likely the same monster. While some suspect it may be our mysterious hat-man, others believe - given it is the night of the full moon - that a werewolf may be responsible. Sir Jan suspects it may even be the same one that caused such trouble in Elkholm many months ago.
18th of Gozran, 4712
Turns out Jan was right. He, along with Peter and several others managed to catch the monster while it was sniffing around for it’s next meal last night. Apparently the wolf-man was some Khellid Barbarian - Kale has been given his ax as a trophy, and as part of his office as the new Royal Executioner. In related news, Master Kenzil has decreed Aquilla shall take Gregor’s place as Councilor. Good thing! This next month is the week-long Planting Festival, and things will likely be getting a tad exciting!
1st of Desnus, 4712
The Baron held... no, the DUKE held court today. It is all but recognized now, with the success of our diplomatic endeavors last month, that Southshield is now part of Yossen. The price, however, is that Yossen is broke, and become dangerously unstable. With Southshield and it’s three townlets (Elkholm, Olegrad & Tatzlford) comes a great, rising fear of the increasing Troll attacks reported from outlying communities, and a fear amongst our own that we may not be able to protect everyone from their incessant raiding.
Still, Duke Kenzil is jubilant. Ever the optimist, our Witchlord. True, Mistress Lily is almost due (all signs point to a boy, Midwife Niska says), and Lady Tamara concurs. And messages come from Restov that representatives will arrive for the Planting Festival next week to confirm his rank in the peerage, making him lord of the Greenbelt, uncontestedly (except, perhaps, for those damnable trolls).
At court much was reviewed of recent events, and new members were brought up to speed. The Duke has seen to it housing had been improved in the townships of Elkholm and Olegrad, making our new citizens quite pleased. More pleasing still is his giving Winterheart the option to step down and “dodge the marriage bullet,” as he likes to say. As High Priest, Winterheart had decided he “must” marry an elven woman - some tripe about worshipers of Erastil needing to be proper role-models or some such. But since the High Priest in Restov actually found a noble-born elf by the name of Genevieve to come down to discuss such a potential arrangement this coming festival-time, Winterheart has been looking like a snared animal, trapped in a trap of his own making, ready to gnaw off his own arm. But our beneficent Duke pointed out that Elkholm had it’s own High Priest, Elder Jhod, and that perhaps the senior Priest may serve better in this post, allowing Winterheart to join the soon to be planned “Troll Hunt.” An offer Winterheart gladly jumped at!
On that related matter, it has been decided that - except for our illustrious Troll-hunting team - we must all work our fingers, and our wits, to the bone this month. The young Dutchy is in the Red, I have discovered, and even with Master Kenzil agreeing to my increasing Taxes to the breaking point, our economy is in desperate straits. Aquilla cannot improve much on Gregor’s work in preparing for the Festival, so she has been drafted for the Troll-hunters. Peter to is going (indeed, I think there is none here who could stop him), and he has declared his newly minted lieutenant, the old veteran Tyrok, to be in charge of things until his return. Lady Tamara is, of course, ready to go - she has spent the last week making as much alchemical fire as resources allow - and Nathaniel the Grinning Man has requested leave of his “Hawking duties” to accompany them. They will spend the next week getting their affairs in order, and expect to leave the second day of festivities. The Duke is quite eager to settle the public’s fears over the Troll incursion once and for all (and I must say, the reward for the colony would go far in helping us out of our current financial crisis is no small amount of incentive too)!
On a sadder note, our new court scribe Mortlin has reported finding a note left by Sir Jan, last Knight of Southshield, that reads as follows:
Dear Companions, Allies, and True Friends Old and New,
I always said that writing was for wizards and elves and that lot, but
there's things I should've said that I didn't ever say, so I'm gonna write
some of them down here for you all where you can find them and read them.
When you do I suppose my leaving will be old news already, but I want you
all to know that when I went, I went with a heavy heart.
Since Carrion Hill, my dreams have been full of screams, and the faces of all those people I failed to protect – Alistar of course, and Variel and Sonja who went missing, and the new allies who fought with me against the evil in that town. But strangers too, all the hard working craftsmen and honest laborers, the guards and grooms and beggars – all of them that died too, I see them just as clear. I
hoped that when I came back here I might shake off those awful dreams, but
seeing what has happened to Southshield, and to her proud, hard working people, and to the rich farms and rich towns where I used to ride with those same friends I've lost -
It's just too much is what Im trying to say. Killing that tentacle mound
monster thing we killed at the mushroom patch helped a little, and when we
finally did justice on that werewolf that ran away from me and the other
Dragon's Eyes before it was a sweet victory. And maybe those victories made
up just a little for my cowardice in Carrion Hill. But in the end, what did
I have? Instead of a home I had ruins full of bandits and worse. Instead of
my dearest friends and tested-true battle brothers, I had strangers and
ghosts. Instead of a worthy foe, I had the corpse of some poor old man on
the end of my lance.
Now, I don't mean any ill to anybody, I just hope you all see that theirs
nothing here for me. In the days that we've fought together, I've seen you
have among you many a mighty warrior and a noble soul, so I do not see as you
have much use for me, either. So that is why I left - there is much evil in
this world, so much more than I ever thought, and there are people out there
who do not have the protection of fine warriors like yourselves. So I'm going
south, into the lawless lands, to try and do as much good as I can before I
too must join Pherasma's long line in the Great Beyond. I can only hope that
she'll show me mercy.
I guess that is all I have to say, except goodbye, my friends, and good luck.
- Jan
Mortlin files the following addendum:
The preceding is an entirely faithful reproduction of a text which I
discovered approximately one day after Sir Jan's mysterious and sudden
disappearance. Evidently the good Knight had previously slipped it under my
door while I was engaged in my daily meditations on the Brightness. I
apologize for the delay in passing it along to you; as you may have
observed, I have been entirely bedridden for the last several days with a
most vexing ailment. It appears to have been a fever of some nature,
accompanied by an increase in the frequency of my chronic coughing fits. I
prepared a tea of willow bark and echinacea per Sandor of Greengold's
*Herbology of Northern Avistan: A Holistic Approach, Vol. 3*, and it has proven most efficacious in speeding my convalescence.* *But I digress.
I personally find the good Knight's writing here to be most poignant, if
somewhat unrefined, and it furthermore constitutes what is, in all
probability, the final testament of the last known surviving Knight of
Southshield. As such, I have taken the liberty of preserving the original
letter in my personal files as a document of historical interest, pending
its inclusion in the (as of yet unbuilt) library of Witchhaven.
- Mortlin
To this, our good master has sent, via his magics, the following response, also entered into our records for posterity:
Luck go with you, proud knight of Southshield, and know you will always have a place by the fire in Witchhaven. I give you my word that we of the Dutchy of Yossen will do what we can to protect those left behind, and hope for a day when you have washed away that torment that weighs upon you, and can again come home.
Peace be with you, noble knight.
Kenzil the Blue,
Duke of Yossen,
Elder of the Candlemere Coven
5th of Desnus, 4712
Apparently there was quite a fright down by the water’s edge. On what has been most likely the hottest day of the year so far, a Hydra wandered up out of the Tuskwater! This seems to be the latest in a long line of monsters that have taken it upon themselves to drop by unwanted and snack upon the residents. Still, Peter and his men leapt into action - as his men kept civilians away, he (with the aid of Tamara, Tyrok & Aquilla) made short work of the monster. It has been remarked by the Duke that is is a shame we do not as of yet have a proper Taxidermist in town to put all these lovely trophies to good use!
7th of Desnus, 4712
Apparently there was some sort of altercation last night that has left the Inn a torched husk and set the army and city guard brawling in the streets. According the General Vayne, she and her Kobold Skirmishers were suppressing a conspiracy aimed at assaulting Tamara the Green by Iomedae zealots over her open worship of Gyronna. This view of events is contested by Warden Peter, who claims Vayne Redcap and her militant thugs broke into the Inn in the middle of the night and murdered a band of innocent Mendev Pilgrims, who, as far as he knew, were guiltless of any wrongdoing, and thus he was only doing his duty in arresting her as ringleader of the assault. The Duke was none too pleased at two of his top courtiers brawling publicly in the streets, and had both thrown in the dungeon while he investigated the matter personally. Tamara, for her part, claims only that she observed the Red-cloaked Crusaders arrival in town, and had suggested Dame Redcap speak to them in helping her atone (our General being a lapsed Paladin of the same faith for some years now). After questioning the departed, the Duke has ruled in the General’s favor, but has admonished her to work with the Warden in such matters when they come up within the city in the future. Both have been scolded severely for their public antics, and have promised to come to him first should such similar troubles arise.
The Duke, hoping to reduce such conflict in the future, has posted public notices up at the Town Hall, reinstating Yossen’s policy of religious tolerance, and declaired that eccessive fanaticisim and zealotry against rival faiths shall be answered with their heads being cut from their bodies, to be placed on spikes along the bridge to Witchhaven as a warning to others.
Vengeance take them all
She promises me such sweet revenge. How can I not answer?
I sit in my cell, brooding, listening to whispers of damnation, and contemplate the sacrifice of everything I once held dear.
Oh, Iomedae, who I once served so loyally. You are a hypocrite! Elitist! Faithless in those who hold your faith!
I once held hope, but in my moment of weakness, when my man died, and you judged me, judged I’d gone too far in my vengeance, stripped me, took from me all I had left. Faith.
I once held hope, but in my moment of motherhood, I knew my lover was dead, my son born a bastard, never to know a father, never to know a proper family.
I once held hope, but your son proved too faithless, too weak, too much a coward to be fashioned into a tool of salvation, of redemption. I saw him die and had him brought back again to fulfill his fate, and he abandoned me, just as you had.
And so I rotted here amongst the Witches, for they were the only ones to have me. And Tamara, sweet Tamara, a comfort on cold nights, a voice in the dark, whispered of Vengeance, of another Goddess.
I held on to that divine spark of Battle, nurtured it with my hate, for you may have turned your back to me, but not I to you!
I waited.
I watched over the stumbling dead in Gyrrona’s Graveyard, and laughed. She, at least, didn’t ignore her failures. She made a lesson of them!
And when Tamara came to me, all innocence in her eyes, and told me of your zealots...
And when she suggested I speak with them, abase myself before them, beg their forgiveness, beg YOUR forgiveness...
And when they said they would, but only with sacrifice, only with HER sacrifice...
I saw what they called evil in their eyes, I saw what they called evil in YOUR eyes...
And I agreed, a sacrifice must be made.
I sit in my cell, brooding, and contemplate that sacrifice of that which I once held so dear.
I am the General, and the dragon-born that serve me are loyal to that fault. The tragedy of Peter’s claim was that he was right, as much as he was wrong. We came in like ghosts, and took them in their sleep. Such is the wages of war. Only in their death-throws was a lamp knocked down, a flame ignited, an Inn burned. Peter was right, and wrong, to stop me... If only he had paused to speak with me discreetly, not play the fool hero and challenge me openly, claim I was a criminal, when I was seeing my justice done, was seeing the zealots stopped before lives could be taken, before they could take Tamara and punish her for beliefs that fit not with theirs.
But I know the code of the duel, and for that Peter beat me fair.
If he was not already taken, he might be enough of a man for me, fool that he is.
And so I sit in my cell and listen to whispers, for I am not alone. I sit and listen to her priestess, she who comes to oversee my rebirth, to anoint my hands and head and heart, who atones me for all the myriad sins YOU made me do... She brings me under the Hag’s singular gaze, promises me battles and blood and vengeance. Yes, everything is forgiven through vengeance...
And the Wisp come singing buzzing hosannas, corrupt angels giving witness with a tainted rainbow of witchlight both above and bellow.
And I stand in my cell, an unholy warrior for an unholy cause.
And I smile, newly baptized, newborn in my faith.
And I smile.
The Poet’s Requiem
Kenzil sat in his chair and sighed. His bones were old, and his flesh heavy. He could not doubt his life had been well lived, but much of it was lived free, free of all but the call of his Patron, that dark force that lent him it’s lore, it’s power. And in power, freedom.
And yet, here he sat, on a soot-stained stool, his honorary seat, salvaged from the Poet’s Repose, or what was left of it. First Saki had died (with no wish to return - he’d checked, of course), and then the Inn nearly so, and just at the start of the Festival! Still, Gregor had left as one of his acts as Councilor the plan that part of the Festival be a Job Fair, so work was readily at hand.
The city was near mad with joy despite recent tragedies - the Planting Festival was finally here! They had waited so long, after all, been denied so much. With the Troll attacks, and now increasing numbers of ghouls about... oh, the people had much to be afraid of, so they expected even more of him now... and his council, of course. Anando sat off in the Town Hall, working his new-learned witchcraft on accounting, while Elder Jhod took the reign of the more religious elements of the festivities. Holland was busy taking the visiting notables of Yossen’s four settlements - Whitehall, Elkholm, Tatzlford and Olegrad - as well as the messenger from Restov who had given a simple, if underwhelming, message acknowledging his increase in station. He didn’t mind the lack of fanfare, mind you, but he questioned these oaths of fealty and how much loyalty was expected between himself, the Swordlords, and the King of Brevoy if no direct meeting or oaths were ever taking place?
Speaking of loyalty, those under him had been increasingly questionable, especially those from the new territories in Southshield. Perhaps Kale, his new “Royal Executioner” should do a little “Royal Assassinating” as well. Akiros and his crew had proved most difficult, and many amongst his men were practically bandits anyway... Well, perhaps he would scry a bit and see what pruning might be done...
His most recent headaches, and the source of the destruction before him, proved interesting viewing to be sure. The antics of his eldest apprentice with the wisps and cultists was certainly a growing concern, but after his outspoken stance for “religious tolerance in Yossen” (yet one more ruling Tamara had maneuvered him into), he would have to be more careful in the future. The Troll-hunters were happily away, and when last he’d spied upon them, had just managed to take down a hungry Wyvern in search of a quick meal only a day’s travel east of Witchhaven. With Peter, Tamara, Aquilla & Winterheart away, along with Nathaniel (Tamara’s pet spy), he had a few less “helpful” courtiers in his hair - well, what hair he had left anyway.
They’d all looked so peculiar after he’d given them glimpses of their future just before they’d left... He always wondered what visions he granted, but that was between them and fate, and not for him to know.
Perhaps he’d best send Kale to join them before they got much further. They just might use a little pruning as well.
He had an heir to look after, after all! A son! A dynasty in the making, should the lad last long enough to come of age. Duke Kenzil might one day be replaced by Duke Orlando, or perhaps King Orlando, first Witchking of the Witchlands of Yossen!
Or not.
Fate is a fickle thing, and freedom a luxury sorely missed.
Kenzil sighed, slouching on his royal stump, stroking his white beard, his brow as heavy as his heart.