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Post by Stormwall on Dec 24, 2016 2:57:10 GMT
The convoy constituted three wagons, twelve bowmen, and a centaur who really should have known where they were. The mountains and forests of the north could prove baffling when the clouds rolled in, but he'd been guiding convoys for years. And yet he couldn't recognize pretty much anything, not today anyway. That right there told him they'd gone far astray.
Their merchant contact would not be getting his furs anytime soon. The Coalhurst furriers' guild would probably not be getting its money. Whose fault would it be? Clouds, snow, a landslide-choked trail - but mostly Stonewall the Centaur, who really should know where he was by now.
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Post by Aldacer on Dec 24, 2016 4:05:08 GMT
While lost didn't, by necessity, cover the state of misdirection Aldacer was in... Neither did he really know precisely where he was. There was word of a Vampire infestation growing in the West, and so he had set out from Imidum with haste. He had spent months there, having his armor repaired, refitted, and just in general recuperating and resting. Again, the Brothers of the Monastery had been pressuring him to take an apprentice. To return and teach the lore of Irodil to the recruits.
But he had refused, again. He had maintained his questor status. He had resupplied, retooled. The armorer had even graven a rune on his blade this time. Of course, it came from a reputed book of Irodilian spellforging Aldacer had brought back from a ruined city for the man. Supposedly the rune would glow with Holy Light in the presence of Evil and the Undead. Or maybe just mark him further as a Venator of Irodil. Regardless, he had no idea he was tromping straight towards a centaur who had somehow gotten lost... In the woods...
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Post by Stormwall on Dec 24, 2016 4:17:50 GMT
Stormwall paused on a ridge that was clear of trees and peered around, down the slopes of the steep hills. Behind him, the Ashdell archers and wagons were catching up along this path that wasn't really even a path.
"You lost?" said the nearest archer, a dick who cheated at cards. Stormwall never bothered to remember his name.
"I might well be," Stormwall snapped. "Between the landslide wiping out the path, and the low cloud cover-"
"What's the expression? It's a poor workman blames his tools?"
Stormwall bared his teeth. It wasn't a smile. "These aren't my home woods. Visibility is low. I have to pick easy potential paths because of the physical limits of the humans accompanying me. Take those as excuses if you like. Feel free to have the last word."
The archer said something; Stormwall ignored it and headed around the ridge by the route the wagons would need to take. He'd caught a glimpse of something or someone through the trees. Warily, he unslung his bow and nocked an arrow.
"Hello down there," he called, uncomfortably aware that he was silhouetted against the ridge.
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Post by Aldacer on Dec 24, 2016 5:02:01 GMT
The hail came without much forewarning. Something or someone was nearby, that much he knew. But what, or who, he did not. It was not something anathema to his senses, trained as they were. No reek of unnatural evil or unlife poured from it. But regardless, he had unslung his shield and slid his left arm through the strap. The geometric designs of his armor were not stealthy, and as he stepped from the tree line the sun caught the brazen edging and silvered runes and flared in the light, the crown like helm doing the same as he rested his free hand on the pommel of his sword in a draw-grip, the heavy blade of Elder Dwarf make creaking in aged leather.
"Ho! Who goes there?"
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Post by Stormwall on Dec 24, 2016 5:23:21 GMT
What did you call me?
"Stormwall the Centaur," he called back, squinting down the ridge. Low clouds muted the light, but the dwarf's faceted armor shone in stark relief. "I'm guide to a caravan from Ashdell. Wait a moment and I'll come down to you."
Not too much information - not numbers, certainly not cargo. For the moment, the caravan was out of the dwarf's line of sight behind the ridge. He cantered back along the slope of scree and stunted pines, told the caravan master the situation in a handful of words, and returned to the ridge. To it, and down it, hooves nimble enough on the unstable slope. In short order he stood before the dwarf, among the blasted trees.
"Well met, Master Dwarf," he said. "We've lost our way after a rockfall. Do you know anywhere near here that we could find shelter and hospitality for the night?"
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Post by Aldacer on Dec 24, 2016 5:35:43 GMT
A grunt and snort ensued at the question. Nevertheless he reached out and offered his hand to the centaur as he offered his greeting. The right hand moved from the sword hilt, though he still stood on guard. A pack was on his pack, loaded to the brim with the supplies of a traveling warrior, and he cursed the missing sun for making it so much harder to make an intimidating entrance. Centaurs were asking dwarves for directions in the woods? That made him chuckle and stroke his grey-streaking beard.
"I am naught but a questing knight. A Venator of Irodil. I was just told there was something relating to the Undead plaguing the natural inhabitants of this forest. As to the specifics of shelter? I carry my own. Depending on how many this 'we' is I may be able to help with hospitality. There are some caves near by. Or... Should be... And I have a bit of food yet spare..."
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Post by Stormwall on Dec 24, 2016 5:51:40 GMT
Stormfall accepted the dwarf's firm handshake and matched it without competitiveness.
"I thank you for your offer, but we number more than a dozen, and we have plenty in the way of supplies. It's a matter of finding shelter for the cargo..." He grinned. "...and for the humans who need to get out of the elements for the night."
On cue, the three wagons and their escorts hove into view around the base of the ridge, visible through a skein of stunted trees.
"If any of the caves you know might fit three wagons and their mules, I'd be obliged if you could point the way for us. As for the undead, we've encountered none, but thank you for the warning. If you'd like to travel with us for a time, for mutual defense, I feel certain the caravan master would make it worth your while - a donation to a Dwarven charity, perhaps."
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Post by Aldacer on Dec 24, 2016 6:19:40 GMT
Pride bristled at the centaurs suggestion of a charity, and the realization of the caravan made him jump back. For a moment, the blade in it's scabbard glowed a blue-white hue, like a spectral aura, and the sword hand blazed the same radiance but stronger. When the caravan was noted as being just mostly merchants and the like, he relaxed, and the glow diffused, though the sclera of his eyes still trailed wisps of mercurial silver. Some knowledge, even holy knowledge, was best left alone. But not everyone obeyed that. Some paid the price so others did not have to.
"Nothing that large, I am afraid. And I won't need a donation. You seek a nearby town. I seek one. Traveling together makes sense. If there are undead around, I'll know their stench far before anyone else. And you might know more that can help me in my endeavor. I have been out of the world a moment."
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Post by Stormwall on Dec 24, 2016 6:46:40 GMT
Stormwall blinked away the afterimage as best he could. There remained a yellow-and-purple blob in the middle of his vision. Magic, clearly, and far stronger than his own talents whatever it might be. "Then we're agreed," he said. "Come, I'll introduce you to the men."
Twelve bowmen, six wagoneers: ten human, eight halflings. A pretty standard group from Ashdell, to be sure, though the actual place was a little more diverse than that. He couldn't keep all eighteen names straight and clearly didn't expect the dwarf to do so either. The caravan master, a stout halfling named Grewel, was the cheerfully memorable exception. Memorable, at least, for details like the breadth of his grin and the twinkle in his eye and the way his shirt's toggles threatened to pop against his belly and barrel chest. His personality was more or less forgettable. Still, not a bad man to travel with, all told, and he kept a tight leash on the fools among his company. It was Grewel who explained to Aldacer that they carried a load of Ashdell furs to meet a merchant contact.
In due course, by nightfall, they more or less stumbled on a dirt road, a wagon-track. Stormwall galloped both ways to get as much of a view as he could, but caught no sight of anything until actual night came on. Then the firelight of a distant town cast a warm orange glow against a patch of cloud. They headed that way. The farther they went, however, the more unsettled Stormwall became.
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Post by Aldacer on Dec 24, 2016 18:00:16 GMT
On edge. That described the centaur perfectly at this moment. Swiftly Aldacer learned the creatures' body language, and the longer they walked, the mood rubbed off on him. Eventually he drew his sword, unslinging his shield to strap it to his arm. The blade he carried rested on his shoulder at an easy march post. The burly and plated warrior destroyed any chance at stealth, and so he kept to the caravan body mostly. Talking to those the Centaur did not know. Gathering what news he could, which was precious little.
Grewel seemed almost unnerved that, the darker it got, Aldacers eyes were suffused with a pale light in the pupils. Irodil was an old God that had fallen out of favor, and many of his mysteries were lost to most. But Aldacer had been questing two decades or more, before the fall of the Empire, and after. Many things once hidden were open for the taking now that it had fallen. Forbidden secrets, ancient rituals. Things that were banished from common knowledge for a good reason. However, he had made a gift of Grewel when fording a small stream. A genuine Idmidum ram's fur pelt. Probably worth a quarter of his stock in itself. He had three, but had noticed Grewel eyeing them.
Paid to make friends of traveling merchants, and so Grewel advised he would be looking out for any silk-shell skins, a rare crustacean from the South Seas. Their leather was waterproof and tough as dragonhide in it's own way, and made beautiful jerkins and exceptionally prized sword scabbards. Maybe the halfling could get some, maybe not. Either way, Aldacer had a name of a man who might if Grewel could not, and that was something in and of itself.
But the glow of a town came, and now Aldacer looked at Stormwall in earnest.
"What is it that troubles you..?"
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Post by Stormwall on Dec 24, 2016 18:20:20 GMT
"I listen to birds," said the centaur. "And other small creatures. Sometimes they help me find my way. I'm just now starting to get the measure of how they speak around this region, but now they're going silent or panicking. I suspect something wild or undead, as you mentioned, might be keeping pace with us in the woods. I don't believe we're so unusual as to unnerve them that much. Whatever it is, though, is quiet." His ears flicked irritably. "I can't catch a glimpse or a scent. And that's rare enough that I've been thinking it's just me and my nerves. Who knows? It might well be. Reason to hurry, let's say."
Motion flickered in the corner of his eye. He glanced back just as a faint silhouette, like a vaguely humanoid wisp of smoke, separated itself from the trees and accelerated through one of the Ashdell bowmen. The man convulsed and fell beside the first of the three wagons.
"Spirits!" Stormwall roared. His bow and arrow felt useless in his hands, and for good reason. "Faster! To the town!"
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Post by Aldacer on Dec 24, 2016 18:32:54 GMT
At the cry of spirits, whilst others ran back, Aldacer turned and planted himself like a bastion. Shield, with it's wicked downspike, was thrust into the ground where it stood, vibrating with a brazen ring to the force. The sword remained on his shoulder, eyes narrowed. Wisps of mist or smoke began to seep from the corners of his eyes like tears that floated into the air and evaporated around him. The sword began to burn, beginning with the freshly carven runes on it's fuller.
Slowly he trod forward, chain rustling and plate scraping and clanking. The crown like helm caught what light there was in the sky from the faint fire and torches and the like. But instead of reflecting it, or the moonlight, it seemed to grab the ambient light and focus it into a burning line of star-fire on his brow. The sword came up off his shoulder and down in a double-handed cut at the spirit. Whilst it didn't destroy the mist like spirit, it shivered, it's form fuzzing and it itself fleeing from the suddenly furious looking Paladin, who ripped a leather cord off his neck, swinging forth a giant winged 'I' with some sort of set of bones strapped to it in gleaming silver wire.
"Vervak! Oz da Khorok ulro othok Yoth Tha am da Varekan eron Kaad!"
Whatever was said in Durek was likely unknown to the others, but Aldacer intended to buy them time to flee. Even if it meant his life for essentially nothing. Vows were vows.
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Post by Stormwall on Dec 24, 2016 22:13:56 GMT
Stormwall snagged the fallen archer by the arm and tossed him into the passing wagon. The unconscious human sprawled across bundles of furs. The wagons and their archer escorts accelerated, wheels and boots clattering on the rocky path. By Stormwall's estimation, the town was still several minutes' run from here. That made the margins tighter than comfortable, especially if the spirits could travel as quickly as they attacked. He knew, uncomfortably, that he carried no weapon or tool that could ward off intangible enemies. He'd have to look into that if he made it.
He'd have to ask Aldacer. Between the icon and the eye-thing, the dwarf seemed to know exactly what he was doing in the undead department.
Stormwall wheeled in the convoy's wake, useless as a rear guard except as a distraction for the spirits. He found he'd drawn his sword, for all the good it would do him. Vaguely he remembered something about steel and the eldritch, or maybe it was iron. At this point his survival strategy, if a shade came for him, involved running as quickly as possible.
No, if this situation resolved itself, the solution wouldn't come from him.
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Post by Velaeri on Dec 25, 2016 1:19:53 GMT
Hallenrul
It was the name of a small town mostly kept by simple people. Secluded from the world by a region of thick forests and heavy mountain fogs, it wasn't a place you knew about unless you'd been to it yourself. Much like the people that lived there, the town was also quite simple. Several log homes lined the roads leading in, here and there a two-story marked a place of notability. The town square sat around a singularly large dug well from which a spring of some of the freshest waters in the valley could sate the thirst of any passerby.
But for as simple as Hallenrul seemed to be it really was a special place if you knew where to look. For one, its pristine water was said to be rejuvenating. For two: its pristine waters were actually rejuvenating for the regular donation of magical giant gryphon blood to the well.
That was part of the accord struck years ago between said giant gryphon and said simple townsfolk. This town offered a peaceful place for the gryphon to rest between passages between the larger cities as well as a hearty meal in the form of a cow; in return said gryphon provided a bit of her magic to the people and, in rare times of need, also a form of protection.
Both had been in dire need as of late.
Vampires, undead, spirits on the loose. Velaeri had arrived not but a night earlier to the news of the town elder's youngest granddaughter set upon by a spirit while out picking wildflowers in the evening light. Not dead, so far as they could tell, but she'd not awaken either. The rejuvinating waters did not seem to be helping and the people were at a loss for what to do - both about the girl and about these ghastly creatures haunting their town limits.
She sat at the outskirts at the edge of a farm where her latest meal; a healthy steer presently quartered and half-eaten, lay strewn before her. It was here she first heard the chaos on the road even over the shattering of leg bone within her beak. Feathered ears prickled, nares ruffling at the sound of shouting; of hooves pounding in a desperate staccatto over the worn path leading in. The gryphon abandoned the carcass and moved astride the road where her massive bulk claimed the entire girth of the pass.
If she didn't know any better--and she didn't--it looked like a band of thieves coming to cause a ruckus in quiet little Hallenrul. Blue eyes honed in on the galloping centaur and as he neared she alerted with a ear-splitting screech.
No one would be marauding this little town, not on her watch.
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Post by Skrak Gulat on Dec 25, 2016 6:09:10 GMT
Hallenrul.
A quaint town with a rumor of charm. A well of goos fortune, good health, and a place oft visited by the majestic gryphons. It was an odd place to find a goblin, though few recognized Skrak as such. Bundled up in every layer he could afford little if any of his green skin showed. It was a very hot, but it made him look like a halfling, if albeit a very sickly one. He'd been there unbothered for three days, and had spent his time putting the sight of the Well of Hallenrul to canvas. The waters shone a cerulean hue that seemed to imply purity. He knew from experience it tasted good enough to quench a two-day's thirst, and bring it back in mere hours.
Powerful though the springs were, they were not the only sight Skrak had hoped to capture. He'd heard rumble of a gryphon arriving the other night, but could not figure where he or she was staying. Perhaps he slept while it came, or it came in a secret place, but now that he'd missed it come in the locals were not keen on sharing. Not that he blamed them, he was a stranger, while the Gryphon was a storied ally. Gryphons were powerful and respected but Skrak lived in strange times. Since the emperor dies society had changed, and even a gryphon was by no means safe.
Which made the avian shriek nearby alarming to say the least.
Yet it was the burden of the artist to seek the moment. The duty of the desperate to take a chance. Skrak went towards the shriek and found himself perhaps ten meters back from the town's guardian, frozen for a moment in the sheer regality of the species before finding a hidey hole in which to watch. Perhaps she'd spotted him, perhaps the centaur had, perhaps a town citizen had, or perhaps he went unnoticed. For now however Skrak Gulat camped out in around an alley corner, watching the scene of the town's defense in full view.
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