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Peregrine
Posted: 20 Oct 2006 10:01 AM |
The reach of Midor has for hundreds of years extended far outside its walls, in the form of its survey teams, knight-errants and outposts. It was not until these mobile units were recalled and external bases shut down that the world felt their absence.
No more would competent and courageous healers and soldiers roam the Orc-infested Midor Mountains, the depths of Maldovia, the dark and ancient woods of Mirghul, the frigid frozen lands, to rescue fallen adventurers and nurse them back to health in the White City.
No more would fortresses of order stand in the chaos of the wilds to fend off giants, orcs, trolls, vampires, and beasts.
For the decay of the world is written in the Book of Fate, and all that was great must now wither and pass away:
The Husbandman is failing in the fields,
The Sailor on the Seas,
The Soldier in the Camp,
Honesty in the Market,
Justice in the Courts,
Concord in Friendships,
Skills in the Arts,
Discipline in the Morals...
This is the Sentence passed upon the World,
That everything that has a Beginning should perish,
That things which have reached maturity should grow old,
The Strong Weak,
The Great Small,
And that after weakness and shrinkage
Should come dissolution.
The Midoran outposts still stand, scattered throughout the south of Vives. Dead husks haunted by memories of light. Dead dreams of days of forgotten glory.
But are they truly dead or merely hibernating... waiting for the light's return? |
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On Onyx
Posted: 20 Oct 2006 10:06 AM |
From an intel report by Trent Kelten:
Onyx Stockade.
An eastern stockade, this was constructed between Paws and Maldovia in order to protect the eastern Midoran border from the malevolent spawns of Syn and other inhabitants of the eastern coast.
The stockade was spared the massacre in Paws, however many heads rolled over this occurrence, as it was the outpost's role to keep Paws defended from attacks, which it miserably failed when the elven horde moved in and out unnoticed.
Onyx Stockade was the first to be evacuated with the recalling of all Midor's forces and the closing of the city gates.
- Occupational State: Clear.
- Supplies: None – the stockade was effectively emptied of all personnel and supplies within.
- Safety: Low-Medium – While there is no threat from Midor, as the stockade is well enough out of its borders, the danger lies in its proximity to Maldovia. |
WickedArtist: I think he needs a proper elf.
WickedArtist: A christmas elf!
Tasra: Any sort of elf that actually smiles ;o
Gasp! Scandalous!!! |
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Chapter I
Posted: 20 Oct 2006 10:08 AM |
*** Chapter I: Unforseen Consequences ***
Onyx Stockade...
By the light of the noon sun, the place appeared innocent enough. The stockade stood deep amongst the trees of Midor Forest, in a small clearing close to the foothills of the adjacent Midor Mountains. Few were the non-military personnel who knew about its existence; but the eastern provinces of Midor—including the small community of Paws—were not kept safe by virtue of being exposed.
The stockade had stood there for years upon years, keeping guard from the orcs of the mountains, and the darker threat of the cliffs—beyond which loomed Maldovia.
It was almost a year ago when it had been evacuated. Effectively and totally, the Righteous Swords of Midor had recalled the occupants from their duty and position. Mere days later, the leading officers would be burned alive in front of a raging crowd. The evacuation had been a while ago, and had taken quite some time to proceed, but the massacre by the Elves and the failure of Onyx to defend Paws had caused outrage in Midor which had quickened the evacuation.
Now it is vacant… of all signs of life…
~ * ~
"Not even animals tread here…" She whispered—a red-haired woman clad in brown and olive leather, gazing down on the muddy earth of last night's rain.
"I've noticed it myself. Three, do you suspect something amiss?" An old man stepped next to her, looking down at the ground she was inspecting. He too was clad in brown leather.
"No, but this place is strange. It's too empty for my liking." The woman—Jet Three as she was called for this mission—straightened and looked at the stockade.
"Which is the reason we begin here. We look around, see that nothing is wrong, and report back. We'll have the place ready for Hammerhead in no time, right One?" The second woman in the group, Jet Two, was clad in metallic armor poorly hidden by ragged grey robes.
The last person, Jet One, the leader of the party, did not respond. He looked towards the stockade and signaled the others to continue. He was clad fully in brown metallic armor, covered further by a brown tunic, over which was a brown cape. On top of his head was a helm of the same hue.
They continued to walk into the clearing. The gates of Onyx Stockade stood before them, rotting and decomposing like the rest of the wooden walls; not an extraordinary sight, considering the failed experiments of Zacch were set loose all around the forest. It looked as if the place had stood there empty for decades. On the south, north and west the forest continued to deepen in a maze of trees, while on the east an entirely different maze—that of the Midor Mountains—stood high. If one walked further north, one could see Syn's Cliffs and the near end of Syn's Bridge; beyond were the mists of Maldovia.
Jet One glanced at the rotten gates, then to his left. "We will head east from here, to our right, and make a circle around the stockade. We turn back and expand the circle to the borders of the clearing. Clear?"
All nodded. The mission to liberate Onyx Stockade had begun.
Only… there was nothing to liberate it from.
~ * ~
"It's very quiet here. I don't trust the silence." The aged man, Jet Four, looked about as they walked along the eastern wall of the stockade, rotting like the rest of it.
"Did you notice that the wind's stopped? If I didn't know better I'd expect Little P to pop up from nowhere." Jet Two grinned to herself, picturing the scene in the eerie silence.
"This silence… it's not because we are alone… look." Three inclined her head to the borders of the clearing. The others turned to follow her gaze.
"Looks like we're being followed." One held up his hand to the others as Two and Four reached for their weapons. "The last thing we need is to raise a ruckus. Look at them closely… they are not intent on attacking."
Indeed, those weren't animals that were taking cover behind the trees bordering the clearing. They were dryads; foul-skinned, corrupted dryads looking out from behind the trees like frightened children, moving about from tree to tree.
"The order is to exterminate threats." Two spoke up. "Why are we deviating from it now?"
"Are we to retreat?" Four added.
"We continue. We will evaluate this matter in due time." Jet One gave a last look upon the dryads and turned back to the route they'd taken. The rest followed. What had been an eerie silence was now tinged with dread.
The dryads were the children of Zacch: abominations of the void, and once the burning sun set, the void would clear them passage.
"They aren't much of a threat, those things. Even if they did attack, they can easily be dealt with." Jet Two pointed out, typical Midoran bravado coming to the fore. "They're a mortal's handiwork, not that of The Void."
The mission continued. The bright atmosphere of the sunlit clearing was not overshadowed by the presence of the dryads. But it was not because of the danger they posed. There was the nagging, undeniable feeling that they were… expecting something.
The clearing became perfectly still, if not for the movement of the survey team. On the northern walls of the stockade was a large breach – wood rotten so much that it snapped and broke, even though the walls were made not of thin plank, but entire tree trunks. Was the rot the work of the dryads? The western and southern walls—where the gates were—were equally rotten, yet still whole.
"Dryads all around… and other sickly creatures of Syn's handiwork. If we edge the clearing, they might feel it's safe to attack us." Three was the expert on all matters concerning scouting and exploration, being used to the wilderness. She'd been chosen specifically for this job.
"They will not risk exposure to sunlight. I do not believe even they themselves know the effect it will have on them, if any—but they fear it nonetheless." Jet One pointed out. "We will explore on the appointed path and continue to phase two."
"Is that wise?" asked Four. "Once the sun sets, they will surely move against us."
"We cancel only in case of dire threat," said Two. "Those are our orders."
The sun was already fast moving towards the western horizon as the four made their way towards the edge of the clearing. The fallen dryads kept their distance and disappeared behind the veil of trees.
~ * ~
While on the outside the stockade looked like an ancient outpost lost to time, on the inside it looked like a ghost town. Literally.
The vegetation surrounding the walls at the clearing ended was wild and overgrown, but inside the walls… it was nonexistent. The stockade ground was void of any form of life, neither plant nor insect, save for the survey team.
On the western horizon, the orange tint of the setting sun still lit the sky, casting long twilight shadows over the stockade grounds.
Shadows that twisted… and deepened…
"Vacant." said Three quickly. "We'll find nothing here."
"You sound almost eager too leave." Four remarked. "Frightening as it is, we still have a job to do here. We cannot disregard the possibility of danger. Lives may depend on it."
"Or our very existence…" Two whispered, staring back at the entrance. "Look."
The four had already made it deeper into the stockade yard, a round field of lifeless earth that was the center of the outpost. A clear stone-bounded road led to the gates passing by two buildings on each side – the war room and the barracks.
As the three turned back to the gates they witnessed their dread come true. The fallen dryads, cursed long ago by the wizard Zacch, stood in masses on the other side, smiling crooked hag-like grins. At that moment the rotten gates, overgrown with black vegetation, screeched and closed shut.
Trapped…
"What's the meaning of this?" Jet Four drew his halberd immediately.
"The dryads have corrupted the stockade itself," said Three grimly, drawing her scimitar. "Did you notice the black vines on the gates? They weren't there before."
"We've been tricked!" shouted Two. "What about the breach on the northern wall?"
"Defensive harbour!" commanded One.
The three obeyed unquestioningly, automatically forming an outwards-facing circle. Creatures made of rotten flesh climbed the walls of the stockade, jumping down to the inside and charging at the group in overwhelming numbers. Steel clashed with flesh as the battle ensued. The formation did not last against the attack, the golems of flesh tackling each member away like battering rams. The sickly cackle of the dryads could be heard from the outside over the gurgles of the flesh golems and the sounds of battle.
Jet Two and Three fought side by side, keeping close to one another in spite of the golems' best attempts. Four was cornered, keeping the encircling golems at a distance with the far reach of his halberd; but it would not last for long. One was overwhelmed on all sides, cleaving through rotten flesh with his sword while the stone fists of the golems came from all directions.
Two and Three fled to the barracks. Four charged his way to the armoury. One continued to fight… stranded…
A blow… the helm knocked off…
A second blow…
Blackness.
~ * ~
"Push that bed over!" yelled Two as she turned another bed over the entrance.
"Yes, ma'am!" Three dutifully obeyed.
That didn't stop the golems for long. They broke through the furniture piled against them like wooden toys. Two and Three were slowly pushed to the edge of the barracks…
A dead end.
"Either win or lose, we fight to our last breath." said Two.
Three simply nodded.
The golems rammed through the last of the improvised barricades. As it cluttered down around their feet they halted, freezing in place. The last rays of the sun were gone. Night had fallen: black, dark and empty. The golems mysteriously turned on their heels and fled, tripping over each other in their attempt to flee. The two stared blankly at the retreating golems, thankful but also suspicious of this sudden retreat.
Behind them, the blackness deepened, and the very firmament of the world cracked open…
Tendrils of the blackest black formed out of the darkness…
~ * ~
"Hah! I should have expected. Empty!" Jet Four thought out loud as he entered the abandoned armoury and shut the reinforced door behind him.
His experience with the military had taught him that an armoury would be more secure than any other room. The golems banged against the door. It was safe, but not for long.
"Righteous Swords; ever efficient. Not a single shard of metal left behind."
The armoury had been thoroughly emptied when the outpost's crew was recalled back to the city. It was efficient work that had been managed by the Righteous Sword themselves, rather than the far less efficient regular officers of the Midoran Defence Force.
All that remained was the empty room.
Jet Four lit a torch to give light to the complete darkness of the armoury, enclosed on all sides. The only sound was that of the flames burning and the endless banging on the doors. He had hoped to find some equipment left behind with which he could prepare for the battle with the golems, but there was none. Once the golems breached the door, he was going to find himself facing the same situation as before: cornered and outnumbered.
"It seems I'm left to myself again." he said in a low, grim voice. He caught his breath, his old body already weary. "I don't suppose I have the strength for another such charge, but I will have to try."
The banging continued...
The door began to crack…
He readied himself for the battle…
Bang–bang–bang… bang–bang… bang...
Silence…
He lowered his weapon, his brow wrinkled in confusion. A few more hits would have brought the door down. Why would they give up?
He edged closer to the door and tried to look through one of the cracks the golems had managed to form – nothing. Either they'd left entirely, or they were hiding in ambush. Were they so clever on their own, or were they guided by an unseen hand?
He straightened and took a step back, half-expecting that the door would come down at any moment. He would wait a moment longer before risking exposure…
Suddenly, a whip of black… and darkness…
He sprang around to look behind him. The darkness was complete. Not a single wisp of light entered the room. Yet there was something deeper than the darkness… he could not see it, only perceive it… blackness blacker than black…
"And so the arms of the void have come to claim me…"
~ * ~
"Just as expected, would-be paladin."
He heard the voice, but could not open his eyes. His head hurt so much… everything hurt so much…
"Wake up, now."
Jet One opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. It made no difference.
"You've come just like I predicted. Were you not supposed to move in obscure paths, little Midoran?"
There was a sudden flash of light. A torch was lit, bright in the complete darkness of the unfamiliar building.
"W- What are you?" he asked weakly, only now noticing he was no longer in possession of his weapons. His entire body was grappled with thorny black vines.
"I am… Ali'lla." she answered playfully. She was unlike the other dryads. Her skin was not grey and sickly. Her hair was not as straggly. Her voice was not as scratchy. Dryads were the sprites of the wood, creatures of leaf and blossom. She was cursed, but different… like the original dryads, but a darker and corrupt variant… a mistress of thorns.
"Are you not one of Zacch's experiments, like the others?" he blurted out, curiousity overriding caution.
"Speak not that name, would-be paladin!" she commanded in anger. "I am the perfection of his work. I am the evolution of what he brought about. I discovered it and it is mine and mine alone!"
"What are you talking about?"
"I will speak of it no more!" Her voice hissed, just like that of the other corrupted. "I would rather speak of you, my little knight. I have been watching you plot and scheme for quite some time."
Jet One looked calmly at the thorn dryad.
"You have intruded upon my sanctuary. You have walked time and time again, spying from the shadows, and I spied on the spy. What is it you seek, would-be paladin?"
"I seek to have you and the others leave. You have no place here. This place does not belong to you."
"Leave?! LEAVE?!" Ali'lla waved her hand towards Revenant, a massive thorn springing from the vines and stabbing into his shoulder. "Neither is it yours, Midoran! I will not leave. I must remain here with it! I know what you are!"
"What I am?" Revenant asked through gritted teeth, fighting to ignore the pain. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"YOU LIE!" She paused… "False pretence and lies! I have watched! Agents of the Wisp! Revenant! Where is your unknowable light now? You seek to steal my world from me!"
Revenant frowned. Was he being careless? "You speak nonsense."
"You say one thing, but mean another. I know." she hissed. "I know because his knowledge is mine, his power is mine, his curse is mine and I use it as I will. He stole it, she caught it, but it was mine and his and now mine again!"
Clearly the dryad was mad. She was making no sense.
"So you already know. Why do you bother to ask?" He let the faintest hint of mockery enter his voice. It was a long shot, but if she could be needled enough into speaking sense... "Afraid of losing all you have gained again?"
"No more words, would-be paladin!" she snapped. Well, it had been worth trying. "I found it and it is mine forever! I will bring you as an offering to it. Then we shall see, young one..."
Ali'lla turned and descended further into darkness, her hissing voice the only evidence of her existence. "...how fearless you are now that you are no longer a paladin."
~ * ~
"Back. Back! Outside!" ordered Jet Two.
The tendrils of blackness came through every crack and fissure in the wooden floor and walls, reaching for them out of the darkness.
The two warriors fled the building, the faint light of the moon and the stars providing the barest of illumination to see by.
All around, the darkness deepened. The tendrils climbed the walls after the escaping golems, drawing them down to the earth struggling, eating at their very essence.
"We have to find the others!" said Jet Three breathlessly, looking around at a completely new battlefield.
Tendrils of blackness were everywhere, a sea of black, grappling the barely-sentient golems, who helplessly flailed against the nothingness.
There was not a soul in sight… where were the others?
~ * ~
Jet Four slowly edged away from the tendrils as far as the walls would allow him.
The blackness spread around him, reaching for him. He was aware of the doom that awaited him, but he was a Midoran, and he'd be damned if he didn't go down fighting.
He continued to edge towards the door... the tendrils drawing closer and closer…
Then suddenly there was a loud crash and something yanked him outside.
"Doberman!" Jet Two yelped, ducking just in time to avoid the arc of his halberd. "What the blazes...?!"
"Where's Revenant?" Three asked quickly.
"I haven't seen him since we separated," said Doberman in the same businesslike tone, throwing an apologetic glance at Two. "If we don't find him quickly, he might suffer a worse fate than we."
The three looked around in desperation for a clue. The blackness had temporarily been diverted by the horde of golems, but soon it would turn on them once more.
"Perhaps he already did…" Three murmured, looking at the ground some distance away, "He was defeated here and dragged away towards there."
She pointed at a large tent with a banner of red cross upon a white background at its entrance; the medical tent.
"Then that is the road we take," Doberman decided matter-of-factly. As if there had ever been any question.
The three made their way quickly to the tent, past the sea of blackness that surrounded the stockade yard and began to give chase. Inside it was empty, save for a trap door that had been opened to reveal steps leading down into darkness. The sea of black continued to advance from behind.
A one-way ticket to the unknown…
~ * ~
The unknown building was dark again.
The torch that Ali'lla had lit had long since died, and darkness once more claimed its domain. Revenant stood there, bound to the walls, unable to escape whatever awaited him.
The dryad was in pain; that much, he'd noticed. It was obvious in her voice and her anger. She hated the world because it had been taken from her. The dryad was more cunning than he, stronger than he, and her hatred surpassed her blind madness. And she knew about them, their plans, and had been expecting them.
How could she have known?
Had he or the others been careless? Was it something else? There was something about her that was out of place. What was it? Thoughts ran across his mind and were suddenly put to a halt. An odd light played on the edge of his sight, drawing his attention.
He turned his head towards the light, but there was nothing there.
.
There might have been the faintest whisper. Once, not so long ago, he'd been haunted by a vampiress, a creature of shadows and whispers and nothingness above all. But this... this was different. This was not the cold whisper of malice. It was something else.
He turned his head again as another flicker of light caught his attention. But no; this was a different light, that of a torch, illuminating the details of the room as three figures darted in with the sort of synchronisation that only warriors who'd trained and served together could manage. Firelight played over bloody slabs, gruesome equipment, shelves containing books and vile alchemical brews. Half-formed flesh golems lay strewn about, in various stages of completion.
A signal from Two; without a word, Doberman stepped forward and hacked through the thorny vines that bound Revenant. "We need to leave. This is no ordinary darkness," the older man said in a low voice.
"There's a dryad behind all this," Revenant replied in the same tones. "We need to stop her"
"Then we'll come back with reinforcements," Doberman muttered. "The place is crawling with Creepers. We can't take them all on."
"We can't fight them," Two agreed. "We have to escape through the northern breach."
Revenant winced and nodded, rubbing his shoulder absently before stepping over to the corner where his pack and weapons had been thrown into a pile. The pain was gone now, replaced by a faint and stabbing ache.
It was nothing compared to the pain of failure.
If this had been a year and a half ago...
If they'd still had Midoran's firepower backing them up...
But no. They were only Human.
He stopped to stare into the darkness, automatically saying a silent prayer in his head before his rational mind kicked in and reminded him that it was futile.
Then Two stepped out of the room and around the corner, holding the torch aloft, and everything went black.
~ * ~
They didn't get far.
Down the corridor and halfway up the ladder, Doberman let out a surprised yelp and send them all scurrying back down again.
Overhead, tendrils of nothingness crept around the edges of the trap door.
They fled back to the laboratory, the darkness pouring down into the tunnel behind them.
"Search the place! Make as much light as possible!" Revenant ordered. "Prepare the vials of holy water we took with us—Ali'la must have found some way to ward herself from The Void, or she'd be cursed like the other dryads."
One and Four began lighting as many torches as were available and spread them across the room; Jet Two started lining up vials of holy water on a nearby table, while Three searched the few useable arcane items remaining in the room.
But it was too little, too late. The sea of black came upon the entrance—
And stopped.
"The room," gasped Three, drawing an arc in the air with her finger to indicate the glittering sigils that hadn't been visible until the torches were lit. "She's using the room itself."
"What about the dryad?" asked Two.
One looked towards the far end of the room—and at the lightless tunnel leading deeper into the earth, where Ali'lla had gone.
"We go after Ali'lla."
~ * ~
The door was exquisitely crafted, made from the blackest wood.
Upon the door were markings; black vines decorated nearly the entirety of the door, while on its top was the symbol of a circular red-eyed serpent devouring its own tail – the symbol of Syn.
"Once again… just as expected… would-be paladin," came Ali'lla's now-familiar voice.
"And whom do we have here?" she continued, looking at the old man. "Doberman, isn't it? The fearsome guard dog of Midor changing allegiance? Perhaps you can teach an old dog new tricks."
Doberman's eyes narrowed. "How do you know us?"
"And the precious little sister, Piglet." She turned to Jet Two, ignoring the question. "How ironic that you would turn out to be on opposite sides. If only your brother could see as you do… or perhaps you as he does? Squeal for me, Piggy." she studied her as well, hissing another insult. "Squeal, Midoran!"
Piglet flexed the fingers of her free hand, the other tightening around her mace. "Someone's going to be squealing, but I doubt it's me," she replied coolly.
The dryad let out a hissing laugh, amused. She turned her attention to Jet Three. "And last but not least... well, well, well. So we meet again. The harbinger, the thief, the carrier. Tell me, do the others know of the stain upon your soul? Do they know you for the parasite you are?"
"Quiet, dryad! We've not come for you to mock us! It ends here!" Doberman barked.
"Oh, it ends here indeed!" Ali'lla turned to the decorated door behind her. "I know well my chances in the battle you seek. I lost it once I will not lose it again! It is mine and is greater than the old! I will be the old!" she hissed angrily, her fist springing thorns and smashing the red gem of the serpent's eye. The symbol of the void turned to dust.
"If it shall not be mine it shall be no one's! I have gazed into it and I saw peace! Tell me, warm ones... what do your minds see when they gaze into oblivion?" Tendrils of blackness began crawling through the edges of the door and spreading in the torch-lit room.
"I will claim back what is mine, or let it claim me! And you, child of the shadows—it is time you inherited your legacy."
Where the symbol had been, now there was a terrible nothingness.
Without warning, it lurched forward, swallowing up both Ali'lla and Dryad.
Doberman was there in an instant, half a second too late, slashing at the mass of darkness in vain. Piglet continued to strike at the black cocoon, desperate to save her companion from the void, but no ordinary weapon could hurt that which was already a wound in existence itself.
Without thinking, Revenant lobbed a vial of holy water at the coccoon.
The effect it had was difficult to describe, a sight which defied all logic: that of something tearing through nothing which did not exist to begin with and could not really be torn because it was already a rift.
A slash of something within nothing. Through the gap, Three was momentarily visible.
"Back!" shouted Two, and even as One stopped attacking the coccoon of darkness, she stepped forward, grabbed a hold of Three's arm, and yanked her through the rift.
The ancient door came down crashing down to the ground, and oblivion itself poured out from it. Not emptiness, the kind of void that lacks all substance, but pure oblivion; the lack of everything, even emptiness, even void. Such unperceivable emptiness that it shrieked painfully within the mind—the stuff of nightmares. Literally.
Revenant could not tear his gaze away from it. His mind hurt, screamed, burned. No mortal was capable of understanding what was now before his very eyes. If there was an unknowable light, this was for sure the unknowable darkness, which he was seeing but could not see.
Piglet grunted and hauled the lifeless Three away from the black not-flood, while Doberman pulled Revenant towards the laboratory. Oblivion spread behind them, blotting out all that stood in its path.
"This is what Ali'lla found…" muttered Revenant weakly. "A creeper. She found a creeper and nourished it. Now it's greater than an ordinary creeper."
They stumbled into the temporary safety of the lab. Oblivion followed. Trapped, the Midorans looked about wildly, to the darkness on all sides which could not enter, to the exits on all sides they could not use.
"May the hounds of Nethar'u gnaw on her soul for eternity!" snarled Doberman. "Trapped and helpless!"
"Not exactly how I envisioned dying when I signed up at the Academy," Piglet quipped, "but I suppose it beats leading a long, boring, complacent life sitting around doing nothing."
"Look over there!" Revenant pointed.
Across the tunnel exit they'd just vacated, a mesh of roots and vines had started to grow, blocking off the mind-numbing sight of the Greater Creeper. Corrupted natural and corrupted unnatural tendrils fought, black against black, both recoiling with every blow as if both felt the pain of the other.
"The creeper nestled near her tree... I've seen something similar in Wychwood," Revenant said slowly. "It corrupted the tree and her as result, but it also gained nourishment from the tree. They are connected now. By hurting the tree, the creeper hurts its source of nourishment, and it grows weaker."
A high-pitched, squealing laugh from Piglet. "So we just wait for them to eat each other? Marvellous."
"This is not over yet." Revenant continued to look at the oblivion eating its way through the thick branches. "The creeper compensates for losing the tree by consuming it entirely. Once it is done it will be stronger than before."
"Strong enough," said Doberman grimly, "to get past the mad dryad's wards."
"Well, that's—" Piglet trailed off, frowning as she looked over her shoulder.
"What is it?" asked Revenant, turning to look.
"Nothing. I thought I saw... never mind. Trick of the light."
After easing Three's limp body onto a bedroll that Doberman had laid out on the floor, Two directed the others to scoop up the vials of holy water that they still had.
"This is either going to be like throwing pebbles at a dragon, or overkill," she said. "On three. Three!"
In unison, the glittering vials arced through the air towards the creeping darkness.
And were swiftly swallowed up.
"On second thought, maybe we ought to have thrown it at the weaker Creepers," she said.
Seconds, minutes, hours, eternity passed. They retreated to the exit furthest from the Greater Creeper, keeping the torches lit, the ever-receding circle of light one last gasp of defiance against the enroaching darkness. The shadow of nothing crept ever closer...
"Revenant," Piglet hissed. "I wasn't seeing things. Look!"
From the tunnel leading up and out, the faint light of dawn had squeezed through the trap door.
Doberman narrowed his eyes. "Where are the other Creepers?" he asked. "Did anyone see them leave?"
No one had.
"Never mind that, we need to get Three help," Two decided, throwing Three's body over her shoulder. "I'd rather take my chances up there in the sunlight than down here."
They fled to the surface in record time, the trip itself surprisingly and suspiciously uneventful.
Four was the last one out. He paused at the top of the ladder, looking back down the way they'd come.
"Four?" prompted One. "What is it?"
"Nothiing," he said, just as Piglet had. "Nothing," he repeated, shaking his head. "Must be seeing things. Let's see if we can find some way to close this off until we get reinforcements in."
And he shut the trap door.
~*~
Revenant and Piglet sped to Mirghul with Dryad, leaving her in the care of the Sunbringer on duty before speeding off again to call in reinforcements from Spiderweb. With half a dozen mages in tow—they didn't ask where they'd come from, and it really didn't matter—they returned to the stockade to find, to their bafflement, that it was exactly as they had first discovered it.
The trap door refused to budge.
Revenant, Piglet and Doberman spent the next two days in the haunted stockade with the mages, who sealed and warded the trap door and the immeidate area with every conceivable spell they could come up with. In that whole time, save for the occasional stray cursed dryad or flesh golem, nothing out of the ordinary attacked the Detachment.
The edict from Command was to leave the stockade as soon as they'd secured it, Jet officially considered far too dangerous for the purposes of the Peregrine project.
One more mystery on a long and growing list of mysteries unsolved. If they only had time to investigate them all...
But time was a luxury they did not have. |
WickedArtist: I think he needs a proper elf.
WickedArtist: A christmas elf!
Tasra: Any sort of elf that actually smiles ;o
Gasp! Scandalous!!! |
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Interlude
Posted: 20 Oct 2006 11:21 AM |
*** Interlude: Twisted Magic ***
The Midor Forest was unusually calm…
The cursed dryads who have escaped from Onyx should have roamed the woods but did not, nor did their golem servants. No animal tread openly on the forest floor; even the rare groups of vampire bats, who occasionally seek prey in the forest, kept away from it on that day.
A sense of horror traveled the wood, of defiance.
Only one pair of feet dared walk upon the earth. A figure that even the grass and trees seemed to stay away from as best they could; a black robe over his body, a hood casting an unnatural shadow over his face, and in his hand an adamantine staff with the decorated letter "N" upon its edge.
The signet of Nailamne.
He walked deeper into the forest, to its western edges, where he came upon a manmade clearing. In the center of the clearing stood a wood made outpost.
"Warded? Odd. This is not her magic." He mused, his voice echoed inhumanely.
He waved his hand, and a flurry of tiny magical sparks exploded from all around the stockade grounds. Then, in the same suddenness, all of them span around in a vortex, the eye of which was a tent carrying the banner of a red cross upon a white background.
The figure turned his head towards the tent, letting out a hum. He began walking towards it. "Unthinkable." He muttered.
He came upon a trap door inside the tent. He waved his hand towards it, but nothing happened. A strange glow emitted from the door.
"Another? How bothersome." He echoed.
He waved his hand again, the door resisted. With an annoyed grunt he waved his staff in the air, an unnatural darkness spread across the noon sky. In the same manner of the sparks, the darkness was swallowed away into the door, and from it the figure stepped on the other side.
With increased pace, he went down the tunnel below the door. Deeper, deeper underground, until he reached a large door, made of black wood and decorated with even blacker vines.
The figure searched the door, then everything around the small cavern, his staff emitting a powerful light.
"Impossible!"
He stepped towards a pile of ashes in front of the door and sent his gloved hand towards it, rummaging within.
"Ah. Found it." He echoed, drawing out a small, jet-black gemstone from the pile.
Suddenly, an unnatural stillness filled the air. The figure looked around him. From the tunnel leading to the surface it came. Like a tidal wave gushing towards him, only it did not make a noise, rather swallowed it, the unnatural silence defiling the already-silent cavern.
The figure turned himself fully towards the cavern exit, his fingers moving in an odd incantation.
Suddenly, the tidal wave was in sight; a blackest blackness pouring down from the cavern sending its tentacled arms towards the figure.
With an unpleased grunt he pointed his fingers towards the darkness, and a flurry of magical bolts were cast out of the fingers into the void, like a pillar of flames against a wave of endless water, missile after missile cut through the oblivion.
It was not enough.
Oblivion continued to pour down, the flurry of missiles doing little to stop the hungering void. The mage turned his staff towards the darkness, defying all known magic an unimaginable number of missiles exploded from the edge and streamed towards the still-advancing void.
Still… it was not enough.
The figure turned backwards, waving his staff across the door, it opened.
He stepped inside.
On the other side was a tree, dying, dead, twisted, not really existing, and defying all sense of reality and existence. The roots of the void were nestled deep in it.
The door closed behind him, and all around, there was nothing but the unknowable darkness.
Only the darkness…
And the tree…
And the mage…
Inside that place, surrounded by oblivion, where nothing existed, a cavern of emptiness, all logic twisted, all things were bent and broken before they were consumed by the hungering void.
He felt every sip of his essence, his thoughts, and his very existence being eaten away. He moved his fingers again…
In defiance of reality a massive explosion of pure magical energies, a twisted kind of magic that could only be born in such twisted place. Missiles as many as the stars in the sky, and perhaps more.
Once more… to no avail…
His existence eaten away, the figure looked into the void closing around him. In his last breath he uttered two words…
"Synthixlai… amazing…"
If anyone would have ever gazed upon Syn, it was this figure, in that place...
Before he was claimed by the Void he had dared look upon. |
WickedArtist: I think he needs a proper elf.
WickedArtist: A christmas elf!
Tasra: Any sort of elf that actually smiles ;o
Gasp! Scandalous!!! |
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Interval
Posted: 21 Oct 2006 10:18 AM |
*** Interval: Ali'lla and Li'ilowein - 1st Silvradi of Serildarre, 1001SD ***
"Welcome to my sanctuary."
"W-w-what are you going to do to me?"
"Only ask for your name. Will you give it to me?"
"A-a… m-my name is… Ali'lla…"
* * *
The door to the sanctuary opened slowly, barely, not to make a sound.
"They are here, sister."
From the small opening a beautiful female stepped inside the sanctuary. Her hair was as black as a raven's feather, her body clothes by a fabric of leaves, and her gentle features were inhumanely striking; a dryad.
"Is it safe? Will he not catch us? We must be careful, sister!"
Another dryad stepped behind her, similar in features and clothing, yet her hair was golden as the sun's rays of light.
They snuck past the first chamber, which was empty but for an empty patch of earth inside the stone dungeon. To their front and their left were corridors.
"We go straight, Li'ilowein. The passage ahead. I feel pain." The raven-haired dryad spoke with a melodic voice.
"I feel it too. He took our friends, sister! The madman took our friends!" Li'ilowein cried.
The dryad pair went to the passage on the other side of the entrance; a corridor with four tiny chambers on each side, each chamber barred, each bar a prison, each prison inhabited, each inhabitant an animal.
"Open them! Look how they suffer!" Li'ilowein checked the first set of bars from every angle; to find some clue, some way, some switch or button to open it.
"No, sister! He twisted them! They are pained and wish only pain!" The other called to stop her.
"Then we keep them here and heal them soon!" Said Li'ilowein.
We will free our sisters first! Together we may overcome him!"
"Sssissters…" A sudden voice hissed from the other end of the corridor.
A third dryad, but she was different; her stringy hair was bland of colour, her skin wrinkled and pale, her voice hissed like a serpent.
"The Serpent has touched her, sister! I told you and I was true! He is of the serpent!" Li'ilowen cried in alarm as the sickly dryad made her way towards them.
"Send it back to its tree!" The other called. "Send it back before it hurts us! It is not our sister anymore!"
"Sssisssssterss…" the cursed one called to them in a hissing whisper, tears falling from her blank eyes.
"She cries, sister. Pain like our friends. We can't help her?" Asked Li'ilowein.
Before another word could be said, the cursed one fell to the ground and withered. Li'ilowen ran towards her former sister, tears welling in her eyes.
Hrrrhrrh…
A voice came from around the corner. Li'ilowen sprang to her feet and ran back to her sister dryad.
Rrrrgh…
Another such gurgle came from behind them.
"He knows!" Li'ilowen wiped her rolling tears in despair. "He will put the serpent in us. Shadows and pain and emptiness forever!"
The two sobbed as from both sides came a horrid mass of muscle and tissue, rotten with decay, shaped to resemble a man or elf. The two golems of flesh advanced towards the pair and locked their arms around them – the dryads who were paralyzed with fear and despair.
* * *
"W-who are you, human?" Asked Li'lowein.
She had been dragged away from her sisters, past the cages and up the corridor where a larger, empty chamber awaited her behind a screen of bars.
"Your host, dear dryad." Said the man before her. "You did enter my abode, after all. I consider you a visitor."
"A host that would harm and defy me as he did my sisters! I care not to visit your cursed home!" Even in anger, the dryad's voice was melodic and calm.
"Yet you already have, dryad, and with no good intent either."
"Your home is in my home, and you intentions were no purer than my own." She replied. "I came to save my sisters!"
"Save them?" He feigned shock. "Save them from what? I am giving them a gift, though it still in the making. I am making them something greater, transcendent over the useless sprites of nature they once were."
"They are suffering and pained and crying! I saw them crying!"
"Some sacrifices must be made." He answered bitterly. "Some must suffer for the sake of the greater whole. When things are complete their suffering will end."
"You speak in riddles, human," Li'ilowein grabbed the bars that separated her from the man. "But I know their answer! You are of the serpent and the completion you seek is the Void! Will you not return to the living and stop these experiments?"
"You know nothing, dryad!" He snapped. "Do not attempt to persuade me with your sweetened voice and charms."
The man squinted and studied her from head to toe, rubbing his chin. "You will see. You will be my greatest achievement yet."
Li'iweined gasped.
"But where are my manners?" He calmed and feigned a pleasant smile in mockery. "My name is Zacch."
* * *
She was alone, somewhere.
Chains held her arms and leg, the mass of muscle and tissue that took her from her sister Li'ilowein was standing guard next to her, rotting with foul odors.
Waiting for the fate she saw in the failed experiment, she sobbed.
From outside the chamber were the sounds of footsteps, accompanied by the frequent loud tickings of ivory hitting the stone floor.
A sudden creek from that direction echoing through the halls drew the dryad's attention. The footsteps and the tickings stopped.
Voices could be heard from afar…
The first voice was inhumane, echoing, and sinister. Either it was concealed by magic, or its owner was not a being to frequent the outside world. "Zacch." It called.
"What do you wish of me now, warlock?" Answered a second voice, that of a regular man, though it held no kindness in it either.
"You will speak with respect, renegade!" The voice echoed.
"I would know why you and your peers continue to bother me. I have torn myself from you, and wish the same from your dealings." The man calmed himself.
"You have been given a mission." The voice stated. "And you will complete it regardless if your new intentions. Only then we will discuss your… defection."
"These beings are difficult! They are nightmares born and their will is strong!" The man snapped. "One must study the serpent closely before attempting his spawns."
"Study the serpent, do you?" The voice asked. "Is that the reason you have defected to it? You spread blight and corruption in its name, when you should be serving the tower!"
"The tower holds little interest for me." The man stated matter-of-factly.
"Mind your words, Zacch." The voice echoed with finality. "You will complete the task given." It paused. "… or you will be replaced. The tower does not stand for defections."
A long pause…
"Remember these words well, Zacch." The silence was broken. "Nailamne covets this secret. For too long you have been allowed to linger in your sanctuary with your blight, ignoring the task you have been set on for a generation!"
Another pause; this time quickly broken.
"The tower recognizes your allegiance to the serpent and does not approve of it, yet it grants you an advantage. However, we do not ask, we do not beg, we do not deal with traitors, we demand and we receive, but we are not impatient. Soon will have passed six centuries, and the sleeper will awaken again."
"You are to accomplish the task given by that day, or you shall witness how the tower deals with traitors."
With that, the former sound of footsteps and the ticks of ivory returns and came closer. The dryad looked at the doorway to her chamber and saw the voice from there; a black-cowled figure, his face covered by a hood, stepped past her. In his hand he held a black staff, on its edge was the decorated letter "N".
A few minutes later, each minute, each second a knife through her heart as she resumed her wait, came the man – Zacch.
"Welcome to my sanctuary, dryad."
The dryad looked at him with wide, panicked eyes. "W-w-what are you doing to do to me?"
Zacch feigned a pleasant smile. "Only ask for your name. Will you give it to me?"
The dryad paused, countless thoughts racing across her mind. "A-a… my name is… Ali'lla…"
"Ali'lla," He called. "We have much work to do, you and I."
The smile on his face, feigning pleasantry, now only mirrored malice.
"Shall we begin?" |
WickedArtist: I think he needs a proper elf.
WickedArtist: A christmas elf!
Tasra: Any sort of elf that actually smiles ;o
Gasp! Scandalous!!! |
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Shadow Dancing
Posted: 22 Oct 2006 06:22 AM |
Some days later, after Dryad had recovered, the debrief took place. Doberman's decision was not surprising: Onyx Stockade, code-named Jet, was declared too dangerous for habitation.
The four of them were present for the debrief, as were two other Midorans. The greying man with the alert gaze, Dryad recognised as Wolf. The tall, hooded woman was no one Dryad knew.
There was nothing notable covered in the debrief itself. Revenant left almost immediately to start work on the next project, Edge. Piglet had to remain behind to speak with Doberman and the other two; after her, they called in Dryad.
It was only then that the real matter at hand was addressed: Revenant.
Wolf did most of the questioning, asking a series of pointed and specific questions about Revenant in general and the mission in particular. Occasionally, Doberman added something or asked for clarification. The hooded woman stayed quiet.
"There are at least three more missions that Revenant has planned for the Peregrine project," Doberman finally said, his tone indicating that they were about to conclude. "Your skill set makes you suited for the reconnaissance missions that he's put together, so you can count on going on all or most of them. If you observe anything unusual, we need you to report it immediately. Lives could depend on it."
"If I might ask, am I looking for anything in particular?" Dryad probed.
The hooded woman stirred, drawing questioning glances from Wolf and Doberman. She had a crisp and precisely modulated voice, like that of a drill instructor.
"Whether or not," she stated, "he is still a Blackguard in the service of Syn."
All of a sudden, it was all too clear why they wanted Dryad to be the one doing the reporting. She felt a familiar icy tingle at the tips of her fingers, creeping up her hand and walking spider-wise up her arm.
"It doesn't work that way," Dryad said, rubbing her gauntleted hands together distractedly to get the feeling back into them. "I can't control or direct it, like a weapon or a spell. It's more like a disease than anything else. I can't... detect... taint or curses or anything like that. You're going to need a proper healer."
"They were unable to find anything out of the ordinary," Wolf rumbled.
Dryad shrugged helplessly. "Then I don't have any further insight to add. I'm not a priest. I'm only human like the rest of us. I shall keep an eye on the situation, but I'm afraid that's all I can offer to do."
"It's all any of us can do," Doberman murmured to himself.
Dryad winced at the truth of the statement. Midoran had, of course, withdrawn his support when he'd revealed his true face. They were people without powers, without resources, without allies in a world where everyone else had an overabundance of all three. Ingenuity, intelligence, determination and harsh experience. That was all they had. That, and faith.
Surprisingly—or perhaps not so surprisingly—it had proven to be enough. Just barely.
"Edge is next on the list; if we don't find somewhere soon, we're going to have a disaster on our hands," said Wolf.
Dryad nodded, feeling her mouth go dry. She'd been on the team that had helped sort out Crag after the Gnolls had invaded. Then there was the latest crisis at Aeyrie... one of the biggest sites, under lockdown and in quarantine...
But everywhere they'd gone, everywhere they'd tried, had been too dangerous. Too much time had been lost. Half a year ago, a year ago, a year and a half ago, this would have been a far easier task. Now it was next to impossible. Jet should have been the solution. Jet should have been abandoned when they'd found it.
Well... pulling hope and miracles out of thin air was part of the job description after all. There were those who would see that attitude as an example of Midoran arrogance and bravado. Personally, she preferred to think of it as faith.
"We'll do our best," promised Dryad.
She prayed that would be enough. |
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Chapter II
Posted: 25 Oct 2006 06:30 AM |
*** Chapter II: The Shadowmancer ***
Ruby Stockade stood for years as Midor's first and foremost defense against the Hill Giants of the Mountain King's realm, aptly named "Kingdom".
At that time, the Midoran Defender Outpost was rather a gateway to the farmlands of the city, rather than truly a defensive position. The true defense was Umber Stockade, a defensive outpost dedicated to keeping and managing the eastern roads secure.
This state of reality has changed when Umber Stockade, under the command of Colonel Valentine's officers, shamefully fell to a sudden attack of kobolds.
What was once Umber Stockade, in perhaps the most shameful military operation in history, became known as the Kobold Fortress for years to come. The nigh-impossibility of sending supplies to Ruby Stockade with the fall of Umber brought its forces into full retreat and reposition into the Defender's Outpost, which now became a crucial and last defense of the Midoran eastern border.
* * *
Images flashed before Dryad's eyes as she made her way towards Kingdom, the Realm of the Mountain King.
Whispers of a hissing voice…
Do not go there!
Dryad covered her ears. The Void flashed before her eyes again; the same void that covered her in the unknowable darkness.
"Dryad," a voice became from behind her. Was it real or false? "Dryad, are you certain you are capable of this undertaking?"
She turned behind her. It was Comet, an unexpected addition to the group. Revenant and Piglet were a short way before them, discussing between themselves, probably of the mission ahead.
Ruby Stockade was to be cleansed of the giants that took residence there for years. It was to be done quietly, discreetly, as to not alert the rest of Kingdom's giants for their companions' aid.
"I'm fine. Only bad memories."
In a sudden schink Revenant drew his sword, cutting them short as he turned behind and called "Gnolls!"
From the cavern nearby, and all around them, were the cries of gnolls as they found their prey and attacked. Sliding down the mountain slopes they already swept Revenant and Piglet into combat. Dryad and Comet remained behind them.
In a sudden flurry of sounds mingled with each other and with the painful barks of the dog-men, their ambush was cut short. "Traps!", "Sneaks!", "Kobold-Tricks!" they barked as they turned and fled for their lives.
Revenant returned his sword to it's sheathe and turned to the others, clearly stricken with confusion. "Amaranth laid traps here a while ago. It seems they served their purpose. We should continue before they reorganize."
Piglet sheathed her weapon and looked behind at Dryad and Comet, a frown slightly formed across her features. "You did not even draw your arms?"
Dryad looked at her distractedly.
"Pay attention, Dryad. Don't forget you were tasked with identifying these threats preemptively." She paused. "You volunteered in spite your condition. We are counting on you." Her words became more compassionate.
Simulacrum! You! Father! Simulacrums! The voice screamed incoherently.
Another image… blackness… fangs… canines… eyes… nightmare…
"We need to leave."
All heads were suddenly turned towards her.
"What?" Asked Revenant.
"We have an important mission here!" said Piglet.
Comet remained quiet.
"Never mind. You're right. We should keep going."
Revenant frowned. "Stay close to us from now on, Dryad."
The Kingdom already opened before them, a chain of hills and mountains from which stood tallest the volcano, sending its smoke and fire into the heavens.
Hidden deep behind the hills on the very edge of the Kingdom was Ruby Stockade. Its walls trashed, its watchtowers broken, and all that remains of its insides are the half-burnt walls and ashes of fires long past.
Only Revenant and Comet knew its location. It is old and long-forgotten by the public, not without the aid of the military trying to cover up for its failure. Revenant found it by chance, but Comet? Who knows how he knew about it. The man knew a great many things.
"Strange." Said Piglet, "No giants. You said they overwhelmed it after the evacuation."
"They have." Noted Comet. "Yet they left."
"Either they left out of boredom," Revenant added, "Or perhaps they…"
A sudden rumble came from all around them. Great footsteps of equally great beings came from all directions.
"Found out we were here?" Asked Piglet, drawing her sword.
Ten giants came towards them at speed. Comet stayed aside while the other three drew their arms in a defensive harbour.
"Get ready…" whispered Revenant. "This will not be an easy fight."
The giants came closer and closer…
"Help uses!" One of the giants called.
"They're calling for more help. We can't possibly face so many!" Piglet began searching around in search for any more answering the call.
"Help uses!" Cried another.
"dang, dang, shut them up before more hear them!" Piglet said nervously. The giants were already too close to retreat.
"They're not calling for other giants." Comet came closer, his voice calm, without alarm. "They're calling for us."
"You're kidding me-"
"Help uses! Pleases!" The first of the giants reached the group and suddenly stopped, his face filled with fright. The nine others quickly followed, stopping each in turn, each pale with panic, each begging for help, all at once.
"What noise!" Shouted Piglet over the rumble of begging giants. "Quiet! QUIET!" She screamed, and the giants obeyed on cue.
"Thanks." Said Revenant and turned to the first of the giants, his sword lowered, but still wary and ready. "What happened?"
"Mee-Doo-Ranz! Come take Stork-Aid from giants! They leave, giants comes, now they wants take Stork-Aid backs!"
Revenant frowned and looked at the others, who carried the same troubled expression on their faced. "Midorans, here?"
"Yeses! Mee-Doo-Ranz! Troo-pers! Giants fights, kill years agoes, nows they angry, come backs to haunts us!"
"Undead?" Asked Combet and added after a small pause. "Ghosts?"
"Spirits! Evil! Come kill giants and steals souls! Not want soul taken! Like soul!" A second giant intervened.
"Helps uses! Giants scared of spirits who hates because dead. You speak, maybe? Kills again maybe?" Asked a third.
Dryad looked towards the abandoned, ruined stockade. "There is nothing there. It's empty."
"Nothings?" Asked the first.
"Maybe only you see them because only you killed them." Added Comet with a mischievous grin on his face. "I suggest you flee from this place forever, unless they steal your souls forever."
The ten looked at each other wide-eyed.
"For evers?" Asked the first.
Comet nodded.
"That too longs!" He cried. "We want fight spirits. Come manies giants with clabs! Not hurt spirits! Spirits hurt giants! Friend dead. Not more. We goes. Never comes back."
With that, the giants took a turn and fled towards the volcano, too frightened to notice the easy prey standing short before them.
"Now." Said Comet. "Shall we investigate this spirit mystery?"
* * *
Ruby Stockade was as empty on the inside was it was on the outside.
"Just as Dryad said. Nothing." Said Comet, searching around the stockade as the group scouted the area.
Piglet let out a breath. "And I almost thought Little P was waiting for us here. No swords and no ghosts."
Revenant continued to search the stockade. Not a single building was left unscathed. Every wall ruined. Every wall burned. "This place is more like a battleground rather than an abandoned fortress."
They stopped in front of the war room, or what was left of it – a door and what remains of the wall that framed it. Everything else was broken and burnt to ashes, including the inside. Comet stepped towards the door, tracing the frame with his finger.
"What is it?" Revenant asked, taking a step closer to Comet.
Without a word, Comet opened the door and stepped through…
"What the-?!" He took a step back from the door.
Comet has vanished.
"After him!" He called and went through the door, vanishing in the same manner. Soon followed Piglet, and shortly after came Dryad, all disappearing into the unknown.
In the once again quiet stockade, the ashes of the former war room spelled the decorated letter "N".
The signet of Nailamne.
* * *
Revenant stood alone. All around him was darkness.
Inside the darkness appeared a small spot of light, like a lone star in the night's sky. Unwillingly, Revenant was drawn towards it.
Soon the light came closer and bigger, a wholeness of reality encompassed him as he was drawn into his unknown destination.
The light that was all around him faded, and Revenant found himself among the clouds, gazing down upon the entire landmass of Vives. Still he kept being drawn closer to the earth, faster and faster until he was forced to shut his eyes as he dropped to the world's floor.
When he opened them again, he was once more in blackness, this time two dots of reddish lights, like two red stars, gazed back at him.
Instinctively, without thought, he asked. "Who are you?"
A figure stepped forward, light from no real source unveiling his features.
"I am our fear. I am you. Revenant."
When he opened his eyes again, he witnessed a whole new sight.
* * *
Dryad was standing in darkness; an endless and lightless place where blackness was above, below and all around her.
She had to find something here, in this endless void.
She walked around the vast emptiness. She walked and walked for what might've been minutes, hours, or even years. Did time really matter in such place? Where was she at all?
Suddenly, she saw dark green from afar; a hint of existence which she gladly accepted as her destination.
As she came closer to this vague colour she found herself within its realm; a small, dark, tangled forest where trees were thorns and leaves were poison. It was twisted, and she knew it for what it is – it was her again. In the center of the forest, floating in the endless darkness, was the twisted figure of the once-dryad; Ali'lla.
Dryad stepped closer to her. She did not seem to notice her presence.
"Ali'lla." She called weakly.
The once-dryad turned around, no longer holding the majestic yet twisted beauty she did in existence.
She appeared… old… a hag…
"Ah… a visitor." She hissed. "Come to visit at last? I thought you had forgotten about old Ali'lla."
Dryad was quiet. Still images of the Great Creeper and Ali'lla haunted her.
"I knew you would come to this place. In here you have made the future inevitable."
"What are you talking about?"
"Doors, Simulacrum. Always there are doors to be opened, choices to be made, paths to take. You have taken a path which you cannot leave."
"I don't understand."
Ali'lla stepped closer to Dryad, looking into her eyes, squinting. "You cannot understand, and I cannot tell you. When this ends I will find my solace. I am as selfish in my nonexistence as I was before."
"Why did you warn me then?"
Ali'lla jabbed her chest with a twisted talon, the fingernail a thorn. "Fear is not a thing easily forgotten. You will see in due time, as matters unfold. I cannot see the future, but there is a reason I wanted you here in spite my fear."
Dryad stayed silent, waiting for Ali'lla to continue, yet she did not speak. The two stared at each other's eyes, yet Ali'lla's gaze was far more piercing, far more demanding, and Dryad's gave in.
"Will you not ask me what it is?" She grinned.
"What is the reason, Ali'lla? And where am I?" She posed the two questions demandingly.
"Ah, not one question but two, and so demanding you are. Do not hide yourself from me. I know your fears." She hissed.
All around the twisted forest dark tentacles began to form from the trees.
"To your first question... I cannot see the threads of the future, but I know of one who can. You will know when you meet her. Ask her the simple questions, for only they will give you true insight."
The tentacles grew larger, bigger, longer, and merged with each other to form a web of blackness which continued to spread across the woods.
"And the second question?"
Ali'lla turned and walked away from Dryad. "You will soon see. As for now…"
She turned to her again from a distance. "I suggest you run."
Suddenly the familiar sea of blackness erupted at speed, closing upon Dryad from all directions. Her heart doubled its beats, adrenaline rushed through her veins, and she ran.
She ran as fast as she could, faster than she thought herself capable, the sea of blackness taking speed behind her and surrounding her.
She was not fast enough.
Dryad shut her eyes as tightly as she could. Once again she was surrounded by the Void.
When she opened her eyes anew, a new world waited for her.
* * *
"Revenant! Dryad!" The familiar voice of Piglet called.
The two opened their eyes and saw her, their expression betraying confusion.
"You were just standing there, with that blank stare. What happened?"
They stood in the centre a vast hall, decorated like a king's castle. Six pillars held the roof, three on each their sides. A wide, red carpet covered the floor, leading to the only door at the end of the hall. Beautiful candelabras stood next to each pillar and near the walls, and a huge chandelier was hanging from the roof, casting a bright light all over the hall. The walls were decorated with paintings. On the other side of the wall, opposing to the door, was a large banner with the decorated letter "N" upon it.
Nailamne.
A tack upon the ground sounded and the creek of a door opened.
"They were where I wanted them." A black-robed figure stepped in, leaning on a wooden staff with the signet of Nailamne on its edge.
Revenant noticed the signs and quickly got to his senses. "What is this trap you've drew us into, warlock of the black tower?"
The man laughed. "Trap? You were the ones intruding upon my sanctuary, Revenant."
"That was not our intention." Said Comet, the first to enter the halls of the black mage.
"Indeed? Perhaps not theirs, but I think you knew you were not crossing the doorway to a ruined war room, didn't you?" The mage arched an eyebrow.
"Perhaps I noticed there were makings upon the frame." He replied.
"Indeed so. I had hoped the giants would be the only intruders I would have to deal with. And here I stand with four enigmatic humans entering my abode and calling me names. I am almost insulted enough to put you all back in stasis." He smiled. "Almost."
The four remained quiet, watching the mage with wary eyes.
"Really, is there a need to be so wary of me? I have done nothing to put you in harm's way to far. Allow me to introduce myself."
He bowed.
"The name is Alistair De La Garde, formerly of Nailamne, as you seem to have noticed."
"De La Garde?" Asked Piglet.
"Yes, yes, but I doubt you've heard the name... you Midorans being so self-absorbed and being completely ignorant of anything outside your walls. If you -must- know, it's a distinguished name from Upper Port Royale. Oh, but Ka'azim did not like the nature of my work at all."
"And what work would that be, that Ka'azim would unwelcome it?" Posed Revenant.
"Dear boy, I am neither necromancer nor a conjurer of fiends. I simply study the darker side of our magical world. How am I to be blamed for the ignorance of others?"
"We've not come to learn of your biography, warlock. We were unfortunate enough to stumble on your home, and shall leave."
Alistair's face hardened, his expression growing suddenly serious.
"I fear your coming here is indeed most unfortunate for you…"
Piglet snapped. "If that is a threat, then I'll have you-"
"Please!" He interrupted. "If you mean to be so distrustful I will wave my hand and send you on your merry way along with whatever trouble you have brought yourself into."
"What do you mean?" Asked Revenant.
"Surely you did not forget your little venture into Onyx Stockade and your dealings with that poor excuse for a dryad."
"Who are you to know that?"
"Please, your minds are like open books for me to read. Some of it, at the very least. Fear tells a lot about the person it sits within."
"Fear?" Asked Dryad.
"Oh yes, my latest research."
The mage waved his hand and suddenly they were someplace else. A small room decorated with magical instruments and covered with wards, in the center of which stood a warded cage with a black hound inside.
"Madness!" called Revenant. "You trapped a Synspawn in your abode!"
The image flashed across Dryad's eyes again… blackness… fangs… canines… eyes… nightmare…
Before them, trapped by the mage's magic, was a Nightmare Hound.
"Oh, I agree I am quite mad. What do I have to lose? It's fascinating. I have extracted so much from studying this manifest. Why, an example would that little nightmare you've experienced before you came here?"
Dryad frowned. "You mean…"
"Indeed! Nightmare!" he boasted. "Even though the parameters are faulted and caused an intervention, the look on your faces simplifies the result; success!"
"Intervention?" Asked Revenant.
"Yes, and I am not sure from where. Perhaps the missing parameters left room for random thoughts to slip in, but who can really turn? You ended up well and alive, unlike many citizens of Brandibuck who first encountered this horrid manifestation. I will have to study the phenomena in the course of the future. In any case…"
The mage waved his hand and they were once again the great hall.
"… As I was saying, this trouble you have put yourself in. I regret to say I cannot tell you much about it."
"And why would that be?" Piglet posed skeptically..
"Because I am unable to. You've chosen to walk along this path, regardless of whether you foresaw the consequences."
"You know more than what you've allegedly read in our minds, warlock." Claimed Revenant.
"Irrelevant. Go to Onyx Stockade and look for the Eye of the Serpent."
"What?" The four asked simultaneously.
"That's the only hint I can give you. Perhaps you can prevent all of this before it really begins."
"We will not simply go on a quest by the advice of a mad warlock!" Hissed Piglet.
"Do as you will. It matters little to me. Once you find the Eye of the Serpent, bring it to me here if you wish. If you fail to find it, do not bother returning to this place. Go to Obisidan Stockade. I think a more solid hint can be found there."
The mage twiddled his fingers. "Ta-ta now! And good luck!"
"Wait!" Called Revenant, but it was too late.
They once again stood upon the ruins of the stockade.
"dang! Another place completely unsuitable! This is a disaster!" Piglet moaned.
"We will report back at Spiderweb. Nothing more can be done here." Said Revenant.
"Not here." Dryad replied. "We need to go back to Jet."
"Dryad, we have already searched the place when you were treated. There is nothing there to be found."
"I know, but I got a strange feeling…"
"Perhaps it will yield results, in case the warlock spoke truth." Came support from Comet.
Revenant paused, looking at Dryad and Comet, considering, calculating.
"We will go at sunlight, and only as far as the yard."
* * *
The way to the Stockade was uneventful; more so than it should have been.
The Midor Forest was unnaturally quiet, vacant. A sense of disturbance and dread covered it like a curtain.
"The forest is too quiet for my liking." Said Revenant.
"Something disturbed it. It is not natural." Mused Dryad. "A man recently passed here, walking with a staff, probably. He was headed towards Jet."
Dryad lifted her head from the ground to look at the others. Worry was evident on everyone's faces, and they made haste to follow the tracks to towards the clearing, and indeed into Onyx Stockade.
"I don't like this at all." Said Piglet. "Nor do I like us going after the advice of that warlock."
"Neither do I." Agreed Revenant. "But we have made a discovery here nonetheless. Someone has passed here recently. We will see soon enough, I think.
They were already close upon the clearing when a powerful light flashed before them and a flurry of missiles could be seen shooting from between the treetops shooting towards the sky.
"What was that?!" Asked Piglet.
"I think we will find that out soon enough." Answered Comet.
"I'm not sure I want to."
When they reached the stockade, it appeared undisturbed in spite of the magical performance. Once they reached the yard, Revenant held up his hand in order for them to stop.
"There's nothing here but the tracks. They're leading towards Ali'lla's lair." Said Dryad.
"Whoever made them was also kind enough to shatter every ward we have put." Comet added and looked towards the medical tent. "The one on the door to her lair still stands, but I believe it was assaulted as well."
"Then someone has made an attempt to reach Ali'lla's lair." Concluded Revenant. "Is it possible he were successful?"
"Impossible. The ward we've put on the door still stands, and no single mage could break it." Answered Comet.
"Unless he went around it." Dryad added. "Is that possible?"
"Theoretically, yes, but-"
"We have no time to discuss that now. We need to report back to Spiderweb." Revenant Interrupted. "We are already placing ourselves in great risk by just being here, especially with the wards broken."
* * *
In record speed, the group returned to Spiderweb and back to Onyx Stockade with one of the mages responsible to erecting the seals and wards inside.
The findings were conclusive. Someone passed through to the Stockade and breached the mages' wards. Another failed attempt was made to breach the most powerful ward upon the trap door.
Back in Spiderweb, a decision was made as to the operation's continuity. The occurrences at Onyx and Ruby stockades are to be put aside for the time being, and attention is to be returned to the original purpose of the operation.
They were running out of time…
Obsidian Stockade will be their next target… and their greatest undertaking. |
WickedArtist: I think he needs a proper elf.
WickedArtist: A christmas elf!
Tasra: Any sort of elf that actually smiles ;o
Gasp! Scandalous!!! |
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Interval
Posted: 27 Oct 2006 03:02 PM |
*** Interval: Shadowless Light - 1st Herialdi of Myridarre 1001SD ***
She stood there, helpless.
There we no chains on her body, though she were bound. There were no bars around here, though she was caged. No hand clutched here, though she was held.
He had learned the ways of horror from its truest masters, the warlocks of Nailamne and the nightmares of Syn. He was not a powerful wizard, of the kind that could make the earth shake with a twiddle of a finger, or call forth the masters of demons with but a wave of his hand, but he had known the ways of horror; he had practiced it for a generation.
She was bound, caged, held, frozen by the sheer horror of what he was about to do. Somewhere in the depths of her heart she knew her fate now lies with the Void, and as a dryad, a creature of nature and existence and a never-ending cycle, it was a true nightmare.
If only they knew…
* * *
They stood alone in a small room.
Ali'lla stood, frozen, in the center, her eyes shut and covered by her hands from the blinding magical light that hovered before her. The light was perfectly positioned, casting the dryad's shadow so that its length was identical to hers. He probably worked through hours of precise calculations to achieve that, he must have, there was no room for mistakes. It had to be perfect, precise by the micrometer.
He walked around the room, casting his magical runes, enchanting and warding. He had to prepare everything. There was no room for mistakes. The smallest gap, the most insignificant loophole, would ruin everything.
"Ali'lla," he called.
The dryad was silent. Despair was the first step.
She lowered her hands from her eyes, wide open, and running with tears. The light had already blinded her. She could see nothing, and therein came the second step, for in her blindness she faced the unknown, and in the unknown laid Fear.
"It is time." he leaned towards her and whispered to her ear.
She was, by now, trembling. Thoughts swirled across her mind in a vortex that would challenge the Hungering Maw; thoughts of the darkest of fates and the most terrible of destinies. Her heart raced as her thoughts were nothing but waking nightmares.
The symbols around the room began to shimmer. They leeched upon the nightmares, the fear, the horror, absorbing every ounce of twisted magic that they emitted, and the shadow deepened.
Her breath no longer kept pace with the racing of her heart. In a split of a second they stopped as every muscle in her body failed, the sheer terror he had infused within her had slowly devoured her from within, and like poison it slowly but surely killed her.
But he did not want her dead.
The shadow that had been cast by the light grew as black as a starless night. It was not because not a splinter of light had reached it, but because it had rejected every single one that did.
The shadow deepened. The nightmares in her mind grew stronger, became realistic, they manifested, and the shadow became… alive.
Zacch smiled and reached for the center of the magical light, closing his palm around it as if grasping an unreal object. Immediately the light faltered, the runes faded and shimmered no more, and the room became black.
Zacch tilted his head from side to side within the sightless darkness, searching the room. It was not long before he locked his gaze and found it; a pair of reddish spots of light gazing back at him.
"C-c-c-old…" a whisper barely above the edge of hearing came.
"Do not worry, Ali'lla," he comforted, casting the simplest of incantations giving light to the room. "It is over now."
If there was any doubt of his success, it vanished there and then. In the lit room a black, incorporeal form stared back at the warlock with its tiny orbs of red, while the pale, quivering dryad stood before it, and the final piece clicked into place; the light had cast no shadow from her.
"C-c-old…" she whimpered.
He ignored her now. She was insignificant; an empty husk whose very essence and image had been stolen from so that even light ignored it.
Only the shadow had interested him.
It was not a simple shadow, the type that mages and other dabblers of black powers may conjure. It was Nightmare, and no thousand-year old sleeper had spawned it. Only him, Zacch.
He gazed upon the living nightmare.
"If only they knew…" he smiled. |
WickedArtist: I think he needs a proper elf.
WickedArtist: A christmas elf!
Tasra: Any sort of elf that actually smiles ;o
Gasp! Scandalous!!! |
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Interval
Posted: 03 Nov 2006 06:34 PM |
*** Interval: Deathtrap Cascade - 983SD to 986SD ***
What should have been a daring plan that would liberate Hardknott ended up in a cataclysm that shook the Midoran Defence Forces to the core.
Project: Obsidian – a daring plan to erect a fortress headquarters that would regulate all of Midor's out-of-border activities, as well as stand against Hardknot Fortress, the years-old stronghold for the humanoid menace – ended up in a massacre known as Deathtrap Cascade.
~ * ~
2nd Justicadi of Vyntarre, 983 SD
The seven military officers sat at the round table, watching each other amidst the eerie silence which filled the room. Two of the personnel were in fact paladins, easily distinguishable from the rest by the bright display of their armor. They were seated at each at the side of one officer, who was in the process of reading a very detailed document.
When the officer, General Edward Montgomery, laid down the excruciatingly thick bundle of papers, all eyes turned towards him.
"General, I know this is a lot to take –" One of the other officers, Captain Clarke Edison, spoke up before the General could even raise his eyes to those seated, and was just as quickly interrupted.
"—a lot to take is an understatement, Captain Edison. What you suggest is insanity. How could you possibly expect me to authorize this? The amount of effort it would consume… of resources… the people it would put at risk… have you taken this under slightest consideration?"
As always, the General's speech was hard and clear. There was no aloofness in his tone, no patronization, just a harsh authority that befitted a general. Most learned to respect the General's cold nature as an asset to the military, rather than a mirror of a cold heart.
"Surely," a third officer spoke up "If this meeting was called, there is even the slightest possibility that this plan was taken into serious consideration? Or are we here on the base of a whim?"
"Colonel Valentine, to be frank, I am here because the High Paladin summoned me here. Not for any other reason. This project you suggest is clearly a waste of our time here." General Montgomery was as straightforward as ever, his words nearly stinging in their tone. He never approved of Colonel Valentine or of his sarcastic manner.
"With all due respect," Valentine, about to respond, was cut short by Captain Edison. "If successful, this project could very well be the beginning of the entire liberation of Hardknot from the orcs."
"In addition," Valentine quickly spoke up again as he saw the General's dismissive expression. "Due to the fall of Umber Stockade to the invading kobold forces –"
"—Another of your failures, Valentine."
"Let us not go back to that. The guilt was not mine and the court found it as such. Now if we can move on to the business at hand?" The silence in the room was an obvious sign for him to continue as any. "As I was saying, with the loss of Umber Stockade and the inevitable evacuation of Ruby Stockade as a result, we have lost much of our grip over the western lands. If this grip is not reestablished and maintained, we would lose it entirely. Obsidian Outpost would only serve to tighten that grip. Not to mention that the orcs of Hardknot are becoming more of a threat, and something must be done with them. You have said so yourself!"
"Then take your three platoons and take what you've caused us to lose. Instead of taking Umber Stockade from kobolds you decide to rival Hardknot?" The General was not well known for his patience and ability to listen, but everything concerning Valentine further shortened his span.
"If you would excuse me for interrupting," One of the paladins sitting beside the General spoke up. "Before this escalates into a needless discussion on whether or not to authorize such project, I would like to inform you, General, that the High Paladin did not call you here for that purpose."
"Then why –"
"—If you would allow me to continue." The crowd was almost amazed at the audacity of cutting the General in his speech. "The High Paladin called you here simply for the purpose of informant. The project was already authorized."
"What?!" The General snapped his head from the paladin to Valentine and the rest of his officers, who all looked well aware of this, then back to the paladin. "Then this is more a waste of my time then I imagined. Let Valentine and Edison lead their daring project, if they can, and tell Uvanle I wish to speak with him."
~ * ~
4th Tetradi of Diamarre, 983 SD
From the second day of the next month, Project: Obsidian officially began. Several Hearts were sent to Hardknot in order to scout its environs. Supplies were stocked and brought unto caravans, moving one at a time under the escort of an entire platoon. On the destination site, the other two platoons as well as other workers already began construction of the outpost. Captain Edison, who originally came up with this daring plan, was chosen to head the construction project and the outpost activity thereafter.
Back in Midor, at the Academy, Colonel Valentine was called to another meeting with General Montgomery and High Paladin Uvanle.
"Uvanle, I am sure there is a good reason I am once again taken from my duties for Valentine's sake." Montgomery sat down at his seat in a small room at the academy, his displeasure not hidden.
High Paladin Johanas Uvanle sat at the head of a small table, at left was General Montgomery, and at his right was Colonel Valentine. "As always, General Montgomery. I have decided it will be wiser to include you this time as the Colonel presents his developments and plans. Colonel, please go ahead."
"Thank you, High Paladin." Valentine straightened. "As you know, or should know, construction of the Obsidian Outpost goes as per schedule, with little trouble from marauders. The orcs seem paralyzed by the numbers we display in the region."
"As am I!" The general rapidly commented. "An entire platoon to escort a caravan? I repeat myself when I say this effort is a waste of our time and resources."
"Be that as it may," Uvanle uttered these words in such a tone that could quell down that of the general himself. "The project continues regardless. Please continue, Colonel."
The smug on Valentine's face made the General even less pleased than he already was at this project, but not as much as he would be when he would hear of the following news. "As I was about to say, Captain Edison reported to me two days ago that we will be ahead of schedule if things continue so smoothly. In addition, he decided to move ahead of schedule himself and conduct Project: Obsidian Bridge already.
"Unacceptable! The outpost is not yet ready, regardless of how well it is advancing. Now you wish to pave the way for the orcs before we are even established?"
"General –"
"No, Uvanle! I have had enough of this mad project of his. We are already feeling the loss of personnel and resources that are directed to this project. We can hardly afford it any further."
General Montgomery left the room at that moment, leaving Uvanle and Valentine to themselves.
"I'm forced to express my disapproval at the General's almost biased position against this project, High Paladin."
Uvanle rose from his seat. "I have to say, Colonel, that I, myself am starting to doubt the way your project is heading. Be that as it may, I have given you full authority on it, and I hold my word. However, I advise you to take caution in your decisions. General Montgomery is correct when he says this project is costing us greatly. Prove to us it is well worth it."
~ * ~
1st Tripladi of Springarre, 984 SD
A week behind schedule, Obsidian Outpost was erected, but things went downhill long before that day. With their attention and resources split between two projects, the Hardknot orcs took advantage and began a more concentrated strike against the Midoran forces.
In particular, their attacks focused on the construction of the bridge, it being the most vulnerable to attacks. Supplies were lost, though casualties were rare, and what began smoothly and took up pace now began to slow down.
Ten days prior to the completion of the outpost, Captain Edison called a meeting with the platoon officers and director of the project. At the end, it was decided to abandon Obsidian Bridge and return full attention to the completion of the outpost, which was close at hand already.
Whatever remained of the bridge under the constant orc harassment was abandoned, and all personnel retreated into the outpost grounds. Ten days later, construction was finally completed.
Thus began the chain of Midoran inefficiency. The abandoned construction site of the bridge left many improvised routes for orcs to cross the chasm between their base and the outpost – routes that were forgotten and unobserved by the outpost guard. Only a day after the completion of the outpost, the orcs already showed up upon its doorstep.
~ * ~
1st Tetradi of Springarre, 984 SD – 2nd Herialdi of Solarre, 986 SD
The days following the completion of Obsidian Outpost proved the project as truly useless. Three platoons were effectively trapped behind their own walls, with orcs from the outside harassing and causing as much damage as they possibly could.
Day after day, hour after hour, the personnel would be kept on constant vigil as great rocks were hurled over from the distance, flaming pikes were hurled from the orcs outside, fires were ignited all along the walls, and a cacophony of taunts and boasts filled the atmosphere in both day and night. Obsidian Outpost became a burden for Midor and a joke for the orcs, who seemed to have turned it into a wicked playground.
Obsidian was clearly a failure. For two years following its completion it did not manage to stand up to half the expectations the project was given. If it were not for a few successful missions against the orcs directed by Obsidian, and the amount of effort put in it to begin with, it would have been evacuated long ago; there was still a desperate hope.
The fact remained – something had to change.
At the 2nd Herialdi of Solarre, 988 SD, all officers serving at Obsidian were called to a meeting by Captain Edison. At the meeting, Captain Edison presented a plan to resurrect Obsidian Bridge and Operation: Deathtrap. At the following days a furious exchange of letters between Edison and Valentine ended in the approval of the project. Only a day later resources and supplies were already transferred to the Obsidian site, once again under the escort of a platoon; however, Edison knew he would have to salvage much of the old project resources if he is to succeed. The entire outpost seems to have woken up from a waking dream as the resurrection began.
Within only a week after the meeting, the project came back to life.
~ * ~
4th Tripladi of Solarre, 986 SD
At the 4th Tripladi of Solarre, a letter was received by Captain Edison…
To: Captain Clarke Edison,
Bravo Company, Third Regiment, Second Division,
4th Binardi of Solarre, 986 SD,
Subject: Recall of Forces
Captain Edison,
It is under much stress in which I am forced to recall the Second Sword Platoon back to the White City.
With the resurrection of your project, of which I assure you I do not approve, Colonel Valentine had managed to "win" a fair amount of supplies that were redirected to your project. As you are undoubtedly aware, Obsidian is the first and only outpost to house three platoons; add to that the amount of resources that were spent and wasted on the project… suffice to say that all in the White City agree Obsidian is consuming too much.
Henceforth, it has been decided that you are to dismiss your Second Sword Platoon from all duty within Obsidian and recall them to the White City for different assignment.
Second Sword Platoon is expected at the White City to the 4thth Herialdi of Solarre.
General Edward Montgomery,
Chief of the Army,
With resources already spread thin at the resurrection of the project, dismissing a third of Obsidian's forces would prove disastrous…
At the 4th Silveradi of Solarre, Obsidian Outpost already housed two platoons alone.
~ * ~
5th Silveradi of Luminarre, 986 SD
Deathtrap Cascade
In spite of the unexpected shrink of personnel in Obsidian, the Obsidian Bridge project was finished due time.
Lessons were learned from the project's failure. Instead of working in an open site, vulnerable to attack from the other side of the chasm, the First Sword Platoon set up a barricaded position on that side, allowing smooth construction with both ends defended from raids.
The completion of Obsidian Bridge sent the entire outpost abuzz with cautious hope. Operation: Deathtrap could finally take place, sending a swift blow against the Hardknot orcs.
First Sword Platoon was recalled to the outpost immediately. With the bridge standing, it would no longer take such a long journey around the chasm to reach the outpost. Obsidian Bridge would mark the end of Obsidian's chain of failures…
… within seconds they found out it was the greatest failure of them all.
A cacophony of screams, clangs, cries and drums filled the night air. A stampede of orcs, horde of them, was overtaking the platoon at incredible speed. From the other side of the chasm, a second horde was assaulting from behind. First Sword Platoon, mere foots from the outpost, was stranded.
Within minutes it was massacre. Obsidian Bridge, what should have been a rousing success, became a pavement for a massive orc assault upon the outpost. The remaining platoon was miserably unsuccessful at holding back the invasion. The walls were breached, Obsidian infiltrated, and everyone within it murdered within less than an hour.
Captain Edison and a handful of surviving officers managed to escape the onslaught and flee to Midor…
~ * ~
5th Herialdi of Luminarre, 986 SD
At the same day of their return to the city, every surviving officer from Obsidian was court marshaled. The verdict was clear – they were to be executed on the following day, the 5th Herialdi of Luminarre, which had become a day of bad omen for military personnel since then. Colonel Valentine was stripped of his rank and duty in the Midoran Defence Force. Officially, though at the disapproval of the paladin order, the reason for the operation's failure was treason and cowardice.
The Obsidian Fortress disaster became a historical event named Deathtrap Cascade. From that day forth every officer within the military would be taught of the project, how it led to the disaster, the results and lessons that are to be learned from it – even paladins know of the infamous operation.
Investigations on the days following the disaster led to the outrageous conclusion that Operation: Deathtrap failed for the simple and audacious reason that no one remembered to keep watch on the orc activity when the Obsidian Bridge Resurrection took place.
Obsidian Outpost won the nickname of "Circus" among military personnel. A name that lives to this day… |
WickedArtist: I think he needs a proper elf.
WickedArtist: A christmas elf!
Tasra: Any sort of elf that actually smiles ;o
Gasp! Scandalous!!! |
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Preparations
Posted: 04 Nov 2006 01:51 AM |
They called the place Crag. It was uncomfortably close to Gnoll territory, and there had been incursions by the Gnolls in recent times. The weather was always miserable and the living conditions were appalling. Barring all that, it was defensible and conveniently situated; not an ideal place to live, but most definitely an ideal place for an outpost. Midor had thought so before they'd abandoned the place. It was why places like Crag were so ideal for their purposes: all the groundwork had already been done.
"I've procured the camping equipment and made the traps as specified," Dryad reported. Her usual diffidence was gone; in the presence of the people she knew and trusted, she was a different person — more confident, less reserved. "The traps were easy enough to make; I've also gone and made some extra ones that weren't on the list. You might find the sonic traps useful... but the downside to them is that they're hardly silent."
"I would imagine so," Revenant said dryly.
"We're all set with regards to healing supplies," Piglet added. "There are a few additional provisions here from Command as well. I get the feeling they want us back in one piece... preferably without running into overwhelming evil forces on the way." She grinned. "I tried to tell them that wasn't our fault. I really did."
"That remains to be seen," Doberman snorted. "You youngsters are a magnet for trouble."
"It's hardly our fault that evil likes to chase after us," Piglet retorted mock-seriously. "You would think that the forces of darkness would have better taste in foes. But no! They had to choose us: poor, pathetic and defenceless us."
Dryad laughed. "Midorans? Defenceless? Hah."
"But of course. We're harmless pacifists." Piglet stood and placed a hand over her heart, adopting the patriotic pose that one often found on recruitment posters. "Our message is one of love, peace and harmony. Didn't you know?"
Revenant winced. "Don't even joke about that." He waved her to sit down; she complied. "I've got the explosives, but carrying them around will be an issue. We're going to have to think of some way to transport them before the mission begins. Until then, we're going to have to learn to work with the Renegade squad and go through all our drills with them."
Piglet made a face. "Weren't they responsible for the Deathtrap Disaster?"
"Bureaucrats were responsible for the disaster," Doberman harrumphed. "The soldiers were made the scapegoats."
"Typical," said Piglet.
"We're scheduled for a demonstration in ten minutes." Revenant glanced at Dryad, who nodded. "So you'll be meeting them soon enough. Then you can judge for yourself."
"Martyr's a good officer," Doberman said simply.
Dryad stood and hefted a heavy, lumpy bag. The mechanical parts within clanked and clattered noisily. There were spike traps that could take down a charging bull; a number of gas traps of minor strength that were nevertheless deadly under the right circumstances; fire and acid and sonic and electrical traps, all of varying strength and design...
"If that's all, then, I'll get the trap demonstration set up," Dryad said. "This time around, the Deathtrap Disaster won't take place on our side." |
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Chapter III
Posted: 11 Nov 2006 02:20 AM |
*** Chapter III: Trouble at the Circus ***
A lone path winding its way up to the top of a high plateau was the only way to reach the old Obsidian Fortress standing close upon its edge. It was a perfect defensive position, and Midor recognized it when they chose the plateau as the location for Project: Obsidian.
The plateau was a small uplift in the landscape, edging the cliffs of the gorge of Hardknott Pass, a deep chasm forming between the two. Obsidian Bridge became the only way to cross that chasm, forming a path that leads down towards the pass and towards a cliff-bound tarn, in which stood the gates to the old fortress.
Dryad observed the tarn and the gorge, the heavy rain making it nigh-impossible for the untrained eye to see further than a few yards ahead. A short distance next to her was Obsidian Bridge, and the new-old fortress on the plateau beyond.
"Only a small watch," she said when she reached back to the Renegade encampment, concealed by two high cliffs from each side and a long bridge from above. "Three scouts, maybe four, and they look like they slumber along with the rest of their fortress. We'll get no trouble from there."
"Good," said Revenant. "It will be a miracle as it is if everything will go according to plan as it is. The last thing we need is another Hardknott invasion."
"But we're all about pulling miracles out of nowhere, right?" Grinned Piglet.
"I sure hope you live up to your own expectations."
The remark came from no other than Clarke Edison, the former military captain who was in charge of Project: Obsidian. While all the officers fled like a flock of sheep to Midor after the Deathtrap Cascade, he remained doubtful he would meet any brighter fate there than he would face with the orcs. Only a few survivors shared these thoughts.
They were the Renegades; traitors and deserters in the eyes of Midor. They returned to haunt the usurpers of their lost project on perfect cue with the arrival of the Exiles; Revenant and the others.
Clarke Edison, known as Martyr, was a young and promising officer at the day, shooting through the ranks with a continuous streak of victories for the Midoran Defence Force. By now he became an old and bitter war veteran, on the sole purpose of winning back what took his successful life from his very grip. To stand against a fortress of mountain orcs – former captain Edison and his men were still, undeniably Midoran.
"Of course!" Piglet assured. "We've faced worse."
Revenant waved his hand dismissively. "We won't pull any miracle out of anything unless we begin."
"What about the explosives?" Asked Martyr.
"Right here!" Came a call followed by two loud thumps on wet rock as Doberman laid down two heavy barrels on the earth. Behind him was a half-burnt wagon threatening to fall apart at every slight rattle. At its side was a wide, black veil with tentacles protruding from its surface.
Piglet laughed. "You disguised yourself as a Creeper?"
"It was his idea." He moaned and looked at Revenant.
Revenant grinned. "The kobolds and orcs are terrified of the things. Don't ask me how they even know of their existence."
Piglet examined the black tentacled veil poorly sewn together. "Either they were terrified of approaching it at night, or they were too busy laughing at how stupid this is."
"It brought them here, regardless." Doberman replied snappishly. "Which means we can start work on the first stage before sun rises and we'll have to wait here a whole day with a bomb in our hands."
"Right," Revenant snapped into work and spread out a map depicting the path from the gates of Obsidian Fortress, titled 'Circus', to the Obsidian Bridge, titled 'Snare'. He pointed at several, multicoloured X markings on the map. "These are the locations the traps must be set; orange for fire, gray for spike, green for gas, yellow for sonic and blue for electric."
He rapidly pointed at each X as he explained and just as quickly folded the map and handed it over to Dryad. "Get to it."
Dryad nodded and gathered her equipment, gesturing towards a nearby sack. "Be careful with that."
"Since when did your report include me as a pack mule?" Doberman moaned as he hefted the clattering sack full of trapping mechanisms."
Revenant was already busy tying two sets of rope around each barrel, forming uncomfortable straps that will allow him and Piglet to carry them towards their own destination – Obsidian Bridge.
"We'll have to set those beneath the two sides of the bridge and prepare an ignition fuse for each. I have those covered myself so they wouldn't get wet." Revenant said as he already lifted one of the kegs on his back.
With a simultaneous, silent nod the four departed. Former Captain Edison watched them as they walked in opposite directions, slowly vanishing behind a lightless veil of ever-falling droplets cutting through the air like tiny needles pushed forward by the persistent wind.
* * *
"I'd say no one is home."
Dryad stood before the double-gate of Obsidian Fort, two wooden doors framed and reinforced by a metallic skeleton of iron planks, staring emptily towards the bridge a short distance before it. Two towers elevated from the stone walls, bearing gaps within their structure to allow a safe firing position for the marksmen. On the very top of each tower, accessible through a metallic ladder, were large ballistae, now tarnished. A gauntlet of barricades and other man-made obstructions, along with the natural ones of the plateau, ran its way from the gates to the close end of the bridge. Two additional towers stood from behind the fortress walls, taller than the ones near the gate yet bearing the same structural gaps and ruined ballistae on top.
Those were the frontal fortifications of Obsidian – a death trap never brought into fruition.
"Probably taking cover from this storm…" Doberman guessed, and after a short pause added, "Unnatural thing…"
"They put more effort in fortifying these gates than the gates of Midor itself." said Dryad, "How could they lose all of this to mere orcs? To anyone?"
"That's where the bureaucracy comes to place." explained Doberman, "They were short-handed. One platoon was called back into Midor. As for the other two; one defended the fortress from within, while the last defended the construction site of the bridge." Doberman paused and looked towards the deathtrap gauntlet running from the bridge towards them. "They couldn't run such operation in the heart of orc territory under such stress. When the project was completed, they became the mouse in their own trap. The bridge platoon never managed to reach the fortress alive, and one platoon alone could not man the entire place."
"So they did really need all these men." Concluded Dryad.
"Aye. Edison was a fine captain, and knew exactly what he was about to face." Doberman took on a grim expression. "It was only the petty squabbles of the higher hierarchy which recalled one of the platoons. They weren't really needed at all; just Montgomery showing off his authority to Valentine."
Dryad turned from the gates back to Doberman, who noticed the pleased smile on her face.
"The sonic traps are set just like Revenant wanted. If an orc tried to cross these gates, the cacophony would bring the entire fortress to its feet."
Doberman scanned the area between the gate and the bridge. "So he wants the orcs to run the gauntlet. Trap them like they trapped us years ago." He mused.
"Do you think it will work?"
"If it appears like we're small enough to be easily overtaken, their bloodlust will do our work for us. They'll walk right through all of this to catch the culprits." Explained Doberman. "The sonic ones are here to strike the flame. He wants the cacophony to raise the fortress to its feet."
"So we're off to resurrect Operation: Deathtrap for a third time." Said Dryad and started walking the gauntlet.
"Aye…" whispered Doberman to himself, an unfitting troubled expression took his face as he caught a silhouette in the distance, his thoughts turning from their mission as he mechanically followed Dryad.
* * *
"It is getting unusually cold here," Piglet said, examining the clouded sky.
Revenant was close below her, bent over the edge of Obsidian Bridge and tying an explosive barrel in the corner formed between the bridge and the steep cliff.
"The storm keeps the orcs locked up. It gives us plenty of room to set and prepare. That's why I've chosen this day." Revenant tried to dismiss the comment.
"Will the explosives work in all this rain?"
"That's one of the reasons they're set below the bridge. The fuse will be coiled below it as well." Explained Revenant. "They're safe from getting wet, at least for long enough to allow us to execute the plan. Besides, I have backup." Revenant straightened and gave her a meaningful grin.
"We're done now?" Asked Piglet.
Revenant nodded. "And here they come, just in time." He inclined his head over the two figures stepping towards them, each saluting in turn and returned a salute from both.
"Only two traps left here, and then we can get back to camp and prepare the renegades." said Dryad after their formal greeting ended and added. "We're ahead of schedule too."
"Good." He approved. "We have plenty of time, then. Set those last two and we'll get on the way. Captain Edison is waiting for a briefing."
Dryad nodded and got on her work. As soon as she was done setting the last two snares on each side of the bridge, they made their way down towards the camp. Everything was perfectly executed so far.
Soon, all hell will break loose.
* * *
Revenant stood before the large crowd, two torches a bonfire the only source of light under the cloud-veiled night sky. Captain Edison and his men either sat or stood around the bonfire and torches, some out in the open, some sat at the entrance to their small tents which they called home for god-knows how long. Some made themselves comfortable in the shadows between the lights, their image obscured. Piglet, Dryad and Doberman were with the latter. All hopes were raised to these mysterious strangers, appearing out of nowhere with a daring plan, though they only ever saw Revenant in person – the others did well to keep themselves mingled and hidden, just as they did now. Some faces were obviously too young to have belonged in the original expedition of Project: Obsidian, those were likely refugees who have stumbled their way along to this place. They were not so different from Revenant and his own, and perhaps it is that unspoken notion that brought them together.
"Once the sun rises," he began, "The orcs will resume their daily routine, regardless of the storm or not. These are mountain orcs and are used to these conditions, even if we are not. The storm played in our favour so far, but it may now become a hindrance. We cannot spare the time to wait for the weather to settle."
"We've fought these orcs in such storm when they took Obsidian from us." said one of the older men – a survivor from the original conflict. "We're replaying history here."
"Regardless of the storm, I can't lie and say we are not overwhelmed as it is," he continued, "We are outnumbered, under-equipped and weary from our work so far. That is why we can never hope to face this enemy in battle and win."
"Then what have we done so far?" asked one of the youngsters.
"We've prepared a gauntlet for them. As you yourselves have just said, we are replaying history. The obstacle-course of Deathtrap still stands, and we have resurrected it for our own means. Our goal is to draw the orcs outside their walls and into this gauntlet, where their numbers will dwindle under the traps we've set and their anger greatened."
"Won't this cause them to retreat to the safety of their fortress?" asked the older veteran.
"Not if we appear small enough to be easily overtaken, but still capable of causing damage and seething their anger. The sight of Midoran uniform will only add to their bloodlust in this old feud. To draw them out we will be forced to face them in front their own gates, and hold position in hope they will empty most of their fortress to overwhelm us. Then we will retreat past the gauntlet and to the other side of the bridge."
All eyes were turned towards their intended destination, all knowing well the threat standing on the other side – Hardknott Fortress. They did not need to utter a word for Revenant to read their thoughts: surely these few traps will not diminish an entire army of orcs?
"On the bridge we will make our final stand. Only half of our people will do that, while the other half advance from behind, led by Captain Edison (they still referred to him by rank – a memory of these unforgettable days) and two of my companions. I myself will lead the 'bait', as we will call it, and my fourth companion will aid us in making our stand at the bridge."
Revenant gave a meaningful glance to one of the figures in the shadows, which seemed most comfortable and suited to them. The hidden figure nodded.
"One that is done, Captain Edison's group will take them from behind while my own rapidly move around to their aid. When we join forces, we will move against the fortress itself and those who still remain within it."
"And how do we breach its gates if they close them?"
Revenant looked at the same figure concealed in the darkness and simply answered. "We will ensure they are opened for us."
The men began to look anxious at this mysterious plan, uncomfortably talking among each other in hushed tones.
"I put my full trust in these people." Captain Edison climbed to his feet and took place by Revenant. All eyes were turned to him, ears attentive to hear his words. "One of them I served with myself in my days, before this abominable project took place. If it were not for them, we would have been forced to leave and likely part from each other. This battle for Obsidian has given us a common purpose to stand together as true Midorans; the wretched god who claimed the throne of our city will not and can not steal that from us."
There were no cheers of battle cries. No voices were raised in praise of some god or philosophy. Their only response was a silent, understanding nod of men who had nothing left but to struggle for what they believed in; that as long as they continued to fight, Midor will not die to the red usurpers and their tyrant god. Revenant and his peers knew this feeling well. They were all men, some barely more than children (even Revenant himself), who in a matter of days were reborn into this cruel reality of constant struggle.
Doberman looked towards the orange-tinted clouds in the horizon. In but two hours, the battle of Obsidian will begin…
* * *
Meanwhile…
In a place light has forsaken…
"Do you know what it is?" asked a hooded figure.
The room he sat in was dark, uninviting, and pervading horror from its very walls. A brazier lit with a white-blue flame gave the only source of light, hanging from the ceiling in the center of the hall above a round table of black and white marble. Five chairs were spread in equal distances around the table, one of which was larger and more majestic than the other four, two at each its sides. A small, oval-shaped crystal was set near the center of the
Three figures sat around the table – the great chair and another remained empty.
"Val'khor sent it here. Why did he not come here himself as of yet?" one of the other figures responded.
"Val'khor is dead." claimed the third figure.
"A bold assumption, Xivlixai." the first figure responded. "I assume it is your common heritage which grants you such majestic knowledge?"
"Perhaps it is, Markinai. I would not expect you to understand anything of our own kin." Xivlixai answered aloofly. "But to settle your curiosity, I will only remind you that I am a competent seer."
Markinai hissed in defeat.
"This news is most dire, Xivlixai, and highly unlikely." claimed the second speaker, whose name was Kael. "Val'khor, in spite of his many flaws, is still a competent wizard. He is overkill for that dryad and her schemes, cunning as though they may be."
"Yet he was sent and gifted us something without returning with an explanation." Xivlixai countered. "Either he found it elsewhere from the dryad's domain, or he fell into one of her many trappings."
"Perhaps the answer sits here." Interrupted Markinai, holding the small crystalline object between his fingers.
The crystal was clearly not of the natural gems of the land. First and foremost, it was far beyond the size these gems are naturally found. Secondly, it was freezing to the touch. Third, it was not in any natural colour – clouds of black and teal seemed move within it, as if struggling as to which will dominate its surface entirely.
"Do you make anything of it?" Asked Xivlixai, half seriously, half mockingly.
"We will have to present it to Voyevoid." Suggested Markinai. "Maybe even to Alistair."
That last addition did not bode well for Kael, who snapped at the name. "And what will that help; when we are within this dream world he has hidden himself in, our minds open to his mad experiments?!"
"Voyevoid will decide." Concluded Xivlixai.
"Then we wait for his return from the province?" Asked Kael, his manner betraying his impatience.
"For now," Replied Xivlixai. "We could begin studying this clue gifted to us. It appears vaguely Helkrine…"
* * *
Back in the Wastelands, on the renegade camp blow the stone bridge connecting between Obsidian Fort and Hardknott, Revenant prepared for their disembark towards their mission. The usual armor he wore was now replaced by a set of old infantry uniform, as was the case with Doberman and Piglet. The wind outside subsided and the flow of water from the heavens calmed somewhat, but the thick layer of clouds relentlessly held their position in the sky. The growing light of day little-managed to pierce through the cover of storm, but enough for the capability of far-sight, or at least far enough.
"I never thought I'd wear Midoran uniform again like this." Revenant sighed as he stepped outside one of the tents, the rest of the men finalizing their own preparations for battle. "It does bring back memories."
Edison snorted in response. "The cross they feature was never that wretched god's. It symbolizes duty." He jabbed his finger on cross featured upon Revenant's uniform, first to the upper arm of the cross, to the lower arm, to the horizontal arms, and then to the intersection of the four, speaking for each in turn. "Duty to your superiors, duty to your subordinates, duty to your peers, and duty to oneself is what it means. They don't teach that anywhere in the military. It is something you learn after years of being Midoran and fighting for it."
For the first time in a long time, Revenant genuinely smiled.
"The two groups are ready." Piglet strode up and returned the two to the urgent matters at hand. "The best of our marksmen were sent to the bait team, with whatever ammunition we have left. The best of our fighters were sent to the second team that will attack from the back."
Revenant nodded his approval.
"Both teams are ready for departure." She added.
"Then we begin. Piglet, you are in charge of the attack team along with the Captain." Revenant grew fond of calling Edison 'Captain' like the rest of his men. "I will be in charge of the bait team. Doberman will accompany you with the creeper disguise in pack." He paused at her odd expression and added. "-- Just in case. Dryad has her own special assignment, and I've already briefed her."
Piglet nodded, and drawn into the general atmosphere, she saluted to Revenant and Edison, who returned the salute before she and the Captain departed with the group (not before Edison and Revenant offered their own salutation). Dryad had already departed, and Revenant began leading his own men around and up the cliff to the Hardknott-side of the bridge, while Piglet turned to the Obsidian-side. For the first time in a long time, the renegade camp was barren. Somewhere, a slender figure dressed in white stood and watched as the groups departed, and took its own turn in the wastelands. The match for Obsidian began.
* * *
Bang… Bang… Bang! … Bang!!! … BANG!!!
Revenant and two men banged upon the heavy gates of Obsidian. The unpleased grunts of the mountain orcs carried over the wind from the other side.
"Midor has come to claim what belongs to them!" Revenant called as loud as he could.
There was no answer aside from more grunts.
"The Midorans challenge Obsidian to a battle!" Called one of the older veterans; one who fought in the original battle of the Obsidian.
This time they received an answer. A volley of bolts made its way towards the two representatives standing closest to the gates, though missing its target. "Ob-seed-yen Orcs rule fort now!" Called a thick voice from the top of the left gate-tower, "We many. You few! We win already! What you say about that?!"
A harsh sound of orc laughter responded to the words of the orc representative, standing on top of the tower where the ruined ballistae stood.
"Our answer is this!" Called Revenant and signaled one of the men in the back, an arrow swiftly made its way in deadly precision into the representative's chest and fell him from the top of his tower to the cold earth.
Another volley of arrows flew from the gaps of the towers towards the group. Revenant and his companion drew their shields and made their way back to the rest of the men, and along with two other shielded fighters they created a defensive harbour around the three marksman, wielding crossbows. In precise timing and exceptional aim, the veteran marksmen managed to slip their arrows into the gaps and to the orc marksmen, whose arrows failed upon the wall of shield formed by Revenant and his men.
The unpleased grunts now turned into cries of frustration and anger as every attempt to fell the organized team met with a swift and deadly response. From the other side of the gate could be heard the sound of orcs hurrying with club, sword, axe and shield smashing against each other in pathetic barbarism.
"They're finally getting the hint." Revenant said and broke into the defensive harbour to treat one of the shield-bearers when a crossbow bolt managed to slip its way past the wall.
With a loud, deafening creak the gates open and the orcs poured through, a dozen of them, when a thunder preceded the lightning that flashed in the sky – the sonic traps were activated and the very walls shook at the multiple ear-tearing bursts of pandemonium. The orcs were struck in place as the deafening cacophony continued to ring mercilessly in their heads. The harbour swiftly cleared its way as the three marksmen began picking the marauders one by one with well-aimed shots. When all dozen fell, the harbour swiftly closed around them again to counter against another volley of bolts from the tower. Only two made it past the shields and Revenant hurried to break and treat the injured.
"Seven versus twelve, and all seven stand still!" Revenant called in mockery, somewhere enjoying this childish notion over the danger of battle and fatality. "Where is the Obsidian might now?"
At that, the fortress rumbled again, but this time not to the unbearable pandemonium of the sonic traps, but to the unbearable rage of the orcs at this mockery and defeat. Revenant and his men stood in uneasy expectation as the voices calmed and everything once again fell quiet as before, aside from the falling rain and the howling wind.
Things took an unexpected turn as a single thump echoed, followed by another, and another – a ceaseless wave of thumps which revealed the disturbing efficiency of the Obsidian Mountain Orcs, which still lived on from the day they advanced to overtake the fortress. As Revenant peered past his shield to the opened gates the source of the thumps became clear; a file of orcs, bearing shield and sword, stepping in uncharacteristic singularity towards them, like an army of clones all thinking the same and moving the same in disturbing one-mindedness.
"Three dozen, maybe more. I can't tell." Whispered Revenant to the veteran by his side.
"They emptied the entire fortress for us!" exclaimed one of the youngsters in the team.
"Nay." answered a veteran, "I remember the horde that took over this hole; more than a three dozen unless their numbers greatly dwindled since that day. There are several dozens in there, though I daresay this isn't an insignificant part of their force."
"Marksmen ready?" Asked Revenant.
"Yes, sir!" came a simultaneous answer from all three.
"For each time I tap my foot on the ground, you fire a volley, and then we close." He explained and tapped his foot twice. The harbour opened towards the advancing file and a volley was unleashed on the orcs, and then another – four fell and the harbour closed again to defend against the counterattack from the towers.
The orcs continued to advance relentlessly, casting the fallen aside and setting their shields before them. In a similar manner, the harbour opened to allow for one or two volleys, and closed before the counterattack could strike, but some shots failed against the wooden shields.
When the file reached the gates, they broke formation and charged through, regaining their barbaric resemblance. In several condescending 'Schick's the foremost orcs were impaled by the sharp metallic cones which snapped up from the earth – the spike traps did their work. The orcs which survived the unexpected turn of events continued to charge and break into battle. The four fighters fought both orc and bolt while the marksmen did their best to distract the attention of their counterparts in the tower. Within the boundary of the fortress walls the rest of the orc army mustered to deliver a swift and fatal strike against their challengers.
"Defensive harbour!" called Revenant and the rest broke their engagement and reformed around a youngster who was gravely injured by the other sides' marksmen. Revenant looked towards the other young fighter in the group.
"Help him past the bridge." He commanded and snappishly explained.
"The wound is not fatal and he will be safe there until we treat him. Do not go to the encampment. Go!"
The rest of the orcs returned to the new file formed within the walls. Two marksmen abandoned their crossbows and took the shields of their retreating comrades to reinforce the harbour, which now began to slowly retreat away from the tower. The last marksman continued to fire an occasional bolt to continue and feed their rage and buy time for the injured.
Once they were clear from the towers, and the orc file broke into a swift engagement to outrun them, the five began retreating past the gauntlet, aiding the injured and his carrier to quickly pass the bridge. The orcs gave a relentless chase to either catch their foe or drive them to Hardknott where they would meet an identical fate. Upon entering the gauntlet another turn of events took place and a flurry of traps exploded one after another as the orcs advanced through boulders, dug channels, barricades, and various other obstacles. The smell of gas and sulfur filled the air, the rain doing little to prevent it and the wind doing much to spread it all around.
"They're relentless!" cried a veteran in exasperation. "A pox on them and all their kind! Look at how many there are, and how they continue to advance knowing that death awaits the first who go!"
"If they do not give up chase, we will be overrun." Said one of the younger ones, the one who carried the injured past the bridge, in desperation.
They all looked to Revenant, who in turn stared silently at the crimson flashes of fire and the teal flash of lightning appearing through a thick layer of sickly-green gas; these dwindled their numbers significantly, but hardly enough to win this battle, and now the orcs have passed the gauntlet and began crossing the bridge.
"Haha…" heaved one of the orcs who stood in lead, "You cunning for Me-Door-Ants… but we win in end…"
Behind him came the remaining number of the orcs, who did not suffer much damage from the gauntlet as it first appeared. The bridge was now thick with orcs crossing it to overwhelm their weary adversary, a triumphant, blood-lusting smile plastered on their faces. An unexpected arrow from a marksman took the foremost orc, and the rest laughed at the pathetic attempt. Revenant raised his hand and gave a harsh glance towards the shooter.
"All orcs die for glory of Gruin!" called an orc.
"GRUIN!!!" the rest shouted repeatedly to the air as they advanced slowly but ever-steadily forwards. "GRUIN!!! GRUIN!!! GRUIN!!!"
A smile slowly crept up Revenant's lips.
"Look! Me-Door-Ant goes crazy from fear! Haha!" laughed one of the orcs and returned to the shouted rhythm. "GRUIN!!!"
Revenant stepped forward towards the edge of the bridge, the odd smile still plastered on his face for no apparent reason. He bent and reached beneath the bridge, drawing out a torch kept from the rain from below. A lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a powerful thunder matched only by the praises of the orcs in Gruin's name. Revenant dipped the torch in a small container of oil concealed there as well, and picked up a stone from the earth.
The orcs drew dangerously close now.
In a swift motion, Revenant tossed the stone in his hand over the edge of the bridge and extended the torch towards it. A snap sounded as the stone hit the surface of the bridge and a burst of fire came from beneath a bridge, blowing it away in the small explosion of a fire trap. Startled, the orcs stopped a moment in place; from behind them came a similar explosion, but nothing else could be seen there. They made their way once again, in a slow triumphant march, as Revenant straightened to his feet from whatever it is he did under the distraction of the explosions; the grin on his face widened and he tossed the trap-lit torch before them, signaling the others to back away.
"Red Knight moves…" He uttered with and took a few steps backwards to join the others away from the bridge. With a smile he added, "Checkmate."
A deafening rumble followed on cue, accompanied by a blinding flash of orange and crimson and a shower of bricks and chunks of rock thrown randomly to each side within a cloud of smoke; an explosion which tore the bridge from its foundation, repeating itself on the other side as well, where Dryad stepped out of the shadows with the same grin. Helplessly the orcs glared from Revenant to Dryad as the bridge crumbled below their feet and dropped along with them down the chasm.
A horde of orcs wiped out… just like that…
Stunned, the survivors who did not yet cross the bridge glared at the ruin before their eyes. Continuous volleys of bolts cut through the air from the other side of the chasm and brought them down one by one. Turning to retreat, the orcs witnessed a whole new threat – Piglet, Doberman and Edison charged at them with five other men at their back, sword and shield raised for battle.
In a swift and decisive battle, the remaining horror-stricken horde of Obsidian was brought down.
Revenant treated the injured and helped him over and around to the other side of the chasm. In but a few minutes the two groups reformed, their attention now turned to the fortress.
* * *
"Just as we suspected, they shut the gates." Doberman turned from the gate to the men behind him and asked. "How is the injured?"
"Nothing fatal." Answered Revenant, "Though he is excluded for any further combat. He will have to heal properly first. The encampment was likely buried under the ruins of the bridge, so he will have to wait here with an escort while we clear the fortress."
"Destroying the bridge…" Muttered Edison. "I'd never imagine myself bringing the destruction of what we've worked to hard to build, but the abominable thing caused more damage than it deserved."
"What about the gates?" Piglet once again pulled their attention to the matter at hand. The match was not over yet. After a short pause wherein she received no answer, she suddenly noticed something was missing. "Where is Dryad?"
The answer came when a creak and a thump came from behind the gates and they were pushed open. On the other side Dryad grinned.
"By Midor, where in the world did you come from?!" Boggled Edison.
"Revenant gave me a special assignment." She grinned. "As for the orcs inside – they won't be troubling us anymore. No orc will."
"Special assignment?" Piglet arched an eyebrow.
"I set the fuse on the other side of the bridge." Answered Dryad. "I concealed myself until the orcs passed through and set the fire trap there, and then lit the fuse with a torch. The orcs on the bridge did not pay any attention behind, and those around me were blinded by the gas. Then I made my way inside before they shut the gates with Doberman's disguise."
Doberman took on an incredulous expression as he filled the remaining roll of events in his mind.
Dryad continued. "Apparently Revenant knew there was a straggling creeper from the battle in Brandibuck a while ago scaring off every sentient thing in the wastelands. That's why he chose the disguise. I set it in the fortress while all the chaos broke loose; mysteriously took a few unsuspecting orcs. Between the confusion of the battle, the disappearance of their friends inside, and a black thing from nightmares allegedly crawling inside, the orcs fled and shut the gates, hoping to lock it inside."
"Not exactly the cleanest method." Sighed Revenant as he explained. "No one deserves a creeper, or even an alleged creeper, but I prefer that over any casualties."
"What of the real one?" Asked Doberman.
Revenant shrugged. "Either it was somehow destroyed, or it still wanders around indestructible. It is badly severed, and is not of any threat to anyone by a careless kobold. Still, they fear greatly what they cannot destroy. Apparently they refer to it as a vampire worm."
The crowd was silent, staring at the emptied fortress before them.
"Our grand mission accomplished…" sighed Edison, "What now? We came and left for years, fighting for this thing. It unified us. Now that we have it, what do we really have?"
"The fight is not over. We're still Midorans, right?" Piglet said encouragingly. "We don't fight for a fortress, or a city, or a belief. We fight for our right to continue and be Midorans, and believe in what we want to, and just live life as it is, as Midorans."
Another moment of long of silence…
They all knew the meaning of these words, ringing so true and familiar in their ears as if they had spoken such words themselves before. They'll continue to fight in the uncompromising world where enemies are many, friends are few, and those who can be trusted can be counted with the fingers of your hands alone.
With wordless union, one by one the renegades gathered together and walked in a single form towards the fort; Edison, their former captain and leader, only one among the many.
"I'll stay here with them." Revenant suddenly said. "We'll find whatever resources the orcs may have left behind and are of use; make sure it is truly empty. We'll find something to work on here."
The men were already inside: two began to scavenge the rubble, other two took the injured indoors to be treated, and the rest took cover from the rain and rested – the wearying battle over only to open their eyes towards a new reality of struggle towards their very freedom. On top these liberated grounds there was no triumph in the atmosphere; this new struggle, as they were brought to realize, will never end, nor should it.
"You'll report back to Spiderweb." He added. "Tell them about the renegades. We owe them for this victory, at the very least. I'll help arrange with them what I can and treat the injured. I'll return in a few days."
"Are you sure?" Asked Doberman, his tone betraying his disapproval.
"I insist… at least on staying here for a short while." He answered.
Doberman sighed. "Very well. We'll report back."
With that, the three departed, leaving Revenant and the Renegades to scratch and dig among the ruins and filth of the old fortress, rest and rebuild what they could. As long as they struggled, they were still united Midorans --
- - he finally understood what that meant. |
WickedArtist: I think he needs a proper elf.
WickedArtist: A christmas elf!
Tasra: Any sort of elf that actually smiles ;o
Gasp! Scandalous!!! |
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The Road to Salvation
Posted: 18 Nov 2006 06:31 AM |
3rd Herialdi of Kramiarre, 1001
(21 months ago)
“Ye demand the Paladin.”
The words, spoken aloud, had all the impact of a hammer hitting stone. Or of some massive beast, slain at last, falling from a great height to crash into the ground.
Standing a great distance back from the small crowd that had gathered beneath the starless night to confer with the vampiress, Trent visibly gulped. His face, his entire body, could have been carved from ice.
The vampiress turned her head to look past the others, her soulless gaze resting directly upon the Paladin.
“Yes,” she said smoothly. “Trent, darling, you aren’t really surprised, are you?”
The situation was almost comical: the vampiress held in her hand a minute tortoise that a rather nutty Gnome believed to be an Emperor. This insignificant and rather useless pet was her hostage, and she demanded a Human life in return. Specifically, the Human she’d been haunting for many months.
But no one was laughing.
“Are you okay, Mister Trent?” Miramil spoke up, oblivious as ever to the gravity of the situation.
Bereil cut in, with an alacrity that could only have been born of terror, “Very well—return the Emperor and take him.”
“Splendid.” The Syncursed abomination smiled a terrible smile. “Trent, dear, over here.”
“The Emperor first,” Bereil insisted, trying in vain to appear in control. He needn’t have bothered.
The vampiress flashed him a warning look. “Unlikely.”
“Ah... likely. I shan’t stand in yer way,” Bereil agreed quickly.
“Mister Trent doesn’t look like he wants to go,” Miramil added helpfully.
It was the understatement of the night. The boy was on the verge of tears.
“Now, now, Paladin.” The vampiress made a mockery of the word. “What could possibly be so bad?”
Trent’s reply was an incoherent and pathetic stutter.
“The Emperor,” Bereil prompted. “Miramil, fetch the Emperor from her grasp.”
The Gnome blinked, looking first at the proffered tortoise, then at Bereil, then at Trent, as if slowly and belatedly putting two and two together and discovering that it wasn’t adding up to four.
“Take the Emperor!” Bereil commanded, an undercurrent of panic audible beneath the harshness of the order.
“Um,” agreed Miramil, toddling over and plucking the tortoise from the vampiress’ hand. If there was one thing she responded to, it was the voice of authority. Following orders without question was her specialty.
Trent’s face had gone completely white with terror. Miramil blinked, uncomprehending, then asked Bereil, “What did we just do?”
“We struck a deal,” the bearded archmage said gruffly.
Miramil thought about it for a moment, then gave a nod, unable to find anything wrong with the remark. “Uhh huhh.” Frowning, as if something were still nagging at her, she added insightfully, “Mister Trent does not look happy.”
The vampiress glided down the road with inhuman grace, then turned and beckoned, a smug smirk on her face.
Trent flashed a sudden look of hatred at the group who had just betrayed him before following her into the darkness of the night.
5th Binardi of Springarre, 1002
(Ten months ago)
The howl of the raging wind as it whipped around the premises of Haven was nothing compared to Byron’s angered outburst as Markus strode across the command plateau.
“What in the blue hell—”
Markus faltered in mid-step, confused. Close behind him, apparently oblivious to the tension, Trent greeted the approaching Herald.
“Ah, Sir Byron...”
Whatever else he might have said died unspoken as Lillian’s reflexes kicked in. He stopped in mid-sentence and mid-step at the sight of a pair of blue eyes staring icily at him down the shaft of a nocked arrow.
“Who - is - this,” Byron bit out, rather unnecessarily. He knew exactly who Trent was.
And what he was. And what he’d done.
“A former Paladin of Midor, sir,” Markus stammered uncertainly, looking quickly between Byron and Lillian in confusion.
“I know who he is, Markus... now tell me why he is here, in Haven?” Byron demanded. “And tell me why I should not bust you down to Private and have you cleaning latrines for bringing him here?”
“I... brought him, he wanted to see Lady Blanche. To help us. Sir.”
“Did he see the route you took?” Lillian snapped, her aim never wavering. “Did you take precautions to blindfold him on the way?”
It was early in the history of the fledgling Novus Aristi, when the newly re-established Haven—which had once held an army of over a thousand—was manned only by two people. Lillian was one; Tonan was the other.
“And do you even know this person, Markus?” Byron spat the words in a sharp staccato, all his typical urbanity abandoned. He shook his head, holding up a hand to forestall any protest. “I will deal with you later.”
Markus pulled off his helm and grimaced; his face was a network of angry red scars.
“Sir? Shall we at least head off the plateau?” Lillian prompted.
“Yes,” Byron agreed.
“Western stairs,” she barked. “Move.”
The four of them marched down the western slope of Haven’s command plateau, Trent and Markus taking the lead, with Byron close behind and Lillian trailing with bow in hand.
“Ile Veanesdailhsi Sihci?” she asked Byron, the syllables clipped and precise.
“No, Lillian, he is already here.” They came to a stop at the plateau’s base, Byron turning his full attention to Trent. “The last I heard about you, Trent, was that you were Miramil’s boss, and certainly no Paladin of Midor.”
He looked like he wanted to add more, but refrained from saying it.
“I haven’t been a Paladin of Midor for a long time, Sir Byron,” Trent replied evenly. “What you’ve heard is true.”
“So what have you been, Trent?”
Trent’s face coloured with shame, but he did not look away. “A servant... of a vampiress...” He added quickly, “But she no longer haunts me.”
Markus set his jaw with a sharp click, the statement obviously coming as news to him.
“Why should I believe you, Trent? I have had enough run-ins with Valinor’s servants that it is very easy for me to believe he sent someone here to get close to me, then finish me off.”
“I’m not sure, sir. I’m no friend of Maldovia, and I never wanted to serve the vampires that live there, or any others.”
Byron eyed him warily. “And how did you free yourself from this vampiress?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” he repeated, “but she has suddenly stopped haunting me, after a certain period of servitude. I don’t believe she will come back.”
“So she just...left you,” Byron said sceptically. “Free and clear.”
Trent nodded slowly. “In fact, I have not seen her ever since she turned me to her. I suspect she believed I was thoroughly corrupt, and didn’t have any more use for me.”
“Markus,” Byron said slowly, “I hope you showed at least some basic intelligence and blindfolded him before leading him to Haven.”
“We took a twisting route, sir,” Markus said defensively.
“That is not the main concern here,” Lillian said tightly, scanning the darkening surroundings. “You may have been followed. Or you may have been scried upon. Can you guarantee that you were not?”
“Lillian... tear a strip of cloth,” Byron ordered. “Blindfold Trent. We will leave another way.”
“I checked to see if I was being followed, and I didn’t see anyone, or anything,” Markus protested. As if that was enough. As if it was nearly enough when dealing with the shadows themselves. “Unless boars are spies now,” he added weakly.
Digging out a bandage from a healing kit, Lillian tossed it over to Markus. “There are a great many things,” she informed him grimly, “that hide far better than boars.”
“We can talk about this later,” Byron said. “Now Trent, you can either accept being blindfolded, and allow us to lead you away from here, and we can talk in another place... or you can resist, and we would have to blindfold you by force. Your choice.”
“Sihdail Daeen, ilanhwisi shilian sidail?” Lillian asked, her gaze flicking to a nearby boat.
“I don’t have any reason to resist,” Trent agreed. Markus stepped over and wrapped the bandage over the former Paladin’s eyes.
“Esida,” Byron agreed, gesturing towards the indicated boat. “Take the lead, Lillian. Markus, guide Trent.”
It was a short—if perilous—trip along the east coast to Bowness. The interview took rather longer, Trent digging himself deeper with every answer he gave. At the end of it all, the only thing that was clear was that he absolutely could not be trusted. Even if he was free of the vampiress who’d haunted him, he had a long way to go towards redemption.
And he was certainly not Paladin material. He barely qualified to be fit to live amongst ordinary people.
Byron gave Lillian a slight nod, deferring judgement to her.
“Mister Kelten.” She bit every syllable out. “What exactly are your intentions regarding the Novus Aristi?”
“I only first heard of it when I met Markus. I hoped to find Blanche and rejoin the rebellion, and now it seems it turned to something much greater.”
“Rejoin it in what way,” she said flatly.
“Fight with it. Oppose Midor’s corruption in whatever way is possible, and help those who needed help. Sir Markus told me it is not just about Midor now.”
Lillian gave a sharp nod; it was anything but a gesture of agreement. “That it is not.”
She didn’t say anything further. To do so would have been unprofessional.
“You were part of the military once,” she said at last, in response to a slight shake of the head from Byron. “Therefore you will understand that this is something which will require much consideration on our part.”
Trent nodded, his expression unreadable. “Of course.”
“It will not be an easy thing to gain our trust, Mister Kelten.” There was the slightest hesitation, almost imperceptible, before that ‘our’. “And there must be penance involved.”
He nodded again. It told her nothing, that nod.
“For the moment,” she concluded, “we will endeavour to keep an eye on you.”
The phrase was a double-edged sword. This time, his acknowledgement was slightly more informative, the expression on his face making it clear that he was aware of that fact.
She turned to Markus, who straightened automatically to attention.
“Ilanhwisi ile Siyililsii Ilesen,” she said, slowly but precisely. “Then eeni ile Rhwien.”
Not the most ideal of solutions, but with what limited personnel and resources were available, it was the only one available. Markus would be briefed later on what was expected of him; but for the moment, the important thing was to put as much distance between them and Trent as possible. And fast.
“Esida,” Markus replied, stumbling over the alien word.
“Good. Dismissed.”
Tying the makeshift blindfold once more over Trent’s eyes, Markus led him away towards Brandibuck.
2nd Silvradi of Diamarre, 1002
(Today)
In retrospect, it was a good thing that she hadn’t shot him.
It was one loose thread, amongst too many, that had been nagging at her for months. When Whitehall had reported two months ago that Trent had been amongst a handful of promising exiles she’d talked to, the alarm bells had started screaming in Lillian’s head. The sudden rash of close encounters with Syncursed recently had only made it worse. Wherever he went, there they were.
Yet even with all that going against him, the feedback on him had been unanimously positive.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in my entire career.”
It was half an hour after the official debriefing, and Lindeville was still gushing about the Deathtrap victory. A greying man in his fifties, he’d been in the Midoran Army for a little over two decades before switching tracks and joining the priesthood. Notoriously paranoid, there was an exceedingly good reason why Gareth Eugene Lindeville had been tagged with a moniker of Doberman. Naturally, security and espionage were his areas of responsibility within the Conclave.
He’d quietly resented having to supervise Trent at first, seeing it as a babysitting duty that was beneath him. Now he was a staunch supporter.
Lillian didn’t blame him. On the occasions she’d previously encountered Trent, he’d been both a smug brat who smirked too much and a bewildered and utterly clueless boy. It was inexplicable—completely inexplicable—that he had turned out the way he had. All the evidence pointed to two likely possibilities: either Trent was a thoroughly corrupted Blackguard well-accomplished in deceit, or he had redeemed himself beyond all doubt but still remained an unwitting magnet for the forces of Syn.
However you put it, he was too dangerous to leave unsupervised. But if he noticed that he was never permitted to enter any of their sites unaccompanied, or that he was never left alone with anyone, he didn’t comment. Between Sanner, Lindeville, Marcelle and Whitehall, he was under constant surveillance.
Between the four of them, as well as various others, they’d only had glowing reports to give. But words were one thing and results another.
And standing in the rubble in the aftermath of the incredibly successful assault on the overrun Obsidian Outpost, it was impossible to argue with the results.
If it weren’t for Trent’s history, Lillian would have handed him Lance’s old position within the Conclave without a second thought. In a situation such as theirs, results spoke more eloquently than pretty words and righteous speeches. And when it came to results, Trent didn’t just deliver; he excelled.
“We need to get him cleared,” she told Lindeville firmly. “This is the worst part of the cold season coming up now; if we don’t lose half our numbers to the outbreak in Aerie, we certainly will to the cold.”
“The situation’s looking up; I think we’ll pull through, thanks to Sanner,” the older man said with a touch of uncharacteristic optimism.
Lillian suppressed an involuntary shudder. That had been a close call: Sanner had led a squad of Righteous Swords who shouldn’t even have known of their existence on a merry chase for months. And had then returned, alive, to take on a number of inglorious but necessary logistical duties without complaint. If not for her, their losses—to the cold season, to disease, to any number of factors that ordinary people living ordinary, safe lives took for granted—would have been astronomical.
It was both humiliating and tragic that all their efforts had essentially been undone and rendered meaningless, not by malicious actions from without, but from well-meaning bumbling from within. They’d lost so much precious time. A lot of what they were scrambling to achieve now should have been done long before the cold season hit.
If it hadn’t been for Sanner’s decisive and unquestioning efficiency...
She shook her head and shoved the thought away. “You say that Marcelle designed and set up The Gauntlet?”
“The specifications were Kelten’s, but she drew up the blueprints and coordinated The Gauntlet’s construction,” Lindeville replied with a nod.
“Take her off the next Peregrine mission and put her down on the instructor list for Survival. We need her setting up Circus and training people more than we need her on Kelten’s team.”
“If you take Marcelle off the team, you won’t have a scout,” Lindeville pointed out.
“We have a scout,” Lillian told him. “I’ll be going.”
Conventional wisdom dictated that it was insanity to send in a warlord to do a scout’s job. But conventional wisdom was the stuff of textbooks: good in theory, nice to discuss in the safety of a classroom, but next to useless in reality. Anyone with any modicum of field experience knew that roles were mutable, changing from situation to situation.
When it came to the crunch, you took whatever role you were needed in, and you took it uncomplainingly. To do anything less wasn’t just unprofessional, it was gross stupidity. That was the sort of attitude that got people killed.
Lindeville didn’t even blink at the news. “So we’re changing the line-up?”
“We’re going to have to.” She turned to look over at the group gathered at the main gates. By the looks of it, they were still debating how to maintain the fortress’s defensibility while keeping it accessible. No point in interrupting them; they knew what they were doing. “I don’t see any reason to take Sanner off the team. You’ll have to stay in Circus: we’re going to have to assess Edison’s group as it is, so it’s probably best for them to remain here with you and Marcelle. I’ll get in contact with Alcarin and reform Remora to make up the numbers for the next mission.”
It wasn’t going to be enough. For the moment, though, surviving the cold season was their top priority. After that...
Well, after that, the real plan would kick in, especially now that Trent had provided them with the means of carrying it out. Once the weather cleared up, they were going to have to hit the ground running to make up for lost time.
And lost lives.
“It looks like they’ve come to a decision,” Lindeville remarked, looking over at the group gathered at the main fortress gates. Comprised of the team that had led the assault on Circus, and an additional team led by Victoria De La Rosa, they had started to disperse in groups of twos and threes.
Lillian gave a curt nod and started to pick her way across the rubble. “Let’s see what we can do to help. We need this place locked down by sunset.” |
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Onyx
Posted: 19 Nov 2006 09:06 AM |
The term "panther" actually refers to any species of large cat, including lions, tigers, leopards and jaguars. Therefore "black panther" is the common name for any black specimen of several species of cats, such as leopards, jaguars, pumas, and even the magical crag cats and malar beasts. This black coloration is caused by a condition known as melanism—the opposite of albinism.
The most common type of black panther are melanistic leopards. A highly adaptable creature, leopards are well-known for their stealthy habits and camouflage. They can go undetected in close proximity to—or even within—settlements because of their grace and stealth. Leopards are also highly adaptable, able to live in any habitat that provides sufficient food and cover, whether it be a rain forest or a large desert. Their diets are extremely flexible and they will consume almost anything: whether it be beetles or antelopes twice their own weight.
The leopard will stalk its prey silently right up until the last minute, using its acute hearing and sight. Only when it is as close as possible will it pounce and aim a killing bite straight at the throat.
. . .
The shadows clung thickly to the floor of snow-sprinkled Hardknott Pass. Wrapped in a cloak that appeared to be made of gauzy smoke, its ends tapering into jagged bat-wings, Dryad flitted quietly from cover to cover.
She was starting to get worried. This morning, she had sent Eshardelon off to deliver a message to Crag, and the wolf still hadn't returned. It was nearing dusk now; he should have been back. His training was as good, if not better, than that of a Midoran Guard Dog. It wasn't at all like him to be unreliable.
Dryad didn't know what concerned her more: that he might be wounded or worse, or that he might have been intercepted. The fact that all their messages were encrypted was something of an overkill, considering that most people in the world couldn't even read. Even so...
She stopped behind an outcropping of rock, turning her head to track a hint of movement she'd caught out of the corner of her eye. An intermittent flash of yellow light. A pair of cat's eyes glittered in the fading light, so swiftly that it was hard to tell if they'd truly been there at all.
Two things occurred to her: first, that it was not unusual for large cats to be seen in Hardknott Pass. This was Crag Cat territory.
Second: that had been no Crag Cat.
Abandoning stealth for speed, she clambered swiftly up the slope. After all, she wasn't the only one who had an edge after dark.
. . .
The body was a bloody mess, the message ripped, bloodstained and almost completely unreadable. Dryad stuffed it into her pocket without looking at it and regarded the half-eaten corpse of the wolf who had been her companion and her guard in exile. For a few moments, she debated cobbling together a modified fire trap to burn the remains, as per the martial regulations they were now living under. In the end, she decided against it: it was getting dark, she was running out of time, and she had to return to base soon. And at this time of day, the light from a fire could carry quite far, attracting unwanted attention. It would have to wait until morning.
She piled a stack of rocks atop the body to form a clumsy cairn. It didn't feel like it took long at all, but when she was done, night had already fallen. Fishing a capsule of holy water out from a pouch, she wedged it securely in a gap between three stones, half as marker and half as monument.
It wasn't a world-shaking act. It wasn't a significant death. But you did what you could with what you had. Eshardelon—or Shard, as Sanner called him—had acted in a vital communication role these past few months. If nothing else, he deserved something better than being left to rot out in the open.
Casting one last glance around the night-tinted pass, Dryad stepped back, a melange of colours rippling over her and camouflaging her against the backdrop of surrounding rock and snow.
A pair of cat's eyes narrowed at the display, but failed to track her as she slid into the world of shadows.
. . .
The first change that they had made to Circus had been to permanently close and bar every entrance they could find. She stood at the main gates and slid the sparkle wand out of her pocket, flashing the recognition code. High up in the guard tower, a series of faint lights flickered in acknowledgement.
Within moments, a rope ladder snaked out of a window and down the wall towards her. Dryad scaled it within moments; the obligatory security check by Doberman took a little longer than the climb had.
He had questions, of course. As always, some of them were unexpected and unusual: there was a good reason why he held the position that he did.
"You're certain," he said, "that it was a large cat."
In any other situation, the question would have been more than a little silly. But considering that the combined forces of almost every evil faction in the world appeared to be hell-bent on pursuing their team—and theirs alone—it wasn't quite so ridiculous after all. Between Midor, Syn and Naillamne, it was a wonder that they didn't just hold a party and invite along the Black Hand, Naruth, Gruin and Menarok to come and play a game of bully-the-helpless-refugees.
"As certain as humanly possible," Dryad replied.
Doberman almost smiled. It was a standard response, given their situation. Adapting to being "only" human had been hard, but in its own way, also worthwhile. They had learned a lot of hard lessons, but valuable lessons nonetheless.
He unfolded the tattered and bloody note she had given him. "Very well; if you hurry, you should be in time for dinner. Make sure you know when you're on picket and with whom; Martyr has the timetable, and he should still be down there."
"Yes, sir," she said smartly, straightening momentarily to attention before heading down the tower stairs.
Keeping half an eye out on the landscape, Doberman held the note from Crag near the lantern on his desk and began to read it. |
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The Patrol Route
Posted: 01 Dec 2006 11:06 PM |
Checkpoint 1:
She awakens before dawn, or thinks she does. It's hard to tell. The watermill's windows are small and let in very little light, and the sky outside is perpetually gloomy. De La Rosa is already up and bustling around; without a word, Marcelle joins in the tidying up.
Typically, an hour after getting up, she steps outside and begins the first leg.
Checkpoint 2:
Midor Burial Grounds.
It's disgraceful that the burial grounds have fallen into disrepair. No one knows how long they've been like this, and it almost doesn't matter. All that matters is that they have, and someone needs to do something about it.
She never walks past without doing a circuit of the graveyard. Something's wrong here. The dead keep rising no matter how often they are cut down.
She clears out the grounds and the topmost level, knowing full well that they'll be back again the next day.
But so will she.
Checkpoint 3:
It is amazing how many people travel through the Hardknott realm, even knowing how dangerous it is. Every Midoran adept knows this place. If you're lucky, you'll only encounter Kobolds. If not...
In the months she spent alone in exile in the wilds, she encountered the more dangerous elements. Beasts. Wandering apprentices from Naillamne. Vicious Halfling mercenaries. The area is swarming with robbers and would-be necromancers who run unchecked.
In a way, she's disappointed she won't be on the Shifter mission. It will be a decisive blow against the bandits that overrun the Wastelands and its surrounds.
There are those who would argue that the Kobolds are best left alone, that they will harm no one if no one provokes them. She knows better. They take a perverse pride in displaying the impaled and mutilated heads and bodies of intruders who pass through their realm. Merchants, families, people just wanting to pass through. People just going about their lives.
Ordinary people intercepted, murdered, robbed. Their corpses mutilated and placed on display, or sold to Naillamne for necromantic research.
When she arrives, the place is swarming with the thieving little scum. When she departs, not a one is left alive.
Their traps and mines are too much for her to handle. She leaves a trail of pebbles painted with an "X" to mark a safe route. Perhaps it's a futile gesture. Perhaps they'll be moved, buried, ignored.
It doesn't matter. She has to make the effort.
Checkpoint 4:
High above Hardknott Pass, the new base they have dubbed "Circus" looms imposingly against the backdrop of a perpetually stormy sky. She stops and spends some hours there checking the traps, patrolling the grounds and helping with the repair and setup of the fortress.
Word has spread. The local monsters leave the place alone, believing it to be haunted by vengeful Midoran ghosts. The rumour works to their advantage, and they play it for all it's worth. Doberman and the others certainly look pleased to be able to freely walk around in gleaming Midoran white and gold again.
Officially, Team Remora occupies Circus. Unofficially, they call themselves Team Revenant, half in reference to the man who made it all possible and half-jokingly in reference to the local superstition that they are taking advantage of.
Out on patrol in the pass, she notices she's being followed. It's the cat again.
She thinks of Doberman's question.
She wonders whether it is just an ordinary panther after all.
Checkpoint 5:
Icy Vale is an isolated waypoint, the merchant Moirin always eager to do trade with travellers. She gets a decent amount of gold for some items she and De La Rosa have made. The gold will do Aerie good; when she swings by Brandibuck later on, she'll pick up potions, healing supplies and basic provisions.
Her home is not far from here, but she hasn't been back. There isn't much point; she'll only find snow and silent ghosts. She left that place a lifetime ago for Midor.
It's strange; she wasn't even in Midor all that long and already she feels homesick towards it. She never missed the cold lands like this.
She wonders how much worse it is for the true Midorans.
By the time she gets to Gladden, it's getting dark. She trades in vials of explosive alchemist's fire for cotton and wheat. The farmers need it; the trolls are getting bolder.
A germ of an idea nags at her and she makes a mental note to pass it on to Sanner.
After some negotiations, she spends the night in someone's barn.
Checkpoint 6:
There was a time when her self-imposed patrol could be covered easily in one day, but it's extended itself so far out that it sometimes takes two or three now.
From Gladden, she heads on through Icy Vale again and out to Whipsnade Pass on foot. She chases away or slays any wolf she encounters. She has her reasons.
The reason lies in a cavern above the pass:
Werewolves.
They're always there, living with the vicious wolves and dire wolves in their thrall. No matter how often she strikes them down, there are always more when she returns.
The patrol varies with every iteration but she never skips this checkpoint. She never leaves anything to chance and she never leaves any wolf in this region alive.
Checkpoint 7:
The route from there to The Great Plains is usually uneventful. She could easily walk it without being seen by the bandits that patrol those parts, but she chooses not to.
They aren't someone else's problem.
In Mineath, she encounters werewolves again. On the Plains, the bandits scatter in cowardly fashion. One day she hopes they'll learn their lesson. One day she wants to find the camp abandoned. One day she wants this place to be safe.
Until then, it has to be made safe.
Checkpoint 8:
Always the least perilous but also always the most heartbreaking part of this job, she stops by the Mirghul Ranger Lodge and Brandibuck to pick up whatever provisions are on demand for the week. The list tells a tale all by itself.
No wonder Sanner is so uncharacteristically frazzled.
Typically, she sees half a dozen people from Team Lunaris in these parts, and typically she'll meet a few of them and they'll coordinate their efforts and then go on their separate ways. You couldn't tell by watching them that they work together; they look like travellers just stopping to trade words or items.
Sometimes she'll take the short way back to the watermill, to begin anew the next day.
Sometimes she'll take the long way.
Checkpoint 9:
The deep western forest of Mirghul is not safe from her. She cleaves a path of Midoran wrath and death through the ranks of the local werewolves.
The harpies of Syn's Cliffs, the Syncursed arrayed around Elbereth's Tears, the monsters of the Midor Mountains. To a Midoran, there is no concept of "live and let live". Not when it comes to evil. Evil is not to be negotiated with, not to be tolerated, not to be allowed to run free and unchecked.
Gorlath's Keep is the last stop on the extended version of the patrol. When the dead in the ground floor and the cellar stir no longer, she rigs a series of divine traps along the corridors and outer walls. From there, it's a short walk back to the Midor Burial Grounds again, and more of the same.
She is not so naive as to delude herself into thinking it will put an end to the Undead here, but it's better than doing nothing. Anything is better than doing nothing.
Checkpoint 1:
Full circle.
Sanner and Edison are at the watermill when she steps inside, the cozy warmth of the interior a sharp contrast to the bitter cold outside. They say little to each other; there is no overt sign of familiarity, no idle chatter. They may as well be strangers who've stopped by for the night.
Body language and subtle gestures fill the silence, a necessarily wordless form of communication. Edison indicates that Circus is doing well. Sanner, on the other hand, is doing the job of an entire section single-handedly and struggling to cope. Marcelle informs them silently that all is well.
In the kitchen partition, De La Rosa prepares dinner. The three of them listen intently.
The rhythmic chopping of steel on wood is a disguised battle code telling them of their next mission. |
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Black and White
Posted: 06 Dec 2006 08:52 AM |
The decree was equal parts absurdity and sensibility, given their situation. It was an act of defiance, something completely new. It was an act of tradition, something perfectly and acceptably orthodox. It was rooted in the past. It was looking forward to the future. It made no sense. It made perfect sense.
The Season of Midoran was upon them.
And they had every intention of celebrating it. |
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The Trail
Posted: 16 Dec 2006 07:54 AM |
"What's this?"
Marcelle leans forward and peers at the glittering mushrooms nestled amidst a vase of angel's breath. They are unlike anything she's ever seen, high-domed caps atop long stems, with a sheen akin to mica rather than a bright glow like most luminescent forms of fungi. The dim firelight makes them twinkle like stars in the darkness of the watermill.
"Those are virvatuli mushrooms," De La Rosa replies, setting a steaming pot down on the table. "They grow in a cavern near here. I'll take you there tomorrow if you like."
Marcelle starts to lay out the cutlery, eyeing the clump of mushrooms with curiousity. "Are they poisonous?"
"No, but I wouldn't advise eating them either. They're good for your health, but not very palatable." The older woman reaches over and taps one of the mushrooms with a fingernail. She may as well have been tapping solid rock. "Not to mention, hard as a pebble. They have a layer almost like a shell that's difficult to peel off. A most unusual breed."
"Is the cavern far from here?"
De La Rosa's eyes harden. "Not very. It's right outside the eastern gates of Naillamne."
She utters the word like a curse. Out of respect, Marcelle does not pursue the topic. She knows better than to inquire about a grudge which is obviously deeply personal.
Behind a glass display case in the attic upstairs, she has seen the Midoran Medal of Valour to one Mother Victoria De La Rosa. Beside it are two Brakus Crosses: the most prestigious of all Paladin awards, assigned only posthumously.
"Yes, let's go tomorrow," she agrees, clumsily shifting the topic back on track. "I'm going to need them on the next trip to Icy Vale."
. . .
A painstaking ghost-walk through the rain-drenched, battle-scarred Wastelands. The same patrol route she's taken for what feels like forever, the same snail's pace as she edges around traps and mines and marks the safe path through the Kobold realms.
Last night she managed to sneak in a couple of extra hours of sleep, time saved by not having to paint pebbles to make them more obviously deliberate and visible.
Glittering faintly in the stormy darkness, a meticulously-laid trail of virvatuli mushrooms marks a safe path to tread, their light flickering like will-o'-the-wisps in the gloom. |
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Fear
Posted: 07 Jan 2007 01:56 PM |
Gliding like a wraith along the dim and flickering walls of the crypt, the shadow slides, dances...
...skates as if on ice, trade the white snow for black shadows, and leap, twirl, one, two, three...
...and light explodes, the first blade tracing a fiery arc through the air and slicing clean through the coccoon of shadow, the second following behind, glowing gold-white with divine fire...
One
Two
Three
They fall.
Animate but not alive, grotesque puppets of meat and bone, strings cut... for now. But who, who keeps them dancing after the curtain has fallen? Who keeps reviving them anew?
Steps down and deeper into the mystery but down there are no answers...
...only fear...
...step, whirl, glide down and down over thin ice. Ghostwalk down these stairs where fear lives, to be defeated or defeated by. Perhaps today. Perhaps not. Why? Why go down at all?
How to explain? This test that must be faced, over and over again. To defeat or be defeated... or to not try at all.
No. It is better to be defeated than not to try at all.
A sound of aimless shambling, scraping. She sees the outline of the mummy clearly, with new night-eyes, the rogue shadow she stole from Zacch no longer suppressed, but reined in now, disciplined, tamed. A cold squirming in her stomach like a Creeper wanting, waiting, demanding to be unleashed, to destroy and devour. The shadow kept in check under the firm heel of Midoran discipline.
She lunges forward, the flaming blade ripping clean through the veil of shadows that serves as her cover, and
she falls through the ice
into darkness drowning
and which way is up
lungs filled
with fear a whole icy black lake of it
collision with
the floor or perhaps a flailing fist or
maybe with something swimming in the water where no light shines, look, there is Zacch and there is Ali'lla and there is the ice and there you are beneath the ice staring up at the world you can't return to because you're one of them now, one of the Syncursed, no one to save you this time
and with a crash the illusion splinters
a mace shatters the ice
and the mummy spins into the endless depths of a pit.
Sanner holds out a gauntleted hand and hauls Marcelle to her feet. "Are you all right?"
"Yes ma'am," she replies, shaken.
De La Rosa leans over her side and peers down into the pit. "I saw you go down alone and thought you might need help."
"Seeing that we're here anyway, we'll clear out the area then head back up," Sanner adds, task-focused as ever. "Lyn, check ahead for traps. We'll be right behind you."
Marcelle nods quickly, scooping up her blade.
Not today, then. But she'll be back to try again. |
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Debts
Posted: 23 Jan 2007 06:13 PM |
It seemed like chaos. So much had been going on. The Atalan attacks. This nonsense with some demon. Undead spawning. All the while I have been tending to the needs of the people. Now these very mysterious and puzzling instructions to repay a debt to the Krakens and tell them all about the Atalan attacks and warn them. What could this possibly be?
~ The desert seemed especially quiet as she made her way through. Even the stingers seemed to be drawn away. The rumors of the Atalan had reached even them. No longer did they roam far from their home at night. Ender had told her not to long ago that the caravans had been less visible as well. All this in response to the Atalan. ~
I had recieved the note from Revenant. A request that I study the spell of disintergration, in particular the appearance of that spell, in concern of Atropos. It is starting to dawn on me the knowledge that is being learned. It can only mean that Revenant is advancing along more quickly than expected. Good news indeed. I shall have to put Dryad on this. First thing was first however. The Krakens.
~ The winds blew wildly as I approached the fleet. Huddled masses around scattered fires. There ahead the tent with a soft glow. Waiting inside would hopefully be some answers. More than likely it would have to do with more work. All the better. This is where I belong. Not some tavern. |
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Hiding in Plain Sight
Posted: 25 Jan 2007 11:19 AM |
Her usual patrol route altered. At the tunnels near Naillamne, she erects signs. In the Wastelands, she marks a safe route around the mines and traps. Skirting The Great Plains, she scopes the growing detachment and relays messages to the various stations in the area.
Then a complete break from the routine.
The trip to the north is productive, the one back south less so.
Foolishness, charging in to Paws. A harsh and humbling reminder that to disobey orders is to invite disaster. She'd been lucky; they all had. She should have known better.
A fortunate escape, a mad dash.
Of all the foolish things to do...
Coldly, the living shadow whispers in her ear. This thing she has absorbed. This thing which has fed off the Great Creeper that nearly swallowed her body and soul and grown stronger from it.
In Brandibuck, those who know what they are doing do the talking. She waits to see how it turns out, then slips away.
Of all the foolish things to do. How do you keep a low profile after something like that?
With any luck they'll have forgotten. Civilian. Map maker. When you walk amongst legends and powerhouses, you can't help but walk in the long shadow they cast.
Matter of fact, she's relying upon it for camouflage. |
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Questions
Posted: 28 Jan 2007 01:52 AM |
At the fringes of the encampment on the Kobai shoreline, a lone figure arrived in the night. Nondescript, dusty with sand, dressed in a drab tunic whose colour was best described as "forgettable", she stopped some distance from the barricade to hail one of the Kraken sailors on picket duty. A short exchange followed; one of the other sailors made a beeline for a large tent in the centre of the encampment, emerging moments later to usher the traveller inside.
No colours and no uniform marked her, but she walked with the brisk and measured pace of a soldier. Her pixie fringe and the merry smile lines at the corners of her eyes were in stark contrast to the hardness of her gaze.
She stepped into the indicated tent, scanning the spartan interior with a cursory glance before turning her attention to the tall, dark woman who stood at its centre. Covering the remaining distance, she extended a hand, inclining her head slightly in respect without lowering her gaze in deference. "Good evening, Admiral Anzhad. My name is Madeline Sanner, and I've been sent to deliver a message to you."
The dark woman grasped her hand briefly, gesturing to a chair. "You wish to discuss a debt." It was not a question.
Sanner nodded as she sat, the Admiral taking the seat opposite. "I was told that we owed you one, and dispatched to warn you of the threat of the Atalan. The recognition code I was given is Sable-Castle-Wolf."
Anzhad relaxed, just a bit. "Then proceed."
The report she gave was brief, and Anzhad did not say a single word throughout. All the while, Sanner could not help but think that these were the most bizarre instructions she'd ever received. She would have preferred to be in Aerie, in Circus, in any other place doing anything but this odd and highly irrelevant mission. Nevertheless, she was a soldier. Personal preference always took a back seat to duty.
After she had finished, Anzhad narrowed her eyes in thought, an appraising look within them.
"I thank you for the warning, Miss Sanner. However..." She stood, "I do not consider the debt repaid. We've been aware of the Atalan situation for quite some time now."
Fighting back her curiousity, Sanner simply gave a sharp nod, and tried to convince herself that this had been worth the trip.
"As a matter of fact," Anzhad continued, "it's affected us quite aversely. Now... I was told last year that you have experienced warriors and healers amongst you, and that even your healers are trained in warfare. Is that still accurate?"
"To an extent," Sanner agreed evasively.
"Excellent. I require an officer skilled in reconnaissance and siege strategies, and fifteen battle-trained healers," she said. "The Kraken fleet have an enemy whom we have long sought to vanquish. They're located off the mainland and are entirely self-sufficient, so I doubt that the current situation has disadvantaged them overly much. However, the situation in Port Royale may be enough of a diversion to make this the appropriate moment to strike at the very heart of their operations."
Sanner swallowed, feeling her mouth go dry. Fifteen...
"I don't have the authority to make that sort of deal," she replied. "I do know we don't have that many people to spare."
"But you have that many people?"
"We do. We just can't—"
"Then we'll supplement your numbers with our own until they return. Will that suffice?"
Sanner bit down on the inside of her cheek. With Midor on the march and the civilians still in need of basic survival and combat training just to keep themselves alive...
"The best I can do for you is to relay your request," she said. "If you could provide any other details justifying your demand, it may tip the decision in your favour. We're rather shorthanded at the moment."
"Then perhaps this will change your mind."
Anzhad said three words.
Sanner's eyebrows shot up. "What do they have to do with anything?"
"The recent death of a certain individual resulted in a certain map falling into our hands," Anzhad told her. "We now know where they are based. We are capable of fighting, but have no healers trained in the same combination of healing and battle skills as experienced Midoran field medics. We're all rather too distinctive in appearance to ever be disguised effectively. One of yours may be able to infiltrate them with far more ease and return with schematics, but they must be an expert who knows what to look for."
"Fifteen strikes me as being overkill," Sanner remarked.
"It is actually a bare minimum. I would have asked for more." Anzhad paused. "Should you choose to agree, whoever you send as your strategist must be of the highest calibre. We have reason to believe that it would be in our best interests to capture our enemy's base of operations intact."
"When do you require this decision by?"
"Within a week. Send your sixteen or send no one. This is a very narrow window of opportunity that we have here."
Not for the first time, it crossed Sanner's mind that this was the strangest and most surreal set of orders she'd ever obeyed. What in blazes did Command think they were accomplishing here? There was Midor camped out in plain sight having declared war, there were the Atalan attacks, and here she was sent to settle a debt of honour completely unrelated to anything that was going on.
Or was it unrelated? The part of her mind that believed in the existence of order even when it wasn't apparent liked to think that there was some hidden design to all this, that the pieces would all fall into place.
"How long do you intend to allow for our strategist to explore and gather intelligence?" she asked. "We're all rather preoccupied at the moment. Perhaps it would be better to simply have the healers on standby until such time as you actually require them, and only send our strategist to you initially?"
Anzhad looked thoughtful. "That's acceptable, so long as you can guarantee that you will send your healers as soon as we call for them."
It was a long shot, but at least it was a slightly better deal than the original. Besides, as she'd already said, the decision wasn't hers to make.
Sanner nodded. "Then I shall relay your request as a matter of urgency. That's the best I can do; I really don't have the authority to make such a decision on behalf of my superiors, especially given the situation with Midor."
Some unidentified emotion flickered across Anzhad's dark face, her businesslike impassivity slipping for just a moment. "What situation in Midor?"
"Midor has declared war on Ferein," Sanner said slowly. "Even now their forces amass on The Great Plains and prepare to march against them. They've pinned the blame for the Atalan attacks on Paws and Midor Farmlands to the Elves of Ferein."
"That explains the embargo," Anzhad murmured, almost to herself. "Very well, Miss Sanner. Speak to your superiors and send your strategist within three days if you can."
She stood, Sanner following suit and shaking her proffered hand. "It's been an honour to speak to you, Admiral."
"And you, Miss Sanner. Zianni will see you out."
It was only when she was well clear of the camp that it occurred to Madeline that she still had no idea what was going on. She spent the rest of the long ride south formulating all the questions she wanted to ask. |
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Re: Questions
Posted: 28 Feb 2007 06:20 PM |
~*~
Lance had changed.
It wasn't just the new look—although it had stripped him of the Midoran Seafront noble brat appearance and the air of condescending superiority he'd once possessed. A lot of the restless energy and bluster of yesteryear had simply drained out of him. Between Madeline Sanner's offer and the workload that had been dumped on him ever since he'd accepted it, he'd cooled off and started a long and arduous slog uphill towards a distant redemption. The fighting spirit was still there; but it was tempered now by a sort of quiet and long-suffering wisdom.
He showed promise, Sanner decided as she listened to the professional and concise rundown he was giving of the current situation. No signs of nervous breakdown, no emotional outbursts, no insane and over-ambitious plots—a far cry from the Lance of last year. Given a few years, he would probably be mature enough to entrust with a leadership role again.
Problem was, they didn't have a few years. More likely, in a few months—possibly even weeks or days—they would have to throw him into the deep end again to take his former place with Command. If he continued to be on good behaviour. If he continued with the positive contributions. If—
"—report that neither he, nor the crew member they sent in with him, have done so."
She snapped her attention back to the matter at hand.
"This is not good," she murmured, frowning.
"No, it isn't," he agreed in the same low whisper he'd been speaking in for the past few minutes. "And we still don't have any information on the target either, because he was supposed to bring that information back."
Sanner took a deep breath, driving all extraneous detail from her mind to focus on the problem at hand. This had been a questionable mission from the start, and now it had gone wrong.
"Command wants you to take charge of this and decide whether or not to run a rescue—and if so, to organise it," Lance continued.
Leaning back in her chair, she tapped her fingers rhythmically against the table in front of her in thought. "How soon can we get a rescue team organized?" Straight to the point. What was the point of mincing words in a situation like this?
"That's up to you. It'll be a bit hard, considering that the Midorans have cut off Mineath," he pointed out.
She'd almost forgotten about that. The survey map of the southern regions that Marcelle had submitted had looked bleak indeed, visually outlining the walls that had sprung up due to the Atalan attacks. The loss of the Mineath route was a blow felt by all.
"Who do we have available at the moment?" she asked.
"In truth? No one," Lance said bluntly. "You're going to have to pull people off duty where you deem fit."
She winced. Cut off from the south-central bases, hedged in on all sides by hostiles forces, she'd effectively become trapped here. Where Lance was getting his information from was anyone's guess.
"I want a small team," she told him. "No more than five, myself and you included."
"Unless you can get someone else in to mind River, that's not really an option," Lance pointed out.
"I would prefer someone with some experience in these situations. Your past does seem to fit the bill."
"I'd recommend Stiletto instead; she did most of the actual talking in those days."
"Very well," Sanner decided. "She does have a way with people... so to speak. I want her here as soon as possible. We don't have much time on this."
Lance grimaced. "That's the problem. I think she's still in Aerie—on the wrong side of the Divider Chain."
Madeline pinched the bridge of her nose. She should have guessed.
"The only real way over is via that flying contraption, but it's not as if any of us can afford that," Lance continued.
"Perhaps we could use the Gnome's fly..." she stopped in mid-sentence, blinking rapidly in surprise.
Without fail, this happened every time she started to wonder whether the unity of bygone days had been a figment of her imagination. And it caught her by surprise every time. There were times when she saw only the fragmentation of the past few years and lost sight of this—the concept of one around which all Midoran life revolved.
Lance flashed a wolfish grin. "Well, there's the Midoran capacity to think as one, act as one and move as one."
You don't know the half of it, she thought silently.
The rest of the planning session went without incident. She had half a team assembled the next day, and the other half on their way in shortly after that.
So on to another matter, track down Illumini. She hoped it would not prove as difficult as the other tasks. With her luck. The earth would open up and swallow the only path to her goal. Well nothing worth having is easy to attain. Just keep telling yourself that she thought. |
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The Rescue
Posted: 08 Apr 2007 11:04 AM |
The weeks passed.
Setting up the forward base was simple, taking up a mere half hour on the first day on the island. The initial scouting phase was complete by the end of the first day as well. It was a small island, as islands went—only barely big enough for them to stake out a camouflaged camp in one corner of it, if they kept their heads low. Before nightfall, the scouts already knew the size and shape of it as well as they knew the backs of their hands.
No, Sanner decided, it was the waiting that was the hardest part. She and Edison were dead weight, at least in the initial stages of the plan. Marcelle, Stiletto and Illumini carried out the reconnaisance, gathering as much intelligence as possible on the physical layout of the island, the psychological makeup of its inhabitants, and any magical wards and booby traps. Edison and Sanner were another matter altogether; being completely inept at camouflage and concealment, there wasn't really much for them to do but stay put until it was time to act.
By the end of the first week, she'd started to go a little stir-crazy. By the end of the second, she was half-convinced that she could take on the entire pirate population armed with nothing but a dagger and a berserker rage to match a barbarian's.
By the end of the third, the good news came in.
"This is it," said Stiletto. She was dressed in the garish red and blue garb of the Silver Runners. "We're going in."
~*~
At first glance, the cave didn't look all that secure.
It was a cold, damp cave that had been hollowed out by an underground river. A section of it had been partitioned off by sturdy bars which served to guard the pirate vault. Jutting out from the far wall, a narrow ledge of rock protruded over the sluggish waters, loosely serving as a prison on those rare occasions when the pirates actually wanted to keep their prisoners alive.
Trent had lucked out. After Captain Bones had grown tired of asking questions nicely, he'd been certain that he was simply going to be killed. Instead, there'd been a short but pointless electroshock therapy session, which hadn't been too bad; after which he'd been thrown in here with the Kraken sailor he'd come in with and left alone.
It didn't take long to work out why there was so little security in the cave. The only way off the ledge was to swim across the river. The river, so the Kraken grumpily informed him, was full of a deadly and exotic breed of jellyfish.
"I tried to swim the first night and it stung like blazes," she growled. "I get the feeling they're holding us for ransom, though. They wouldn't be so careful about keeping us alive otherwise."
That particular detail had been nagging at him for a while, but now it made sense. He had to wonder, though, who the pirates were dealing with and who would be interested in them.
For the moment, there was little to do but observe and wait.
~*~
"Hey Mongo. Lunch time."
The passage of time was difficult to gauge from inside the cave. Had it been a week? Two? Whether by accident or design, the meals didn't come regularly enough to keep time by. By his reckoning, this was the twentieth "lunch" he'd had since he'd been put in the cave.
There was a grunt from the opposite side of the cave, where the vault was. The massive silhouette of the Half-Orc vault keeper shuffled away from the bags of gold he'd been obsessively counting and vanished down into the floor. There was a tunnel going under the vault, with one end within the vault itself and the other just outside the bars. From the sounds of it, both ends were secured with heavy stone covers—either trap doors, stone lids or heavy rocks. No one ever went into the vault except for Mongo. He always came out to meet the others, and he always stayed within the tunnel, at least as near as Trent could tell.
That information didn't do him much good. The vault was on the wrong side of the river.
After the Half-Orc had snatched up his lunch, the pirate headed towards the river.
It was hard to make out anything in the dim light, but she was scrawny and bald, with a complexion significantly paler than the tanned or dark skin of the other pirates. She also had an air of competence that the others lacked; even Captain Bones and the other high-ranking pirates had been little more than undisciplined goons.
He'd seen her before somewhere, but he couldn't quite place it. It couldn't have been here; she would have stood out like a sore thumb.
Setting down a package at her feet, she unfurled a scroll and uttered a string of arcane syllables. He was familiar with the routine by now; it was some sort of spell that could transport small objects across very short distances: an effective way, for instance, to feed prisoners without having to come anywhere within potential striking range. The others usually took half a dozen tries before getting it right, or ended up dumping food into the jellyfish river.
She got it right on the first go.
"Don't know why we bother feeding ya," the woman grumbled. There was something odd about her accent. "Should just throw ya to the sharks."
Trent didn't bother replying, picking up the rations as soon as they appeared on the ledge and dividing them into equal portions.
"See you again at dinner. Unless—" she flashed a predatory smile at the Kraken, "—you'd like to try swimming with the jellyfish again. There's worse deeper in the water."
"You've never been out to the deep sea, girlie," sneered the Kraken. "There's worse out there than anything you have here."
Trent kept quiet, watching the exchange. He was smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut, especially after what he'd just discovered in the ration packaging.
The pirate smiled pleasantly in return, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "See you at dinner."
"Bloody amateurs," the Kraken growled as she left. She started chewing on a corner of a strip of dried meat then nearly spat it out again. "Can't think of anything more humiliating than being caught by the likes of these kids."
Thumb on the corner of the packaging, she started to tear away at it.
And paused.
"...What in the abyss...?" she breathed. Her gaze flicked quickly to the cave exit where the woman had just vanished, then over to the vault, where Mongo was still happily and noisily munching away at lunch.
"Someone's remembered us, I suspect," Trent murmured back, showing his own Dimension Door scroll.
~*~
"There's a cave in the south-east of the island," Stiletto whispered in a low voice. "It's on the map I showed you earlier, ma'am. That's where their vault is."
"Only place on the island where they can have a prison, really. They're sloppy," added Marcelle with a hint of scorn. She might not be Midoran-born, thought Sanner, but she did a fairly good impersonation of it.
"Well, they are pirates." Sanner couldn't quite keep herself from smirking. "Though we should still be careful."
"Right," said Stiletto. "They're on a rock surrounded by killer jellyfish. Can't swim out. I dropped them two Dimension Door scrolls. Now... the vault keeper should be knocked out when I bring in dinner." She threw a quick look around at the gathering dusk. "So we need to move out now."
"Let us hope he is." Sanner nodded sharply. "Very well... let us get this done."
Stiletto grinned apologetically. "Afraid you and the Captain will have to stay here ma'am—you're not stealthy enough."
"Understood."
"All right—we're off." Stiletto gave a formal bow; a throwback to better days, when such things mattered. Coming from her, it was a high compliment.
Sanner returned the gesture, raising a hand in wordless blessing as the three of them headed out. Ultimately it was an empty gesture, but it was the sentiment that mattered.
After all, they needed all the help they could get. |
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Homecoming
Posted: 18 Jun 2007 11:28 AM |
It had been a long and tiring siege, the days stretching to weeks, the weeks to months. Trent stepped onto the pier, exhausted, his attention focused solely upon the warm and welcoming glow radiating from the watermill's windows.
The past two months were a blur of non-stop fighting. Even now, the clash of steel and roar of explosions still echoed in his ears. The Kraken fleet had lived up to the legends; if anything, they'd been more terrifying and ferocious than the tales hinted at.
Like so many others had before him, he wondered what had made them retire. They'd once had supremacy of the seas, and then three decades ago, had abruptly given it up. The rumours cited Sir Rayinor Liam as the cause; but they were only rumours, and they did not say why.
He stepped inside the watermill, pausing for a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The bunks were unoccupied; good. No one here to overhear. He crossed the room to the kitchen partition, letting out a sharp cough to catch Lance's attention.
Lance turned with narrowed eyes, relaxing as soon as he caught sight of a familiar face. "Mister Kelten," he said with a relieved smile. "Good to see you again, sir."
"You too," Trent nodded. "It's been a long time since I left." Lowering his voice as he stepped closer, he added, "Sanner remained behind for negotations. I need to find Amaranth and report."
The other man's smile turned brittle. Turning to the kitchen counter, he picked up a tray of food. "I wonder if you could do something for me? Can you take this upstairs to Aunt Gwen?"
A quiet alarm bell went off in the back of Trent's head. "Of course," he agreed mechanically. Gwen... he paged through a half-remembered list of names and drew a blank. It didn't matter. He'd find out soon enough.
Lance climbed the nearby ladder and unlocked the attic door. "Don't forget to lock up," he said.
Balancing the tray in one hand, Trent nodded and headed upstairs.
One of the braziers in the far corner had been lit in a feeble attempt to dispel the dark chill of the attic. Half-visible through the floor-to-ceiling shelves, silhouetted against the brazier's flickering light, someone sat hunched over a makeshift cot. Trent shut the attic door with an audible click and locked it with some difficulty before crossing to the far side of the room.
Gwendolyn Whitehall glanced up at him as he passed, rising wordlessly and putting a finger to her lips. The two of them sat at the end of the table closest to the brazier by mutual consensus.
She was a former priestess of Midoran in her forties or fifties, her tanned skin and air of no-nonsense pragmatism marking her as either a member of the wandering Survey Teams, or belonging to the outlying farmlands or Paws. Trent had only met her once, late last year when he and Sanner had been given the tour of the bases they'd set up. With Crag dismantled, she was probably part of River or Circus now. That, or one of the mobile teams picking up the slack from Midor's own disbanded Survey Teams.
"Good to see you again, Trent," she murmured, greeting him with the same relieved smile that Lance had used. "We didn't know what had happened to you."
"Quite a lot, but I've been through worse," he replied in the same quiet tone.
Whitehall rubbed her eyes wearily; she had the look of someone who hadn't slept in far too long. "Well, I'm afraid I've got nothing but bad news to give you. Do you want to go first, or shall I?"
Trent frowned. "Go ahead."
"Good or bad news first, then?"
"It hardly matters. Bad news, then," he decided.
Gwendolyn threw a look over her shoulder at the withered body on the cot. "Villanova's been struck down with an affliction which we believe to be part curse and part disease. We think it's supernatural. And fatal." She said it so matter-of-factly that he nearly missed the news completely. "Lance thinks it's the doing of a powerful and somewhat unstable mage named Xaranthir; Thanados - he's in charge of Spiderweb these days - thinks it's the work of another mage."
She must have caught the confused look on his face, because she explained, "I don't know if you've been briefed on Spiderweb. It's the building of a vast library by Xaranthir, who I mentioned before. He's got other mages in there helping him, but they've taken an intense disliking to our leader."
He mulled that over for a moment. Lance was young, brash and quick to jump to conclusions. Torvell was level-headed, but also biased. There was no point in talking to Lance; he was going to have to track down Torvell for questioning when he got the chance.
"Is there any way to come up with a cure?" he asked.
"I wish I knew. If it was natural, yes. Being supernatural..." She spread her hands helplessly. "We're without powers and without magic. The supernatural, we cannot combat."
"And this Xaranthir?"
"We prefer to steer well clear of him," she said quietly but firmly. "He belongs to an all too common variety of mage: plenty of power, little sense of responsibility."
Trent filed the remark away for future reference. With Naillamne, vampires, Great Creepers, a plethora of Synspawn, most of Midor and Midoran himself breathing down their necks, it hardly rated a second thought. He'd investigate the accuracy of that opinion - or lack thereof - later.
"And the other news?" he prompted.
The frown eased from her face, just a little. "We've been making good progress with Circus. Although work on the Death Trap's halted since you took Marcelle with you. We're now working on preparing for the cold season and building permanent structures. We won't survive Glacille in tents." A triumphant smile flickered across her face. "We've also made a lot of headway setting up flash towers. In a few months, we should be able to communicate rapidly from all our outposts.
"The Atalan situation seems to have settled down for now; there've been no more raids," she continued, getting to the main matter. "But the Midor farmlands are off-limits now, as is Paws; and Gladden is under the control of the Durzagon. We've got a minimal presence in the Midor farmlands, but we're not quite sure what to do with it at the moment."
He nodded slowly, trying to absorb all the information. Progress in all the right places, but not enough of it. The Atalan raids and Midor's declaration of war against Ferein had brought everything to a screeching halt; fortunately, it seemed to have set back Midor as well.
"I suppose the results of the siege are the only bit of really good news we have left," he said slowly.
"How did it go?" Whitehall asked anxiously.
"Not entirely according to plan," he confessed, "but we managed to take the island before too long. Sanner stayed behind and is already negotating people to be transferred there."
"What sort of resources can we expect from this?"
"The pirates were very much self-sufficient," Trent said slowly. He'd left Marcelle's map behind with Sanner's team, but from memory... "The farmlands available there seem to be the most important resource, seeing how the war with the Atalan had taken most of the mainland's."
He had no doubt that Sanner would be able to negotiate for control of the farmlands. The Krakens were sailors and warriors, not farmers; and they had plenty of farmers and workers to provide. It was as neat a trade-off as you could get.
"Send the full report later, when you have time." Whitehall paused, as if almost afraid to ask. But it needed to be said. "Did we lose anyone?"
Trent sighed. "Two priests, as well as Darius," he replied. "Did you want the bodies sent over here, or...?"
Gwendolyn shut her eyes, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "No, it's all right - are the priests still there?"
He nodded.
"Have one of them hold the service. Write those names down for me in the report - I'll send word to Circus and Aerie. If anyone wants to attend, we'll send them over with the first lot."
"All right," he agreed. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Who's in charge now?"
"I am," Whitehall said grimly.
"I want to be assigned to the farmlands."
She nodded. "Very well; we'll send you back to the island when—"
"I mean the Midor farmlands."
To her credit, her only reaction was to quirk an eyebrow at him.
"Well, Mister Kelten," she said slowly, "you're a sound strategist and you've proved to be quite level-headed. But to be blunt, you don't react at all well to snap decisions or surprises."
Trent grimaced. She had a point there: he hadn't done very well at all at the infiltration phase of Ribald Island. It was only when they'd gone into a full-blown siege that he'd been in his comfort zone.
"That's why I'm asking to be assigned to the farmlands, not the city proper," he pointed out. "Besides, we stand a better chance of making a difference there; they're not so... entrenched in propaganda."
"I see," Gwendolyn murmured. "And what exactly do you intend to do, Mister Kelten?"
Trent took a deep breath. He'd had a long time to think about this, and had tried to talk himself out of it, but in the end the idea had made too much sense to simply abandon. "Revive the Loyalist movement," he said, looking her squarely in the eye. "We have the resources, we've built up the momentum, and now we need to take the initiative. We've been playing it safe; it's time to start taking risks now. You don't have anyone willing to do that and you don't have anyone in there with any vision. So I'm volunteering."
She held his gaze for several long moments, almost daring him to back down. But he didn't; and reluctantly, Whitehall conceded defeat and nodded.
"Stay here; I'll send for one of De La Rosa's team to come and pick you up," she said, all business again. Standing, she raised a hand and held it over him in a wordless blessing - a gesture that was half-reflex and half-genuine.
Even with Midoran taken out of the equation, the gesture still held meaning.
It went against all logic and against all fact. But there was more to it than clinging to a lifetime of traditions and beliefs.
Some truths ran deeper than words and logic could express.
He bowed his head in acceptance of the blessing, acknowledging it without saying a word. Perhaps ten years from now, or five hundred years from now, they'd have words for this again. But for now, words were an extraneous luxury.
~*~
A History of the Future
We do not know their names.
There are titles, monikers, repeated through the ages, through the centuries. Recurring traits, recurring roles, but the individuals are never named. The individual names do not matter; personal glory does not matter.
The Revenant. The Lion. The Shadow. The Healer. The Builder. The Destroyer. Masks to which you cannot assign a single face. Roles which you cannot assign to a single player. Each repeating ever on.
They did not see time as linear; they saw it as a circle. Stand upon the arc of any circle large enough and the circle appears to be a line; but the line is only the horizon and the horizon is only the limit of vision. If you can see beyond it, if you can see the entirety of it, then vision loops around and back again and reveals itself to be a circle.
Every journey leads home. Every step outwards leads back inwards.
And everything thrown into the air returns to earth again, gravitates back towards its point of origin. You can leave home behind but it will come with you. In truth, you can never return home, because you never left.
Qualeela,
Wandering Minstrel |
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