Into the valley of the shadow hounds of death

October 2, 2008 at 11:55 am (Rolus Keep, Shadowfell, The Pig and Bucket)

2nd of Moon’s Sleep, Year of the Horde 

I had heard tell of Shadowalking many times before. My Uncle Norbert claims to have done it several times while serving as shipping agent for an Eladrin wizard, and the process figures prominently in the tale of Edgar Stoat and the Things You Can See from Your Window. However, I had never done it before—and after this most recent trip, I’m not sure I want to do it again.

It started off, as so many mystical things seem to do, with a pinch of this, a puff of that, and some unintelligible utterings by Omin Dran as he strolled around the edges of a pentagram he had drawn on the ground. Suddenly, dark grey mist started to fill that space, until it formed  a column of shadow-stuff several feet tall.

“Oh, I’m sorry.. that’s supposed to be a bit bigger. I really don’t do this ritual very often. Be sure you duck as you step into the portal, or you may arrive in the realm of Shadow without your head, which would be most regrettable.. most regrettable indeed…” Omin’s warning trailed off, and ended with a nervous laugh. Although I was certainly short enough to pass into the mist without stooping, it hardly filled me with confidence.

Nevertheless, it was an adventure, and that is what we had all come for. One by one, we stepped through the portal and into the Shadowfell.

I had always rather imagined it being quite dramatic, with starlike points of light rushing past one in an almost instaneous blur. Instead, it was rather more like stepping into a dense fog, which cleared a moment later. Rather than finding ourselves in a sunny courtyard in Tamarin, however, we were all now standing on a grey road in a low grey valley. Grey hills disappeared into a hazy grey distance. Not a single living thing could be seen, nor any evidence that anything alive had ever been here.

“Come along, we should make good haste as we traverse this realm.” Omin said, “While it is usually safe enough, there are… dangers.” He ended with another nervous laugh. We followed his advice, and started in the direction that he indicated at a brisk pace.

The first few hours were completely uneventful. Indeed, “uneventful” doesn’t really cover the overwhelming forlorn nothingness of the place. Even our food and drink tasted bland and unsatisfying.

It was Viggo, as usual, who first heard it. “There.. howling.. you no hear, Arnold? Howling like wolf carried on wind, but not wolf, and no wind.” Omin blanched at his comments. “Howling? We must hurry then. Oh yes, hurry. Faster.” We all obliged, hastening our pace, eyes and ears alert for any indication of danger, weapons kept to hand.

When I finally heard the howling a few minutes later, it was much closer and undeniably threatening: four dark muscled beasts, two each side of us, each cloaked in a dimness that made it hard to spot against the surrounding greyness. I had heard of them before: Shadow Hounds. From what I had heard, once they had scented their prey, nothing would keep them from their kill. And we were that prey.

Viggo loosed a bow shot at one, and I slung a rock at another, but within seconds they had closed, teleporting among us with jaws snapping and a mournful bay that filled my soul with fear. Skalrag backed up, clearly wishing to avoid combat, but using his magical skills to both attack our foes and light our way. Thor, as usual, charged into the fray. I grew Petunia from her scabbard, and circled around one as Viggo slashed at it with his sword. In an instant, however, it was no longer there, but rather behind me, its jaws snapping at my left arm and drawing blood. I thrust the steel of my dagger against its dark flank, wounding it back in turn.

Combat continued like this for several minutes, with Viggo, Thor, and I all drawing wounds from the creatures. Omin crouched on the ground, variously sobbing or beseeching the gods to save us.  Skalrag shifted position, trying his best to be where the beasts weren’t, while casting magic missiles at them with considerable skill. Slowly, one by one, the Shadow Hounds were slain—or, rather, whatever passes for slain in the cursed Shadowfell.

Dirock strode over to Omin, and helped the half elf to his feet. “Fear not, Kord watches over us and our foes are vanquished. Kord be praised!”

“I think I heard Kord also suggest we continue on, as fast a possible,” I suggested helpfully. For whatever reason, Dirock failed to credit my suggestion of divine inspiration, but agreed with the sentiment, as did the others of our party. We pressed on.

Fortunately, we had not much further to go. Perhaps an hour later (who can tell, in a grey land with no bright sun above?), Omin stopped and scratched another pentagram in the dusty road. “Yes, I think its about here.. this should be the place for the portal.” With this, he set about once more casting the ritual. We stepped through the shadows, and found ourselves on a trail through the green woods, blue sky and white clouds above, and birdsong in the distance.

“Much better, Viggo think.” said my ranger friend, with palpable relief. “No like Shadowfell. Viggo no wish to go return, except when time comes to meet the Raven Queen.” Thor nodded in agreement “Aye, it’s a blighted lain indeed. Whit say ye we press oan tae Rolus Keep, an’ wash awa’ aw ‘at greyness wi’ some ale?Thaur ur dwarves in these parts, an’ nae a body makes ale better. First roon oan me!”

It sounded good to me. We started along the trail, with Viggo and I taking up our customary scouting positions to the front.

Our cautious routine was rewarded on this occasion, for a scant few minutes later the ranger signaled us to halt, and pointed out something in the distance. Orcs! A half dozen or so of them, examining what appeared to be the fruits of recent pillage. What were they doing here, on this side of the border? How had they bypassed the defences at the Khyber Pass? Had the pass fallen, or had they found another route into Tamarin?

Since we had the advantage of surprise, we decided to lay an ambush for these raiders. Each of us took positions hidden along the trail, while Thor went forward so as to draw their attention. Upon being seen, he feigned fear, and fled back along the path—leading his pursuers right to us.

It worked perfectly. Seeing one of their ancestral foes alone and in apparent flight was too much for the orcs to pass up, and the rushed after him with guttural war-cries. As soon as he reached a certain spot along the path, Thor appeared to stiumble—our signal to strike. Skalrag let lose a spell upon the orcs, to which Viggo and I added our ranged fire. Almost instantly, three fell dead.

Thor stood up, and turned around grinning at the surviving orcs. “Och, did ye want tae play?” He ran at them, cleaving with his mighty axe, while Dirock too entered the fray. The outcome was never in doubt.

“Ohhh, ‘at was fun—can we dae ‘at again?” Thor grinned as he stood among the fallen bodies. Indeed our ruse had worked perfectly, leaving no survivors to warn any larger orc horde that might be near. However, there was still the question of where they had come from, and what we might find at the town up ahead.

Fortunately, when we arrived at Rolus Keep near dusk it was clearly intact. We warned the guards of what we had found, and made our way to The Pig and Bucket—a local inn—for the night. In the morning we could consult with the town elders on the situation, and how best we might be of help.

 

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A half-elf and an empty bag

September 29, 2008 at 1:46 am (Tamarin)

1st of Moon’s Sleep, Year of the Horde

 I had been wandering the shoppes and streets of Tamarin when I first saw him: a short, balding half-elf, clad in a blue robe. He was clearly searching for something. As it turned out, it was for the Company of the Ivory Goat—or rather, adventurers of our type.

When we struck up a conversation he told me of his situation. His name was Omin Dran, and he represented the inhabitants of the northern town of Rolus Keep, located in the mountain foothills near the border with Narog-Nazu. There they guarded the Khyber Pass against incursions from the north. In recent weeks the Orcs had grown ever more aggressive, and the town elders had grown concerned that a full-scale assault was in the works. Moreover, there were troubling indications that the Orcs might have found away around, or under, the fortifications that held the pass, and could threaten the town and villages beyond.

I must admit, I was immediately interested: the town of Rolus Keep and the Orcs of that area had been the backdrop of much of Edgar Stoat and the Underground Orckind Railway. My companions were equally enthusiastic too: Thoradrin, the Defender, was anxious to contribute his axe to the defence of the town, while Dirock felt that its inhabitants would benefit from Kord’s strength (as well, I suspect, some of Dirock’s stern sermons). As for the Viggos—both little and big—they were simply happy to be once more among mountains and woods, and far from urban streets and throngs of slavering zombies. It all seemed straight forward. But was it? Given the delicate peace negotiations between Tamarin and Narog-Nazu, I was anxious that our company not somehow cause diplomatic complications. Accordingly, we sought an audience with the Chancellor Invictad.

There, we learned more that would be of use to us. The wild orcs of this region were largely beyond the control of Urzas Jian and the Orcish warlords, and raids were not uncommon. The Chancellor also added another piece to the puzzle: a group of prospectors were missing in the mountains to the north, where they had been on a secretive mission to investigate possible platinum deposits. If we could bring them to safety, or at least discover their fate, we would be rewarded handsomely.

I must admit that this additional news caused me some discomfort… it seemed rather risky for Tamarin to be secretly mining platinum deposits located in Orcish territory at a time when their truce with Narog-Nazu hung in the balance. Indeed, it seemed rather as if we were being asked to investigate precisely because our mission could be denied, and we ourselves considered expendable should anything go wrong.

Still, as Uncle Rufus used to say, “never shove a weasel down a sewer.” That saying made little sense to me, and even less now as I remembered how happily Little Viggo had scampered among the dark undertunnels of Phirul. Still, it made me realize that there was some opportunity in this situation.

“And what of the ore, Chancellor?”

“Or what, halfling?” he replied, somewhat confused.

“The ore Sir, the platinum ore–surely the prospectors were planning to return with some for testing? I’m not sure we can carry it…”

 Chancellor Invictad clearly didn’t want to be bothered with such details, and moved to dismiss us with a wave of his hand. I quickly kicked Thor in the foot.

“Och aye, its true, sairrr… thaur woods air tae test, quite a lot ay it. althoogh aam nae sure whit Arnauld is gettin’ at…”

“…by which Thor means that our only hope of recovering any ore—ore that might be vital to the national security of the Kingdom of Tamarin, indeed of the entire free word—is to transport it in something like… well, a magical Bag of Holding, Sir. We don’t have one, and we’ll need one. Of course, we could just leave the ore there.. I’m sure the King won’t mind if the Orcs discover the platinum deposits, deposits that could be rich enough to shift the very strategic balance in all Quirm. I mean, he would forgive you for that, wouldn’t he?”

The Chancellor seemed to gulp, but nonetheless he did dismiss us. Ah well, it was worth a try.

We returned to meet with Omin Dran. Had had recruited one other for this mission, a human mage named Skalrag. He seemed quite skilled in the arcane arts, and I think we were all pleased to have him aboard given the continued absence of Kiira and Noctuz from our company. We assembled on a grassy knoll, as Omin prepared the ritual of Shadowalking that would speed our journey north five-fold. Suddenly, two figures approached: the first a mounted messenger of the royal palace, in full regalia; the second, a middle-aged seamstress carrying a package of her own.

The courier stopped, and blew his horn (quite uneccessarily, since I was barely five paces from him at the time). “By the order of Lord High Chancellor Kalos Invictad, this package is provided to Arnold Wurzel and the Company of the Ivory Goat to facilitate their endeavours.” I unwrapped the package as soon as it was handed to me, and grinned as I found within it the Bag of Holding that I had sought earlier. Clearly, the halfling glib played as well in high society as it did among the merchants and river smugglers of my native land!

At the same time, the woman drew up before Viggo. “Oh Master Viggo, I be so glad I caught ye before ye left.. I’ve done finished that special order what you wanted!” Beaming, she handed him a package which, when unwrapped, contained a half dozen magnificent tabards, each bearing the heraldic symbol of an ivory goat rampant. “Oh, Viggo like… is very good… Arnold, you like? Thor? Dirock? I grinned and our dwarven friend chuckled, even more so as Dirock scowled and mutter something about “blasphemy and nonsense.” Donning his tabard, Viggo hugged the seamstress. “For you, special sewing lady, Viggo bring you back special gift—maybe bear milk from north!”

I suspected we would find much more than bears on our journey.

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Meeting Kings, and other things

September 27, 2008 at 12:33 am (Tamarin)

27th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde 

I remember her well, that an old gypsy fortuneteller at the Thurdsnail Country Fair. I couldn’t have been much more than ten or eleven, and I incessantly hectored my mother until she took me to have my foothairs read. The old woman looked at one foot, then the other, plucking at the longest and curliest hairs from each with long fingernails and a practiced hand. “This one,” she cackled as her gold-capped teeth glinted in the dim candlelight of her tent, “this little one will meet Kings.“

I smiled. My mother handed over the few silvers it all cost, and we went home. That night after dinner, she handed me a box of Eberheart King’s Wonder Cleaning Scrubbing Pads and with a grin pointed me in the direction of a large pile of dishes. “On you go, Arnold–time to meet your Kings!”

Today, however, I met another king–a real king, His Royal Highness King Ezgara Diskanal. He didn’t have magic singing bubbles or that lemon-clean scent, but otherwise it was an altogether more impressive experience.

Following the successful rescue of the survivors from Phirul, my friends and I (minus Kiira and Noctuz, who had research they wished to continue on the zombie plague) had been taken to the city of Tamarin for the royal audience. We were escorted on the way by the affable Tasther the Druid, and a small detachment of soldiers led by a Sergeant Cloud. As has often been the case as of late, our trip was far from unexciting. A little more than a day after we had set forth, we came across a small bend on the road where a log and cart seemed to form a makeshift barricade. Segreant Cloud, the leader of the detachment held up her hand to halt the party.

My ranger friend spoke up. “Viggo think it is am-bush. Tree chopped, not falled by wind. No is good am-bush too, is very obvious.”

The sergeant gestured for a couple of her men to scout the obstacle, as Viggo continued his commentary.

“..Me think it be something to draw our lookings….how you say that, Arnold?”

“Ruse? Bait? A distraction?” I offered helpfully, sharing much the same misgivings about the entire situation.

At this point, a huge clawed hand emerged from the obstacle to knock one of the soldiers aside. A vicious looking bugbear clambered onto the log before us, as the wounded soldier screamed in fear and pain.

“…yes, that csúnya lidérc-állat there that is scratching screamy soldier.. he is dis-trac-tion, so we all go forward like silly little lemmings…”

Sergeant Cloud, clearly paying little heed to the considerable derision in Viggo’s tone nor his general disdain for the martial prowess of Tamarinian soldiers, ordered her troops to charge the creature. I swear I could hear him roll his eyes, if eyes could be heard rolling.

“…so that OTHER sneaky creatures attack us from other side. Is obvious, like when bird pretend to have broken wing or when kobold offer to share wine.” With this Viggo drew his swords, and stared into the woods to either side of us. He soon had the confirmation he was seeking as a single black arrow hurtled past us and struck Tasther in the neck. The druid fell to the ground, moaning in pain. Moments later, a half dozen or so hobgoblins burst from cover to charge upon us. Off in the distance, the soldiers and bugbear were now locked in combat.

Thor was in his element, of course. “Ah dornt caur if they think they’re sneaky, as lang as they bleed when they tak’ an axe in th’ heed!” Wielding his mighty blade, he strode forward with a shout, Viggo by his side. Inspired by their example, I hid behind a small embankment, and began to snipe with my sling. Dirock threw his invocation of Kord’s mighty power into the fray.

The first few foes went down easily enough, but the last few proved to be much more formidable opponents. I dashed forward, to assist Viggo with Petunia’s sharp edge, the two of us maneuvering with well-practiced art to disadvantage our enemies.  Finally, our company triumphed, but not before taking some deep cuts and ugly bruises that had need of our cleric’s attentions. Tasther, fortunately, was not badly wounded, thanks to his remarkable regenerative powers. As for the soldiers, they slew the bugbear and were full of self-congratulation at their victory, seemingly oblivious to how their frontal assault had left our flanks unguarded.

The rest of our trip to the capital was largely uneventful, or as uneventful as a trip-to-meet-the-king can be. There were were met by the King’s Chancellor and his staff, and accommodated in a fine stately house upon the Denaw River. This wasn’t my first visit to Tamarin, as Viggo and I had travelled there several times about the Laughing Skua. However, I did view it with a particular new perspective in light of recent events: this city, to my great pleasure, was zombie-free.

Our audience with the King was full of all the pomp and majesty that one might expect: rows of gleaming soldiers and silk-clad courtiers, choruses of trumpets, rows of dignitaries. Viggo, devoid of the slightest regard for—or even rudimentary knowledge of—protocol, enjoyed himself greatly, chatting with confused ambassadors about the value of elk spittle for improving digestive regularity, borrowing the trumpets from surprised trumpeteers to determine their utility as moose-calls, and expressing his concern to the king about his limited royal sexual prowess (evidenced, in my friend’s eyes, by the fact he had but one wife). All-in-all it was quite the day, especially given the royal gifts that we all received.

With our audience over, we found ourselves at a crossroads of sorts. What were we to do? If our small band of adventurers, our Company of the Ivory the Goat, should stay together, to what purpose should we commit ourselves? 

The answer would come from an unexpected source.

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Escape from Phirul, and a Prophecy Fulfilled

September 9, 2008 at 3:43 pm (Phirul, Temple of Erathis, The Prophecy of the White She-Goat)

13th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde 

For the first time in two weeks, I have dined well, drunk ale, bathed, and slept in a warm and comfortable cot rather than on a roof or the rough floor of a stone cellar. My companions and I, at last, have escaped from the death-plagued streets of Phirul. What is more, we have managed to bring with us, safe and well, Geoffrey Alderman and all of the survivors from the Golden Gryphon, as well as the redoubtable Samantha Heward and her son Jason.

How we got from that nightmare to our present safe and secure accommodations at a Tamarian military encampment is as strange a tale as any that I’ve reported, involving Viggo, goats, mud, more Viggo, and a well-deserved punch-in-the-face. Like all such tales, it is best told in order, and heard around a roaring fire and with a fine pint or three of Harry Hephalump’s Honeydew Mead in hand. I well remember my father and Uncle Filbert telling such stirring tales at the Gibbering Githyanki on cold winter’s nights, as everyone gathered around. I hope one day they’ll tell this one too.

This, as they say, was how it was. Following our successful efforts to secure the Temple of Erathis and its surrounding walls, gates, and compound, Thor, Dirock, Viggo and I set out to return to the survivors and plan their relocation. On the way, we took a quick detour back into the kruthik tunnels, so as to make sure the beasties wouldn’t trouble us when we brought everyone to the Abbey. Our scouting confirmed that the creatures had reestablished their lair much deeper than before, and there was no sign that they had returned to their old haunts near the crypt and under the barn. Reassured—and not anxious to confront the hive-queen—we left them alone.

Back at the Golden Gryphon, the news we brought was greeted with much joy. Everyone was anxious to leave the roof upon which they had been so uncomfortably perched for the space, security, and supplies afforded by the church compound. Thor inspected the rope bridge that the survivors had been working on, made a few modifications, and pronounced it ready for use. We would attempt to ferry everyone from roof to roof across the several city blocks between us and Andy’s Armoury. From there, we would have safe access to the sewers below. To be doubly sure it would all work, we would fastened an additional safety rope around each person as they crossed—despite Viggo’s grinning assurances that he could easily hook them with the grapple andretrieve them from a fall, as he done to me so painfully a week earlier.

As might be expected, our first attempts to put all of this into practice ran into a few hitches. Once or twice the attachments slipped, never disastrously so but enough that we took extra care from then on.  Panros Gyrokopta froze part way across several times and eventually admitted to a fear of heights, but was successfully urged on by his wife and children. Glenys Strolls insisted at one point that we all return to the inn so that she could fetch the shopping that she had been carrying that fateful day when the zombies assaulted the city, but the glowering expressions of Thor and Dirock rapidly dissuaded her from her folly.

All told it took four days to ferry everyone to the armoury. Once there, it was a much simpler affair: down into the cellar, into the sewers, and then up through the kruthik tunnels to the safety of the abbey itself. The green fields, orchards, garden, and thick stone walls of the abbey complex were certainly a welcome change in everyone’s eyes. The following day, we also made our way to Heward’s General Store to retrieve Jennifer and her son Jason. They were surprised and happy to see us, for they had feared that we had succumbed the zombie onslaught. Both were transported from building to building by rope lines to the safer location of abbey, together what useful supplies we could carry from their shop.

With our new location secured, and guards and lookouts posted, we took the risk of ringing the mighty abbey bell in the hopes of attracting the attention of other pockets of survivors. A column of smoke (sadly, from the funeral pyre comprised of the dead bodies of the abbey brothers) also clearly marked our location. To our dismay, a full day passed with no response from anyone. Could we be the only ones alive in the city? In all Tamarin? In the world?

With the survivors now relocated the the Abbey of Erathis, we resolved to set off on a deeper exploration of the city. We were contemplating how best we might do this, when Viggo approached, scratching his head. “Is goats, I think. Is goats. Stinky notdead people not bother goats. Maybe if we tie goats to wagon…”

Several of my companions raised their eyes at Viggo’s odd idea. Thor spoke up first: “Achh, Yoo’re balmy frae tay much sun, ye stoatin lumberin’ tree-hugger! They’ll rip ye tae shreds.” Dirock agreed, “I think, Viggo, that they crave only human flesh, and not that of the beasts and fowls of the fields. You see, it is only by consuming that which has borne a soul that they satiate their dark lord’s bloody hunger.” Kiira surreptitiously twirled her finger in the air beside her head as she nodded in the ranger’s direction, while Noctuz suppressed a grin.

“No, is goats! Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, they show Viggo this. It is Raven Queen’s will that they be borned at gate, and Viggo save them from being crushed by ices and rocks of druuuuyd.”

Dirock either knew little of the Prophecy of the White Goat, or was annoyed at mention of the Raven Queen. In either case, he dismissed Viggo’s comments with the wave of his hand. “No, it is plain to those of us who have studied the ways of the divine and demonic that that neither goats nor that other god have anything to do with this. Nothing at all.”

It was apparent that further debate would get us nowhere, and so I contrived a simple experiment: Viggo would be rendered invisible to undead by The Abzurian’s enchantment, and then ride one of the horses we had nursed to health outside of the gate. If it attracted no attention, Dirock was right.

No sooner was the invisible ranger out of the gate, however, when a half dozen infected came rushing towards his mount. He galloped back in, and we slammed the gate shut behind him.

“Is goats, I say.. Arnold, is goats! I think maybe smelly not-dead people think goats is like big fat demon-of-dead.” Dirock nodded in reluctant agreement. “It seems I am wrong. And it is true that the goats do resemble Orcus himself, as well as the Exarch and Hierophants of his cursed cult…  it cannot hurt to try the ranger’s theory.”

As a next step, therefore, I slaughtered one of the poor creatures, and donned its bloody goatskin, before ascending atop the outer wall of the abbey compound. That didn’t work either, for my presence immediately set a nearby zombie clawing in my direction.

“No, Arnold, you need baa-goat not-dead for not-dead-smelly peoples,” Viggo added helpfully. “And Viggo thinks it best if they not see you, for you no look like big fat demon, just like little skinny felszerzet.” To prove his point, he fashioned himself a simple head-to-foot cloak out of a bedsheet from the abbey, and used a length of rope to fashion a rudimentary goat-leash. Despite our protests, he then strode out of the abbey gate and into the city square.

The zombies turned towards him. They then ignored him, and went about their aimless shambling. He whistled a sailor’s ballad, and tried to dance a jig beneath the sheet. Still nothing. It worked!

With this discovery, we now had a possible way of reaching the city walls and gates. We fashioned four bedsheets, plus a spare, and roped five goats for use as our escorts. Noctuz and Kiira offered to remain behind to watch over the survivors. With some trepidation, the ranger, dwarf, cleric, and I set forth early the next morning, hoping that this odd combination would work as well for the four of us over a longer period as it had during Viggo’s brief foray. 

And work it did. We walked through the streets as if invisible, the zombies ignoring us or even moving aside to clear our path. After almost an hour, we finally reached the east gate. It was open, and the gatehouse abandoned. No guards—living or dead—were anywhere to be seen. Oddly, the area outside the gate, beyond the city, seemed to be knee deep in mud. There was no natural explanation for this. Rather, it seemed more likely an arcanely-created moat of sorts.

Our first order of business was to secure the gatehouse and lower the portcullis, so as to prevent any of the infected from escaping. I wanted to continue along the city walls, securing each tower and gate in turn, but Viggo’s sharp eyes had spotted something a few hundred paces distant in the morning mist–a stone wall, beyond the mud, encircling the city. We shouted out to its ramparts, and even waved our ever-burning torch to signal any that might be there. There was no response.

Viggo was growing increasingly frustrated by it all. “Viggo sick of this place of smelly not-dead people. Viggo sick of stupid Phirul guard, who no guard Phirul at all. Viggo sick of stupid Phirul wizards, who say ‘Oh look at me! Me mighty poof poof wizard of Spellstorm, but me afraid of not-dead stinky peoples!’ Viggo think Phirul have idiots for chief. Viggo bet stupid Phirul chiefs all hide behind stupid stone wall and stupid wet dirt with knees all shaky like baby pikkelyes kutya!”

Uttering a string of Kuzian oaths that even made my experienced halfling ears burned, he opened the sally-porte of the gatehouse and started to stride through the mud. There was no stopping him, only joining him, so we all followed, leaving the goats safely tethered behind us.

We had made it about half way to the wall (and the stream of curses from Viggo had hardly begin to subside) when the ground began to shake. Arising from the mud before us were three earth elementals, likely conjured or summoned as part of some defence against the zombies.

“Hello!” I shouted, “it is us, the heroes of Phirul… could you call off your pet  elementals, please?”

My entreaty was cut short by an stoney fist from one of the creatures that might have cracked my skull had I not defly leapt aside. Our skills honed by weeks of fighting the undead and other foes, we sprung into action against them as one, beating them down with sword, maul, hammer and sling while I continued to call out in increasingly exasperated tones.” “Hellllooooo… by Lilly Arlinfrum’s sweet twisted knickers would you call these damn things off? Is this any way to treat the prophet of the white goat and his hero companions.. you blathering idiots… stop this!”

My appeals had no effect. Our weapons did. Within less than a minute, we had disassembled the earth elementals.

“For frak’s sake you mangy pollocks, we’re friends!” I shouted even louder, my tone reverting to the earthy maritime patter of the Laughing Skua as my anger grew. With this, another, even larger elemental arose from the mud. It was a good 15 feet tall, and had a large ruby-coloured gem where its face might otherwise might be. It looked at us, and I thought I could hear the buzz of distant voices from within it. I wondered what it would take to pry that gem off.

“Who are you?” A single human voice emitted from the gem, by some arcane magiks.

“I’m Arnold Wurzel, and these be my fellow survivors from the zombie armageddon that is Phirul.. and who might you be?” I mustered as much politeness as I could, under the circumstances.

The buzz grew louder, and I thought I could make out several voices jabbering excitedly at once. Finally, the gem-faced elemental spoke, or was spoken through, once more.

“Follow me.”

It set off toward the wall, and so did we. As we approached, we could see knots of Tamarinian soldiers (recently-levied, by the looks of their young years and ill-fitting armour) pointing to us excitedly. We were met by a sergent and a dozen men-at-arms, who escorted us to a military encampment and what appeared to be the tent of a senior officer. As we trudged along, I told the young (and impressionable) soldiers all I could about Viggo, the Prophecy of the White Goat, and our general heroism and deservingness-of-rich-reward.

A man in a resplendant uniform met us. “I am Tanoes Paran, Captain of Quarantine Camp 2. I’m told you claim to be survivors from the incident? Do you have authorization to be in the quarantine zone?”

“Claim? In-see-dint? Uthory-zay-shun?” I could tell immediately from Viggo’s tone that it was all too much for him. With a bellow, he slugged the officer hard in the jaw, knocking him stumbling across a footlocker and then down hard onto the floor. Dirock looked outraged, although whether it was at the haughty officer or my rough ranger friend I could not tell. Thor chuckled. “Guid a body, viggo.. althoogh Ah woods hae bin tempted tae kick th’ wee pipsqueak in th’ gonads insteid!” Almost immediately, the guards drew their weapons, and we were surrounded by a ring of steel.

As I would later tell Viggo, it reminded me as nothing quite so much as the dramatic final confrontation scene with the tiefling tax-collector in Edgar Stoat and the Banal Cult of Faceless Bureaucratic Functionaries. Rather than share that thought out loud, however, I thought this rather more the time for diplomacy.

“I’m sorry for that, Captain Sir.. it is the traditional greeting of the Kuz Valley when one has spent two weeks in a city swarming with slavering flesh-consuming infected undead denizens of hell, especially when one has seen little sign of the city guard, the city wizards, help, assistance, or even signs of life. Or perhaps you missed the great giant bell we sounded, and the huge bonfire pyre burning these past days?”

Captain Paran silenced me with a wave of his hand. “Keep them under close guard, sergeant. I must consult before I determine the fate of these ruffians.” He then strode off angrily, rubbing his jaw as he did so. For my part, I plied the soldiers with us with yet more tales of the Prophecy of the White Goat, and Viggo’s historic role in saving the city. Several snuck furtive touches of his bearskin cloak in apparent awe.

A short while later, Paran returned, accompanied by an important looking mage, and another man dressed in browns and greens. The mage, I would later learn, was none other than Koraldo Dankin, Cela of First Dawn Fort and the ranking mage of the quarantine zone. The rather more affable fellow in the earth tones was a senior druid (Tasther, the senior Druid of the West I believe), judging from his long tangled beard, and the several squirrels cavorting around his sandaled feet. They asked us many questions at considerable length, but finally seemed convinced of our story. The guards were told to sheathe their weapons.

We were brought food and water, and asked what else we wanted while the news was sent back the the capital. We answered in unison: to be allowed to return to the abbey, and bring Kiira, Noctuz, and the survivors to safety. Upon my recommendation, Dankin and an expedition accompanied us (complete with their own complement of goats), and set up a teleportation circle on the abbey grounds. This allowed our group to teleport out safely, and for military reinforcements to teleport in. The cleansing of Phirul had begun.

And so this phase of our tale ended. We are, it seems, to be taken to the capital, to tell all of this to the King himself. I hope too that a fine reward awaits us. I’ve also had the satisfaction of having seen “The Prophecy” take root among the soldiers and commoners, assuring my friend Viggo of a justly-earned place in history. Before we left, one young recruit even pressed into my hand six simple bone carvings that he had made of Viggo and the goat (looking rather more jovial than I remember at the time), one for each of our group. Together with my enduring friendships with many of the survivors, that memento remains my most treasured possession from that dark time—marking, as it does, the bonds I had formed with my companions, and the birth of the Company of the Ivory Goat.

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Hallowed Grounds of Horror

September 9, 2008 at 1:03 am (Temple of Erathis)

9th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde 

Despite a night of rest in Andy’s Armoury, The Abzurian was still feeling rather the worse-for-wear from our encounter with the blue acid monster in Treepo’s cellar. Noctuz and Kiira therefore took him back to the Golden Gryphon, and elected to stay on there to check on the survivors. That left Viggo, Thoradrin, Dirock and I to press on to the Abbey of Erathis.

The underground crypt was much as we had left it, as were the kruthik tunnels we had encountered. We trod warily, hoping to avoid a surprise encounter with the hive-queen, but she and her offspring were nowhere to be found. A freshly-dug tunnel leading down suggested why: the beasties appeared to have dug a new lair, deeper beneath the ground. For now we decided to leave them alone.

After a few minutes exploration, Viggo discovered one of the smaller tunnels spiralled up towards the surface. After a fifty or so paces it terminated in a dank crawl-space beneath what appeared to be a barn. A single kruthik carcass lay on the ground here. It wasn’t recent, and it seemed likely that the acolytes of Erathis had placed it here to deter other kruthik from entering the abbey grounds.

Opening the wooden trap door above us, we could survey the barn itself. Its doors were securely fastened at both ends. As further confirmation that zombies had not entered here, two emaciated and dehydrated cart horses were laying painfully on the floor, having exhausted the accessible supply of hay and water. Happy to see living creatures, we tended to them. Viggo was confident that, with appropriate care, both would soon recover.

Having at last found our way into the abbey, our next task was to secure the single gate to its stone-walled enclosure. Climbing to the hay loft, I could see it almost two hundred paces in the distance, across open ground that provided little opportunity for skulking. So much for a stealthy approach.

With few other options, Dirock, Thor and I set forth warily for the gates, while Viggo covered us with his bow drawn. Fortunately, none of the undead abominations appeared to be inside the grounds, and those outside failed to notice us until we had started to close the entrance. The gates slammed shut with a satisfying thud, and we quickly barred and padlocked them.

This task accomplished, we could now scout our surroundings. To one the left of the enclosure stood the barn we had entered through, as well as a small shed and smithy. To the right we could see an accommodation building of sorts, as well as a large goat pen containing a dozen or so healthy, bleating white goats. In the centre of it all stood a large and imposing temple to Erathis, with a single massive wooden door and stained glass windows marking its upper floors.

“Arnold, is it not strange the baa-goats are not eaten by the stinky not-dead peoples?” Viggo commented to me, pointing to the pen. I agreed, and could not help but remember our sighting some days ago of Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr trotting unmolested among the zombies. For some reason, the slavering infected spawn of hell left goats alone, yet devoured all other living things. It was a mystery that required some pondering.

First, however, we needed to see if there were any human survivors here. The residence seemed the most promising place to try first, and so we set off towards the large wooden building. It was empty, with little sign of anything unusual having ever taken place here—with one exception. A single door among the many was closed and locked. I quickly picked it, and we stepped in.

The smell and buzz of flies immediately alerted us to the corpse on the bed. A single monk, his cheeks sunken from hunger, lay dead. There was no sign of injury upon him.

As Dirock said a prayer for the dead, we searched the room. We found a journal, with a number of important clues. One entry noted that the Abbey of Erathis had been awaiting an emissary from the north, with news of the treaty talks between tamarin and the orcs of Narog-Nazu. Another entry, written in a more frantic hand, spoke of a brief blackness that had suddenly engulfed the temple, and of the sight of scores of brothers running from it moments later, attacking all in their path. Our deceased monk had locked himself in fear in his room, and then had slowly starved to death while awaiting a rescue that had never come.

Whatever had sparked the zombie apocalypse, it seems, had happened here at the abbey, in the very temple itself.

And so we set off to the temple, fearful of the danger that might await us, but certain that we must investigate nonetheless. Opening the massive wooden doors of the church, we found pews knocked over, and bodies everywhere. Some seemed to have died in place, the very life-force sucked from them by some dark necrotic powers. Others seemed to have been trampled while fleeing, or torn asunder.

Together with my companions, I stepped up to the dias, and looked around at the fearful sight. “Aye, tis a verrry bad thing that’s happened ‘ere, I’ll wager ye” muttered Thor under his breath, as he held his hammer tightly.

Spying a crack in the altar itself, I ran my finger across it. It collapsed at my touch, its very foundational essence torn asunder by some dark desecration. I barely had time to jump back in surprised, when a deep voice suddenly echoed in the large stone chamber.

“Welcome… welcome, meddlers.. to my NIGHTMARE!” A tusked figure appeared, clad in red-tinged black robes that bore the symbol of Orcus. With him three skeleton warriors arose—two above us in the gallery with bows, and a third larger one from among the pews. The latter, armed with a scimitar in one hand and a protrusions of spiky bone in the other, seemed a particularly daunting adversary.

“Where is nayt-mayr?” asked Viggo, laughing. “Is he under silly black cloak? Does he like nuts? I give him nuts!”

The robed necromancer looked puzzled, clearly unaware that his supposed fear-inspiring entrance had been badly marred by an accidental linguistic similarity to the popular Kuzian slang for an “inebriated chipmunk.” However our opponent’s deadly seriousness was soon underscored by the arrows raining upon us from above, as well as the onslaught from the boneshard skeleton before us.

As expected, it was brave Thoradrin who advanced to draw our opponent’s blows, raining well-placed hammer blows against the robed figure and the skeleton and taunting them in his thick dwarven brogue. “Ayyyee, call that a boneshard, laddy? Why me grandma’s got whiskers sharper than ‘at! Aiblins ye woods loch a wee taste ay dwarven hammer, orc?  ’at will fix those gantin teeth ay yoors!” 

Yet despite this, it seemed to be our cleric who attracted disproportionate attention from our evil enemies. I had been slipping in and out of the melee with dagger, sling, and spinny-blades, when I noticed Dirock slump, badly wounded, against the shattered altar. As Aunt Petunia used to say “Never eat gut-ripper beans before you’ve killed them, and never let your healer die.” In a flash I darted to his side, and quickly administered a healing potion.

Dirock stood woozily, shook his head to clear it, and leapt back into the fray. His voice boomed out, in evident anger. “How dare you, you dark abomination? How dare you despoil the radiant garb and purified body of a cleric of the truest of Gods with your most foul and cursed claws… by the mighty power of Kord, I shall return you broken to the very the hell-pits that spawned you!”

A scant few moments later he fell once more, pierced through by shards from the skeleton. I searched his pockets quickly, and found his own potion of healing, which I again administered. My aid came just in time, for Viggo and Thor—having borne the brunt of the fight thus far—were certainly in need of the cleric’s regenerative powers, if not his moralizing sermons.

The larger skeleton was finally felled by a heavy blow from Thor, although not before exploding in a final hail of sharpened bone. The orcish necromancer was a tougher adversary, although he too was finally slain by Viggo in an impressive display of twin swordsmanship. The two smaller skeletons in the gallery were destroyed quickly soon after.

A search of the rest of the temple revealed nothing more of great significance, but did tend to confirm our emerging theory. A visitor of the north had travelled here. Rather than deliver a message of peace, however, he had unleashed a dark necrotic incantation, that sucked the energy from some and infected others with the zombie plague. Even the kruthik below had been affected by this necromancy, as evidenced by the darkly corrupted eggs we had found on our first foray into their tunnels. From here the infection and the infected had then spread, plunging Phirul into darkness, death, and chaos. 

Perhaps the orc we had just slain was the agent that carried or invoked this plague. He certainly wasn’t formidable enough to have hatched the plot, however. Was this a plot of the northern orcs? Or was it an independent effort by the bloody acolytes of Orcus to sow discord, undermine the treaty talks, and spark a wider war? Certainly they would delight in the slaughter that would inevitably follow.

All of this we could contemplate later. For now we had a more important task: to bring the survivors from the Golden Gryphon, as well as Samantha Heward and her son from the general store, to this our new place of refuge.  In a dark irony, this place where evil had triumphed over good and set forth a plague that would kill thousands would now become a place of safety and respite for those few we had rescued from the chaos.

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Dye-ing to meet Treepo

August 12, 2008 at 2:38 am (Treepo)

8th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde 

For all the dark mystery that had befallen Phirul, I slept surprisingly soundly on the rough stone floor of Andy’s Armoury. Much of the credit for this, of course, is due to the Everfluffy Bedroll Company, renowned throughout my native Peithris for its fine workmanship and use of only the finest elven fluffthistle (imported from nearby Tre’burale). As they say, “If you can’t sleep on an Everfluffy, you had best become a dwarf!”

We rose early and, after a rather tedious meal of dried rations, set out once again in the direction of the Abbey. This time nothing would divert us from our mission!

Except, that is, a glowing hatch.

It  was Kiira who noticed it first, halting the party to point up at the ceiling. “What’s the red glow there?” she asked.

Viggo looked puzzled—he couldn’t see anything. Nor could I. However, Noctuz could sense it too. “Yes, Kiira, well spotted.. its some sort of illusion. Let’s see what is behind it.” With a wave of his hand, he dispelled the arcane concealment. An inscription of sorts appeared in the steel plate:

TO VISIT THE WONDROUS TREEPO
YOU MUST MERELY SET THINGS RIGHT
AN ERROR WILL BRING A SINISTER PLIGHT 

Beneath the inscription there were a series of four sliding tiles, each bearing a symbol: grass, sun, a kobold, and a cow. 

I thought a moment. “The sun nourishes the grass, which nourishes the cow, which nourishes the kobold…” Viggo nodded in agreement, but I was far from certain. “Perhaps, Kiira, you might use a mage hand to slide the tiles, while we all stand well back?” I asked.

“Why yes of course, Arnold,” she smiled. She clearly had more confidence in my puzzle-solving skills than I did. A misplaced confidence too, as it turned out too. No sooner had she moved the last tile in place, when a loud click was hear, the panel swung open, and a hideous blob of somethingness fell from the ceiling to engulf her. We had it wrong.

“By Moradin’s long grey beard, its a gelatenous cube!” Thor shouted. “And its eatin’ poor Kiira.. we’ve got tae get her out, lads, or the poor lass will be little more than a pool ay gooey elf-melt!” Viggo had already drawn his bow, and quickly loosed a couple of arrows into the quivering blob. It shuddered from the wounds, to our relief. At least it could be injured with normal weapons. We all attacked it immediately, hoping to save our friend before it was too late. “We’re coming, Kiira.. you just hang on in there lassee!” Thor shouted in grim encouragement to her, as he swung his hammer into the creature’s side.

“By the xlasinthar flaalilnyrin great llanythlis green tree of life, DAMN IT!” I was surprised to hear Kiira’s voice coming from somewhere well beyond the cube, clearly in a much worse mood than she had been before its attack. “I’m kidnapped, locked in a cage by some twisted tiefling, the apocalypse has ravaged Phirul, I’ve had my life force sucked out by dark incantations, almost died, been ambushed, and now that stupid goddamn blob has ruined my only change of clothes? Well, by the happy fairy lights of Llalnthilal, lanalthx that!” With this final expletive, she joined the fray, launching her powerful magicks against the creature.

I had no idea the fey cursed so well, to be honest. It’s a good thing they can teleport to safety, though.

With its intended eladrin meal having safely vanished, the hungry cube turned on Thor. With a loud “GLOOP,” it lurched forward, suddenly engulfing the dwarf. I threw spinnyblades towards it, backing up all the while in an effort to avoid a similar fate. “GlooooooOOP!” Another lurch, and Vigoo too was now inside its semi-transparent body. 

Happily, the creture was little match for the arcane magicks of Kiira and Noctuz, not to mention the blows being struck from within it by its rather undigestible prey. With a final shudder, it melted, spraying us with its messy mass.

“Oooh, you do look funny, what with goo in your hair, m’dear!” I grinned at Kiira, as I wiped jelly from my face. One eladrin glare was enough to tell me that this was a topic I had best leave alone, for now at least.

With the trap sprung, we could see above us a small shaft leading into a room of sort. Viggo and I climbed up, as Kiira blinked to join us. It seemed to be a small and dusty storeroom, with a single door set into one wall. Kiira noticed a glass sphere by the door, and picked it up with a smile of recognition. “Its a fey lightball, isn’t it?” I asked, picking another up and giving it a shake. To my satisfaction, it started to glow. “I remember that Uncle Wilburforce had a couple of these.. he traded them for that rusty old Dwarven brew-maker of his, back that year that ol’ Bessy the barge-pony had her twin foals… I remember him taking it down the Draper’s Duck one evening…”

I dwarven voice interrupted. “Shall we try tae open the door? Or just shake the pretty little bauble things?” Thor too was in a bit of a mood since his devouring, and eager to press on. He stepped forward and tried the door. It swung openly easily, into another, larger chamber. We stepped inside.

This room was larger than the other, with a small raised gallery at one end. The floor, curiously, was covered with scorch marks and a puddles of a strange blue liquid.

“Who is this Treepo, Abzurian?” asked Dirock, as he surveyed our peculiar surroundings. “Mmmmmm…” replied the dragonkin, as he tapped his fingers. “Treepo is a dyer… mmmmmmm  yes, a dyer…”

That didn’t really explain the room, however—much less the arcane protections and traps we had encountered on our way in. Viggo and I strode across the room to the gallery, and climbed up. There was another door set in this wall. We gestured at the others to join us.

Unfortunately, Dirock had only taken a few steps in our direction when we all heard an ominous “click” from the floor where he had trod. Almost instantly the door we had entered through slammed shut, and spikes thrust up from the floor–almost impaling the cleric. Even more alarmingly, the various puddles in the room began to assemble into blue rivlets, then a stream, flowing into an ever-enlarging mass. To our horror, a huge blue creature rose up in the centre of the room, swaying menacingly. Then, with no warning, it sent bursts of blue liquid from its huge body, striking most of us with a biting, acidic sting.

Viggo and I started firing into the creature. Kiira blinked to join us on the gallery, and Noctuz also climbed up. On the floor of the main chamber, Thor and Dirock confronted it more directly, as The Abzurian lay huddled in the corner, burnt from the acid blast. The large creature swung blue appendages at the dwarf and cleric, battering them severely before letting forth with another blast of acid. I leapt down to use my dagger, hoping thereby to inflict more damage on the foul foe. Finally it shuddered, and flew apart with a splash, reforming the puddles we had first seen on the floor.

The room was clearly a trap, as had been the hatch we had first entered. Clearly too, Treepo was much more than an ordinary dye-maker.

Viggo jumped back down to the main room, and carefully picked his way across the floor until he reached the door into the cellar that had slammed shut earlier. He was unable to budge it. Our only way appeared to be to move forward. But was this other door trapped too?

The ranger searched the door frame, and the wall beside it. Sure enough, he soon spied a hidden panel in the wall. I opened it and found a single plain lever. Would pulling it set off the trap, or facilitate our progress? I pulled it…

There was a click, and a whir. The cellar door sprung open. The spikes rose up a little from the floor, and stopped. It appeared that the lever deactivated everything.

With this, we opened the door in the gallery, and peered into what seemed to be a rough-hewn hallway, its walls marked almost everywhere with chalk scribbles. Peering more closely, they appeared to be formula of some sort, rather than incantations. A deranged alchemist, perhaps? That would explain the acid-creature.

One end of the hallway led back to the cellar through we had first entered, obviously via a secret door that we had not detected when we had been there earlier. The other end led into a chamber that seemed to confirm my hunch as to what Treepo did when he wasn’t dyeing things. The floor was strewn with sheets of papers, with still more scrawls. The walls were covered with shelves, and the shelves laden in turn with bottles, boxes and bags of strange ingredients, together with tongs, beakers, mortars and pestles, and an odd clay pot.

A single curtain was drawn against the north end of the room. I peered cautiously behind it. The room continued, but this part was far more presentable, with a large desk, pens and ink, and several bound books. It looked like an office, with a door at the far end.

Kiira caught my eye with a gesture, as she pointed out a blue flask on one of the shelves—a healing potion. While I had no wish to antagonize the mysterious Treepo by ransacking his possessions, it did fair compensation for the assaults we had endured from his traps. I nodded at her to take it—the clever fey thought like a halfling.

I knocked carefully at the next door, and opened it slowly. “Hello? Anyone here?” I called out cautiously.

To our surprise, a small creature yipped in alarm, and flittered off down the corridor with a high-pitched yelp of “zombiezombiezombiezombie…”

“What was THAT?” I asked, turning to my companions. “It looked like some sort of flying monkey vole…” I stopped, realizing I had never seen a flying monkey vole, and really had little grounds on which to draw such a judgement.

“Perhaps a homunculus? An imp? A familiar?” Noctuz suggested, equally unsure himself.

There was only one way to find out. We stepped into the hallway, and walked after it, all the time calling out greetings in what we hoped was a reassuring and friendly tone. No response. Four of us continued on, while Kiira, Noctuz, and the Abzurian stayed behind to peruse the office for clues as to identity and fate of the mysterious Treepo.

Soon we entered a large room. To the sides were variious vats and tubes filled with mysterious bubbling liquids. At the far end, three large metal doors could be seen. On the ceiling, a mysterious metal contraption was attached, looking rather ominously like a large metal spider. From the far end of the room, the creature’s odd voice could be heard again from behind a crate. “No, zombies, go away, zombies.”

I flattened myself against the wall near the entrance, looking warily at the device above us. This place had “trap” written all over it. Thor and Dirock, however, resolutely strode forward. “Damnit it ya wee little man, I’m nae a zombie..” the dwarf muttered, as he searched for the owner of the voice.

“Teehehehehe.. got you, zombiezombiezombies!” the voice laughed triumphantly, as a metal barrier slammed shut behind us. Sure enough, it was a trap. The three iron doors in the room opened, and three hideous beasts emerged to attack us: a dark, jumpy spider; a hideous beetle, and a horrific scorpion with gnashing pinchers. Thor confronted them immediately, as Dirock readied himself to call down upon the various thunderous and smitey powers of Kord upon our foes once more. Viggo drew his swords, and leapt into the fray. I.. well, I hid and sniped.

Despite their onslaught, Thor had little trouble holding back the creatures. Dirock, however, soon found himself grabbed from above by the mysterious contraption, and injected with foul and noxious substances. I dashed to the location from whence the voice had come, and found—as I expected—a tube of sorts. If my theory was correct, Treepo or his homunculus were at the end of it, somewhere nearby, controlling the traps and the contraption above us. 

This theory too was soon confirmed, for no sooner had Dirock broken the grasp of the metal claw when a secret door flew open and the homunculus flew out to attack us. It was rapidly slain, as were the rest of the creatures in the room. I set a small fire, and sent smoke wafting down the tube. It emerged a minute later from a small closet behind the secret door. Examination of this revealed an array of levers to control the doors and devices in the room, as well as a second secret door leading back to the office. There Kiira and Noctuz stood reading and collecting various arcane materials from Treepo’s collection, strangely unmoved by the deadly struggle that had ensued.

With nothing else to explore on this level, and still no Treepo to be found, we mounted a spiral set of stone stairs to what we presumed was the ground floor of the establishment. We found ourselves within a room filled with shelves, and the shelves in turn filled with bottles of various kinds. A quick search revealed a few things of interest—including a bottle of Thrudcurrent Ink. Could this be the shop from which Edgar Stoat purchased his writing supplies? I was excited at the thought.

There were no windows in this chamber, only two small secret doors and a set of stairs continuing upwards. The doors, we surmised, led into the shop proper. I opened one carefully, having first oiled the hinges, for I had no desire to alert zombies to our presence.

Sure enough, it opened up into a larger room, with shattered windows, a broken door, and the stock of inks, dyes, and alchemical goods in some disarray. I crept about it quietly, to see what I could see.

What a saw was a little dark man, with a mischievous and far from pleasant-looking smile. Could he be Treepo? I whispered a greeting to him. He introduced himself with a name I could not quite catch, but which most certainly bore no resemblance to the missing owner of this shop. He seemed to be oddly unconcerned as to any zombies nearby, and indeed mocking my considerable caution. Instead, he seemed rather more interested in pilfering items from the store.

I gestured to him to join me, and returned to join my companions in the much safer location of the central chamber. At first I thought he had not followed me. A few minutes later, however, he emerged from a shadow through some arcane trickery. (He was, I would later learn, a Dark One—an inhabitant of the Shadowfell. The zombie armageddon had apparently enticed him and others of his kind to seek profit amid the chaos and despair that was now Phirul.)

We conversed a moment, neither side anxious to give much away in the way of information or tactical advantage. He did, however, suggest that the zombie apocalypse was somehow linked to one he termed the Dark Lord—Orcus, Demon Prince of the Undead Dirock surmised. Mainly, however, the sketchy little fellow mocked us, threw a few bottles at Viggo, but otherwise did nothing that would indicate deadly intent. Finally he left us alone, and departed.

With this, we continued up another flight of stairs, arriving in what was clearly Treepo’s living quarters. Judging from what we found there, Treepo was a kobold, had not been home recently, and he was none to fastidious in keeping his kitchen clean. His journal also provided further evidence that he had sold Thrudcurrent ink to a rather mysterious, and possibly halfling, buyer. Edgar Stoat might have stood in this very building! The thought was so thrilling that I could feel the hair on my toes stand on end.

In another time, when the city was not infested with tens of thousands of flesh-hungry zombie spawn of hell, I would have followed these clues in the hopes of meeting my boyhood hero. For now, however, we had more important things to do. We needed to rest, then continue on to the Abbey, in the hopes of finding there a safer refuge for the hungry survivors huddled on the roof of the Golden Gryphon. We collected what useful supplies we could from this place, and once more returned to the sewers below.

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New friends, unknown enemies

August 11, 2008 at 3:55 am (Edgar Stoat, Phirul, sewers, zombie infection)

7th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde  

Today would turn out to have most unexpected results. We set out fully intending to seek out the kruthik hive-queen in its lair beneath the Abbey of Erathis, and fight it to the death (its death, that is—I’m none to fond of my death, and hope to postpone that particular meeting for many a year). Instead, we would find new friends—and new foes—in the dark sewers beneath cursed Phirul.

Our day started out routinely enough. After resting overnight in the cellar of Andy’s Armory, we trudged back to the sewer junction that would take us towards the Abbey. No sooner than we had reached the junction, however, when we came upon two other apparent survivors: a sword-bearing dragonkin, and a cloaked tiefling.

Viggo muttered at the latter under his breath, and put his hands to his sword grips. Bitter memories of tiefling raids against his people were always with him.

Hoping to make a rather better impression than a scowling Kuzian ranger, I stepped forward to greet the strangers. The dim flame of The Abzurian’s flickering torch lit our encounter.

“Hello!” I said, with a smile and a low bow, “I be Arnold Wurzel, and these be my friends… who be you, if I might be so bold as to enquire?”  The tiefling stopped, and smiled.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have. If there is one thing that a trading life on the barges teaches you, it is how to read a smile. This one didn’t reassure me. It was what my blessed mother used to call a “Demarakian spoon-merchants’ smile” —the sort you’ll see on itinerant flatware peddlers who will try to  sell you spoons with fantastic tales of their being forged in the very volcanic fires of Mount Rys… only to find that they wilt the first time they’re used in in a bowl of Polly Pepper Stew. Under my own cloak I palmed a spinnyblade, just in case.

The teifling continued. “I am Bidithal, and this is Zeer. We are sheltering a group of survivors… do you have any? How many of you are there?”

It was then that he noticed The Abzurian, and his smile slipped. “Why, its you…” he said with a dismissive sneer. Moments later, his attitude changed. Raising his hands, he uttered a dark invocation. Almost immediately, hideous putrid corpses began to rise from the fetid sewer waters around our feet. Hands began to claw at us.

The dragonkin by his side hissed, and pulled a large silver sword from the sheath across his back. He leapt forward to join the attack against us.

We drew our weapons. Battle was joined. The zombies, fortunately, we not the infected we had encountered so often in the city, but more of the common-or-garden sort (that is, if it is ever common to have zombies in one’s garden). However, the tiefling and dragonkin were formidable foes, what with the warlock’s deadly magicks and the warrior’s flashing blade.

At this point, both help and danger arrived from unexpected sources.

First, the small access door beside the warlock opened, and a blonde eladrin head poked through. Although the situation must have appeared chaotic—a motley band of heroes (that’s us, the heroes) fighting against undead and two foes in a dimly lit sewer beneath a zombie-infested city—she seemed to have a history with this particular tiefling. Moreover, it was not (as we would later learn) a very happy history. With little hesitation, she called a scorching burst onto Bidithal. She missed, but her fey wizardries were certainly a welcome addition to the fray.

The second source of unexpected help was preceded by a cry of “ahhhhhhhhhhh”, and the splashing sound of footsteps approaching us. A few seconds later, a frightened-looking human warlock rushed into the junction area to join us. While his arrival was welcome enough, the two large zombified dogs pursing him (grave hounds, Dirock later told me) were were decidedly not.

Fearing the warlock might not last long in the face of their snarling undead jaws, I rather uncharacteristically stepped forward to hold them back with my dagger. The hounds leapt at me, snapping at me with a bite that seemed to suck at my very life force. To my left, the warlock fell, only to be revived by Dirock’s healing word and by the power and grace of Kord. 

Wounded, I eventually I had to step back, leaving Dirock to hold them at bay alone while I threw spinnyblade after spinnyblade in their direction. The warlock assisted with his own arcane powers. One finally fell from our combined blows.

The battle was a chaotic one. The zombies were slain quickly enough, but the remaining hound was a formidable foe. The Zeer and Thor circled in furious combat, a clash punctuated with draconic hisses and dwarven taunts. The eladrin blinked across the chamber in pursuit of the tiefling. Viggo helped us all with bow and sword.

The Abzurian, as was his habit, cowered in a corner.

We had begun to gain the upper hand, when Bidithal once more summon a dark ally. Rather than another zombie this time, it was instead a foul demon that arose from the muck to assault Thor. The dwarf seemed to shrug it off, however. Instead he focused on mocking the dragonborn, blocking his opponent’s blows with his shield and striking hard with his hammer whenever he saw an opening. I slipped in behind the summoned creature, and hit it hard with a dazing blow. Before I could follow up, however, I hear a groan and a soggy spash. Glancing to my left, I saw our new eladrin friend slump to the floor, badly injured. Viggo stepped towards her, attempting to hold her head above the water with his foot as he continued to loose arrows at our opponents.

Faster than a paladin fleeing a buxom barmaid, I dodged away from the demon, and ran to her aid. Taking the blue flask from my belt pouch, I administered the magical draught. A few long seconds later, her eyes begin to open. Aunt Petunia’s absent advice be praised—it indeed had been a good idea to pocket this potion!

She quickly leapt to her feet, and renewed her attacks against Bidithal. These, coupled with a few ranger arrows and a spinnyblade of my own, finally brought the warlock down.

Dirock and the human warlock, in the meantime, slew the second grave hound. Finally Thor finished off Zeer and the demon.

We had survived.

With the battle now over, our new acquaintances introduced themselves. The eladrin was named Kiira. She spoke little of her past, but did explain her hatred of Bidithal and Zeer. The two, it seems, and lured her into a trap, caged her, and used her life essence to power incantations of some sort. The Abzurian added more to the tale, noting (somewhat belatedly, as is another one of his habits) that he had been paid by Bithdal some weeks ago to teach him the ritual that hid one from the notice of the undead. It seems as if these two might have some part in the zombie infection that had afflicted the city.

The human was Noctuz, a warlock from southern Festung. Despite Viggo’s understandable interest at the mention of his homeland, he seemed even more secretive about his background. In his account, he had hidden in a warehouse of sorts when the plague struck. Unfortunately, the infected had eventually gained entrance, killing the other survivors that were sheltering with him. While the zombies eventually wandered back out of the building,  his refuge had later come under assault from grave hounds. Noctuz had taken flight into the sewers with the abominations close at his heels, and encountered us shortly thereafter.

As our two new companions told us of how they had come to be in this place, I searched the bodies. There was much of use: a magical cloak, and enchanted sword and javelin, two more healing potions, and a fine dagger. The latter was, by my appraisal, a magicked duelist’s dagger, and as we shared these items among ourselves I took it for my own. In honour of my aunt’s sage advice, I nicknamed it “Petunia.”

We also found a medallion of the City Watch, marked with the name of  one “Captain Vimes.” Clearly it belonged properly to neither of our dead foes, and it only increased our suspicions that they had been involved in some darker conspiracy.

Noctuz also mentioned two items that piqued our interest in the warehouse where he had been. First, he had found there a large cage, marked with the sigil of the Legion of Frontiersman. Second, he had also seen a strongbox marked with the royal seal of Phirul.

By this point, I couldn’t care less about the Legion, but the strongbox seemed a possibly profitable diversion. Moreover, the warehouse might contain additional supplies that the survivors could use. Since it was only a hundred or two paces further down that sewer branch, it seemed worth exploring.

We eventually came to the end of the passage, and found a small shaft in the ceiling leading upwards. Viggo climbed up first, then attached a rope for the rest of us to follow.

As Noctuz had earlier described, we found ourselves in large wooden building, filled with crates of all sizes and shapes. Light streamed in from windows set high in the walls. A metal cat-walk crisscrossed the room above our heads.

We soon found the cage with the Legion’s mark. It was now empty, with a faint trail of slime leading from its battered door to the shaft. Thor peered at it a moment, and pronounced it the trail of a carrion crawler—likely the one we had fought in the sewers a few days earlier. Perhaps it had been imported by the Legion as a trial of sorts for recruits to test themselves against? We did not know.

We had little chance to puzzle this out, or indeed to find the strongbox. Suddenly the light from the windows darkened, and a booming voiced called out from above, mocking us with its dark and sinister tone.

“Like flies into the waiting spider’s web, you have fallen into my trap! Now you will all die….” At this, several zombies rose up from among the boxes, as did a couple of evil-looking men and another of those fearsome grave hounds. Above us, a black-robed necromancer could be seen, cackling atop the catwalk as he commanded his evil hench-things below.

The scene brought to mind immediately the climatic final confrontation between Edgar Stoat and the Dark Lord Krzylzanthradorfar in Edgar Stoat and the Danger-filled Chamber of Many Levels. With this in mind, I sought to emulate Edgar’s famous leap, and darted up the crates before my companions or our foes could react. Reaching the catwalk, I drew my newfound magical weapon with a flourish. “Taste petunia, foul invoker of rotty dead things!” I shouted, thrusting the dagger at my startled foe.

“Rotty dead things,” was not, of course, my finest rhetorical moment. More to the point, I had clearly yet to acquire Edgar Stoat’s skill with a blade. I missed the necromancer entirely. As if to compound my folly, a large winged zombie chose this moment to descend from the rafters, and lay into me with its remarkably sharp claws. Looking at the blood seeping from my side, I elected to return to my usual pattern of behaviour. With an uncerimonious “erm… excuse me..” I flung myself sidewards off the catwalk, caught it with one hand as falling, and swung myself into a much safer position nestled beneath it amid  the cover provided by several large crates. In future, I would leave brazen confrontation with the enemy to Thoradrin.

Glancing down into the warehouse below, I saw my companions locked in combat. The grave hound had knocked Kiira down, but she quickly teleported to a safer location. Noctuz had climbed upon several boxes, where he was hurling curses and other incantations at the flying creature that had wounded me. Dirock was calling Kord’s wrath upon our foes. The redoubtable Viggo was rapidly ranging among the crates, slaying what foes he could find with bow and sword. From my relatively secure perch, I threw spinnyblades where I could best assist.

One by one, our foes fell, until only the necromancer survived. Viggo ran to one set of stairs, and raced up them. I leapt from box to box again, until I too was at the catwalk. Thor rushed to the other end of the warehouse, planning to cut off his escape. It proved an unnecessary precaution, for our opponent was soon felled by blasts of arcane energy from our spellcasters, tumbling with a scream into a pile of boxes below.

Paying little heed to the blood dripping from my side, I quickly ran to loot the fallen body. After all, there was a reputation to be maintained, wound or no wound!

On the necromancer we found a few more items of value–and yet another of the medallions of the City Watch. This one bore the name of a “Sergeant Knobbs.” Clearly this evildoer was also linked to the dark conspiracy we had stumbled across. But how, and to what purpose? Had they infiltrated the Watch, or simply slain some of its members? And, most important of all, had they caused the zombie plague, or merely benefited from it? As formidable as our foes had been, they didn’t seem powerful enough to have afflicted a city and destroyed Spellstorm College. This last thought sent a chill down my spine: we were likely to find even more dangerous opponents as we continued our explorations above and below.

There was little more we could do to solve that mystery now, however. Instead, we secured the warehouse and searched it. The lockbox was quickly found, but defied my picks a good quarter hour before I finally opened it. Two dozen and three silver bars lay within–quite a prize, although its value was diminished by the relative absence of any surviving shopkeepers or tavern-owners to spend it with. Nevertheless, we took a bar each, for good luck. (I took several others for my young nieces and nephews, since a fondness for “good luck” is a Wurzel family trait.) 

We gathered up some grain and tools for the survivors, and descended once more into the sewers below. After dropping off these supplies at the Golden Gryphon, we took the remainder of the silver bars to Andy’s Armoury for safe keeping. There we would rest our battered bodies, postponing the expedition to the Abbey for another day.

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A very important day

August 5, 2008 at 9:44 pm (Andy's Armoury, Edgar Stoat)

7th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde  

Waking from my sleep in our safe room in the cellar of Andy’s Armoury, I suddenly had a realization. A revelation.

Today was it. The day. 

In all the chaos of the zombie apocalypse around us, I had forgotten what today meant.

Today was the day that the long awaited Edgar Stoat and the Heroic Halfling was to be published, along with its bigger (but large-type, easy-reading) companion volume, Edgar Stoat and the Redoubtable Ranger of Really Rapid Ranged Ranging.

With so few actual readers left uneaten in the city, I might even find a first edition!

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Would you like eggs with that?

July 21, 2008 at 7:28 pm (Phirul, Temple of Erathis)

6th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde  

We had considered many possible locations to which we might relocate our group of survivors: the zoo, a nearby guards’ barracks, the distant city walls and towers, even the sewers below. In the end, the city fortifications might well prove the safest place. For now, however, we’ve set our sights on a much nearer location: a temple complex of Erathis, located several hundred paces from our present location. It is, by the accounts of the locals, an excellent location: surrounded by stout stone walls and a closed with an iron gate, it contains the main temple, several outbuildings, grounds, and its own well and gardens.

As they say, however, you can’t be sure that a be sure its a ferret up your leg until you take the time to look. That’s certainly not true of Little Viggo, whose claws are quite distinctive. Still, I think the general principle is sound—before we risked moving any of our group there, we had to scout the location for ourselves.

We elected to make our way there, or at least as close as we could manage, via the sewers again. If we were lucky, they reached into the complex itself. If not, we could at least get near enough to dash inside under the dragonkin’s protective enchantment.

And so we descended below, and headed off in the opposite direction than the one we had followed the days before. Once again, the tunnel ran on for a while, and then was barred by a metal grate, the murky water passing through and beyond it before tumbling into some unseen space below.

We discovered no trap door in the ceiling this time (although we did find a riveted iron plate, which we chose not to remove for fear we could not replace it). There was, however, one section of the sewer wall where the brickwork had crumbled and started to give way. I clambered up to the small gap, and peered in. There seemed to be a passage beyond.

Thor and I carefully loosened a few more of the bricks, until the gap was large enough for us each to squeeze through. Holding the torch up, we could see that we had uncovered a short tunnel, opening into some sort of ancient crypt. It was a relic of the long-forgotten undercity perhaps, maybe even an old part of the Temple of Erathis itself. Judging from the dust, the area hadn’t been disturbed in many, many years. A single stone sarcophagus stood near to one wall.

Dirock asked that the light be held closer so that he might read the inscriptions on the tomb. “These here are definitely symbols of Erathis… the coffin contains an ancient knight, although I can’t make out the name. It says he fought in many battles… before dying of… old age, I think.”

Thor leaned forward to take hold of the lid. “Aye, I wonder what’s inside.. gold, perhaps? A magical weapon?” The priest of Kord glared at the dwarf, and pushed aside his hand. “Desecrate not this sanctified burial! By Kord’s iron maul we will not rob the dead!”

“Bow,” said Viggo, “bow and two swords. Maybe one a bastard sword. Maybe scimitars. Not maul, though.”

Dirock turned to the ranger in confusion.

“Yes, I am much sure Kord have a bow and two swords, for in the Kuz Valley this is sign of great manliness, and Kord manly like big cave bear. Except like bear with bow and two swords.” Viggo replied. “Also, Viggo think dwarf is right. Dead is dead, and dead have no need of things they have when not-dead. So let us open stone box and see.”

Dirock raised his voice in anger. “Blashpemy! Do not the dwarves bury their dead with sacred relics to accompany their passage to the afterlife? Would you steal those too?”

“Yer aff yer head, cleric! We dunnae do that. We pass them sorts ay things on tae the clan, so that they too micht use them,” replied Thor. “The dead join Moradin in the great Hall of Thunder, where they bevvy the Mead of Heroes, feast upon the Roast Pig of Bravery, and partake of the Valorous Spiced Haggis of….” 

“Yes, ” Viggo interrupted, “but there is no way out.”

At this, both Dirock and Thor turned to the ranger.

“What are you on about?” snapped the cleric. “Of course there is no way out of the afterlife! What faithful warrior would want to forgo the divine rewards of a lifetime of devotion and courage?”

“…there is no way out of here, Viggo means,” the ranger replied, pointing to the cavern around them. Sure enough, it had no apparent exits, other than the passage through which we had just entered. In some places, however, the walls seemed different, as if excreted by the living rock. None of us knew quite what it might mean, although Dirock noted that the followers of Melora were known to seal crypts in a  similar fashion. Odd indeed.

During the conversation, I had remained unusually quiet. This was not so much because the issue of the coffin was of no concern (theologically, I agree with my ranger friend: dead is dead), but rather because of a faint noise I thought I could hear. I held my ear to the wall, and finally waved to Viggo to listen as well. There it was again, and getting louder. Some sort of scratching… a digging perhaps?

“Virtuous Arnold!” Viggo pushed me back from the cavern wall, as he stepped back too. His warning almost came too late. With a crash, the wall collapsed, and two hideous creatures sprang at us. Both were the size of large badger, but unlike any badger I had ever seen: six-legged, with reptilian features and the armoured carapace of an insect. They hissed and quickly advanced on us with a whir of sharp claws and biting teeth. I felt a cut to my leg almost immediately. Two larger versions of the creature could be seen lurking deeper in the tunnel. Little Viggo squeaked in panic, and burrowed deeply into my pack.

“Prepare to taste dwarven hammer!” shouted Thor, as he stepped forward to block the breach in the cavern wall. Encouraged by his resolute courage, I retreated, stabbing one creature and sidestepping the other, slowly making my back to where we had entered the crypt. Viggo fired into the melee, as Dirock too joined the fray. From the shadows, I slung rocks at the creatures now attacking the dwarf.

Suddenly Thor grabbed his side, a spike protuding through his armour. One of the larger beasts had launched something at him, and judging from his reaction, it was poisoned too. Nonetheless, he continued to fight, muttering the mantra of dwarven defenders: “Always be ready! Always be waiting!”

As if to highlight the importance of that particular saying, none of us were ready in the slightest for what happened next. Even as the desperate melee continued between Thor and the not-badger-maybe-lizard-bug creatures (more properly known as kruthik, I would later learn), the stone lid of the tomb behind us slowly began to lift. It seems that someone’s long slumber had been awoken by the thunderous booms of Dirock’s divine invocations.

A skeletal figure arose from the sarcophagus. “Grave robbers!” it screeched, “grave robbers!” 

The long-dead-knight drew an ancient bow, and fired at Viggo. It missed. Viggo ignored it, and instead focused on the kruthiks to his front. “Grave robbers!” it screeched once more, and fired again. It missed again too. Clearly, whatever heroic figure he had been in an earlier life, this particular knight had not been an archer. It moved to draw its rusty sword in its bony hands.

This was too much for Viggo, who turned his attention to the skeleton and attacked. Immediately upon hitting it, his target collapsed in a pile of bones and dust. It was very, very old, after all.

With this, I dashed across the room, and leapt into the now empty sarcophagus. It provided an ideal sniping position against our opponents. If I found an item of two of value inside it while doing so, so much the better.

Thor, in the meantime, had slain the two smaller kruthik, but had been gravely wounded in the process. He fell to the ground. Only by Dirock’s quick action was he saved, as he channeled the power of Kord to send a wave of powerful healing energy through the badly-battered, bearded, bald body. Once again, we were profoundly grateful to have a cleric in our ranks.

The dwarf regained his feet, and lay into the one surviving kruthik with his hammer. Soon he had felled it too.

“Mmmmmmm,” said the Abzurian, “we must be wary…” Thor snorted. He still looked rather worse for wear, and clearly needed a rest. He would have none of it, however. “Lads, there’s a tunnel back here, that these creatures made. Its a bit short fer the rest of you, but it will give Arnold and I nae trouble at all.” 

“First we must rebury this fallen hero,” declared the ever-pious Dirock. We placed the bones back in the tomb—minus a rather nice golden ring that fell into my pocket. After all, dead is dead.

With this grim (but profitable) task completed,  we all entered the narrow tunnel. Thor and I went first, while Viggo and Dirock stooped low behind to avoid the low ceiling. The Abzurian tapped his fingers, but this time refrained from murmuring. I doubt he wanted to attract any more of the creatures either.

Clearly, this had all been dug by the kruthik. From time to time, smaller tunnels branched off–a veritable maze. Or, I began to worry, a lair. Here and there, discarded kruthik skins, or the husks of blackened shrivelled eggs, could be seen. This didn’t seem natural, however—it was if some dark power had drawn the life from them. Viggo shook his head. He too was uneasy.

After a short while, we came entered into another chamber—a natural cavern, even larger than the crypt that we had just left. Almost immediately, my concerns were vindicated: there in the light of our torch stood three kruthik young, one of the larger adults—and a huge creature, much larger than all the rest. Shriveled blackened eggs dotted the cavern floor. It was a lair, and the hive queen (or lord–its seemed difficult to tell its sex given the circumstances) appeared very unhappy at our presence.

“Uh oh, lads.. there’s lots of them jaggy creatures here, and a miffed big’un too,” warned the dwarf. “I think maybe we best be getting back now.” With this, Thor readied his hammer, and slowly started stepping back into the narrow tunnel, hoping to use the bottleneck to tactical advantage.

With a hiss and a clatter, the smaller kruthik hurled themselves against us. While Thor bludgeoned the smaller ones as they rushed him down the passage, Viggo and I focused our efforts on the adult, bringing the beast down before it could close and fire its toxic spikes at us. The queen, however, hung back a while, apparently gathering the eggs and moving them to a safer location.

“Perhaps one of ye could fight fer spell.. I could do with a wee rest,” gasped the bloodied Thor, as he stepped into a side tunnel. Viggo readied his swords and stepped forward, whispering a greeting to the Raven Queen beneath his breath as he did so. Like the rest of us, he too thought this might be the end.

The hive queen returned, chittered menacingly, and skittered across the cavern towards us. Rather than press into the narrow passage, however, it leapt up and out of sight. A scratching sound could be heard. It seemed likely that it was burrowing through the ground above us, hoping to take us all by surprise.

“Let’s not wait for it for it… I vote we retreat to the crypt!” I suggested, as my mind turned (as it so often does) to escaping with my life.

“How fast can it burrow?” asked Dirock.

Viggo turned, and replied. “Little Arnold right. I don’t know how fast creature dig, but Viggo can run like baa-baa mountain goat when big monster close!” He then started to run back the way we had come. We all followed suit.

Arriving at the crypt, we quickly assumed defensive positions. Weapons in hand, we waited.

Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

Nothing. It seemed that the hive queen had stopped its pursuit.

“Perhaps it no like the stink of its dead..” commented Viggo, as he kicked one of the kruthik carcasses on the floor with his heavy boot. “Or perhaps it afraid of dwarf-bottom!” He laughed, slapping Thoradrin on the back. “Dwarf bottom very scary from behind!” Indeed, it wasn’t often we had seen the dwarf run from a fight.

“A dead defender is just a dead defender, lad,” Thor replied in a grim tone. “And if I were dead.. Arnold would be prying me cloak and hammer out of me gauntlets afore I hit the floor!” Beneath the beard, he grinned and winked in my direction. 

“Perhaps it is best that we rest,” suggested Dirock, “before we attempt to slay this beast.” We all nodded in agreement. Our safe refuge in the cellar of the armoury was but a few minutes away, along the sewer. There we would find water, and somewhere safe to treat our wounds—as safe as anywhere could be in the nightmare that was now the once-proud city of Phirul.

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Death from above

July 21, 2008 at 2:36 am (Phirul)

6th of Sage’s Rest, Year of the Horde  

I had been happily dreaming of Aunt Daisy’s Thrudcurrent Jam-on-toast when I heard a child screaming. Given the ambrosia-like character of all of Aunt Daisy’s jams and jellies, the cry seemed oddly out of place. I awoke with a start. We were under attack!

Our assailants were not zombies this time, although several turned their heads in the street below and shambled towards the noise and commotion. Rather, in the first early light of dawn, several small dragon-like creatures had swooped down on the survivors, clawing and biting at them. Dirock had been on watch, but had been too deep in thought as to how to reconcile Kord’s divine nature with the intrinsic mysteries of a spiraled snail-shell to hear them approach. So too had Jennifer Thimble, the seamstress who had volunteered as lookout that morn. I did not blame them: theology is a gripping topping for early morning conversation, and these winged reptiles were all but silent in flight.

They were, Viggo, would later tell me, Spiretop Drakes—much like the Snowy Pinnacle Drakes of his native Kuz Valley. Phirul had always had several colonies, perched atop inaccessible towers. Rarely, however, did they attack people. Either they were unusually hungry, or something else had disturbed them.

At the time, however, we had more immediate concerns. Adolphus Mott, an elderly barber, had already fallen to the ground in a bloody heap, his throat slashed by one of the beasts. Wee Timmy Thrungal, the young serving boy from the Golden Gryphon, was attempting to flee from another that had latched onto his arm with its talons. Several more circled above.

I leapt to my feet, as did Thor beside me. At the northwest corner of the roof, Dirock had forgotten all about snails, and was invoking the fury of Kord against the drakes. Brave Jennifer fired off a crossbow bolt, but with her unpracticed aim missed her target by a considerable margin. Little Viggo scampered into my pack. Big Viggo was nowhere to be seen.

As Thor began to lay into the drakes with his hammer, I stepped behind a tent and let lose with my sling. With a satisfying crunch, the stone flew true, hitting its target heavily. I heard a thwock, then another, as arrows began to fly from an open tent-flap. Ahh, there was Viggo! A few moments later, he stepped out, and started to fire at the drake clutching Timmy.

As Thor lay into the white beasts closest to him, I saw my chance: I darted around the rear of the tent Viggo had just vacated, dashed through it, and appeared at the other end in time to plunge my dagger into Thor’s opponent. It fell to the ground. A second, then a third, were slain by my friends. Finally, only a fourth—the largest of a group, with long curved claws and angry red eyes—remained. It took to the wing once more, and then swooped down on Viggo.

There was no time for the ranger to draw his sword. Instead, he dropped his bow, and smashed the vicious reptile full on in the face with his fist as it lunged for him, much as he had punched that large albino sailor in Yasa that evening we had first met. The drake lurched, recovered, and climbed into the air. It then swooped in a tight curve, preparing to attack once more.

Viggo grabbed drew his sword, and readied himself: ranger against reptile, man against beast, Kuzian exile against ravenous scaled monster. The drake let out a raucous call, as it flew closer, and closer. It was almost upon him.

Thud! My sling-bullet hit it square between the eyes even as Viggo prepared to swing. The beast gave one last squawk, and plummeted towards the ground. The surprised (but ever-alert) ranger caught it in his arms.

The battle was over.

Poor Mr. Mott was dead. We buried him in the way we had once honoured dead shipmates on the Laughing Skua: by throwing him over the side. Several survivors looked aghast at this, but none volunteered to climb down into the zombie-infested streets to give him a more proper burial.

Timmy was wounded, but not beyond the healing skills of Dirock and Aliss Chandar, the acolyte of Erathis among our group. As she had in the past, Aliss threw many an admiring glance in Dirock’s direction as they worked together. As he had been in the past, Dirock was entirely impervious to her interest. 

The attack has served to heighten fears among the survivors, a feeling that was not eased by the meal of roast drake we were able to serve for breakfast. Perhaps, however, it will motivate them to take the risky journey to a safer place, when we can find one. Already Viggo has started them making rope bridges from the supplies we retrieved yesterday, with the aim of using these to traverse the rooftops when the time comes for us all to move from here.

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