Orcs and temples and dwarves—oh my!
3rd of Moon’s Sleep, Year of the Horde
After a restful night at the Pig and Bucket, my companions and I rose early in the morning to meet with the High Elders of Rolus Keep in the grand audience chamber. We were not the only ones at the meeting, —adventurers and mercenaries from far and wide had also been called to an assembly.
As we made our way to the meeting, I could not help but notice the dwarven influence in this city: huge stone battlements, immense halls, and statues depicting heroes of old. It was here that the dwarves of northern Quirm had first fought off the chains of slavery in an uprising against their giant overlords, seeking refuge and finding wealth beneath the mountains. Later they had found alliance, and incorporation as a semi-independent city, within the human Tamarin Empire.
The audience chamber was particularly impressive, dominated by a towering statue of Morningstar Ironfist, the cleric who had led the revolt against the giants. Ironically, the stone statue was considerably taller than any of the giants would have been.
A distinguished-looking dwarf with a long grey beard stood up. “Brave warriors, we the leaders of Rolus Keep have called you here to ask for your aid in this, our moment of grave peril.”
At this, several of the paladins rose and shoved each other aside in their noisy haste to pledge their swords in defence of the town and realm.
Skalrag hushed the knights. “Errr, grave peril? Perhaps you could explain?” Our mage friend was never one to leap into danger without a full explanation (and preferably, not even then).
The dwarf continued, despite the interruptions. “Even as we speak, the defences at the pass have been beset by the Orc hordes, while other marauders have even been seen closer to the city. We are in need of your swords and bravery. And for this, of course, we will compensate you well.” The adventurers and mercenaries cheered at the mention of bravery and compensation respectively.
“We also have need of a small group of you to travel to the the Monastery of the Sundered Chain, to ascertain the well-being of the dwarven monks of Thoradin there. We have not heard from them in days, and we are concerned..”
Even before the elder could finish his sentence, Thoradrin had stepped forward. “Och aye, we’ll dae ‘at, mah laird. Fur Ah, Thoradrin Mightstone, am a defender. Ah accept responsibility fur th’ li’es ay those Ah woods defend. It isn’t it ay glory. It isn’t it ay honur. It isn’t e’en coz they’re dwarves, mah laird. It’s coz Ah hae accepted it, tae be their defender. As much as we depend oan them tae worship uir mighty Moradin, they can depend oan me tae defend them at every turn. Always be ready, mah laird. Always be waiting.”
The dwarven elder seemed pleased by this. As for the rest of us, we just stared. We had never heard Thor say quite so much all at once.
The meeting broke up, with knots of fighters headed out the doors to muster in the courtyard below. As we approached the elder, we could see that he was already in discussion with several people that I recognized from the inn—a boastful group of adventurers called The Farstriders.
“But what about our arrangement?” one of them demanded of the elder, in apparent annoyance. “Worry not.. our arrangement still stands.” responded the dwarf. With this, the adventurers stomped off. The elder turned to us.
“The Company of the Ivory Goat, I presume? Captain Craddock of the guard has already told me of that trouble you had with orcs on the road… it is a bad sign indeed. I fear that they may have already found a way around the defences at Xiber Pass. It only heightens my concern about the monastery, too. We’ve heard nothing from the monks in days.”
“Ornt fash yerse, mah laird, Ah’ll see tae it ‘at th’ monks ur safe an’ th’ foe vanquished, fur Ah am a Defender…” said Thoradrin, as he started into another uncharacteristically long monologue. In the meantime, Viggo and I poured over a map that the elders had provided.
“See? Built into the mountainside it is, Viggo—just like the Temple of the Dour Digger in Edgar Stoat and the Secret Underground Passages That Let Bad Things In…” I commented. Perhaps the monastery might somehow be linked to the mysterious orc raiders that we had encountered?
“Is book you never read me, silly Arnold,” grinned the ranger at my mention of it. “That was evening that Viggo took Hildifrak to see ‘secret caribou nest’ in forest.”
We both knew, of course, that caribou didn’t nest. And Hildifrak had been one fine barmaid. I laughed.
“Yes, now you mention it I do remember that evening. However, my point is that this monastery probably has tunnels, long-forgotten tunnels stretching every-which-way under the mountains, like Serralean snail trails in a eladrin lettuce patch.”
Thoradrin had overheard our conversation, and spoke up. “If sae, Arnauld, Ah’ll defend those tunnels against th’ orcs, fur Ah am a Defender, an’ a Defender defends until his lest breath, until his lest blaw…”
And so it was that we set forth on the next stage of our adventure. We had barely stepped out of the city gates and onto the trail, however, when I doubled over in laughter. Secretly affixed to Thor’s back was a small piece of parchment that Skalrag had torn from his spellbook. It declared, in the mage’s fine, spidery handwriting: “Defender…”
Into the valley of the shadow hounds of death
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.
A Wurzel's Wanderings 