[Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Sun Feb 15, 2009 7:02 pm

Thorn's Chronicle continues...

“The Black Eagle is anything but the ‘save the Known World’ type,” Varis muttered. “And this man of his doubly so.”

I had to agree with Varis’ assessment. I turned, looking down at the bard.

“You will let the girls go, and we will accompany this one wherever you will take her.”

“Are you mad?” he asked. “You are in no position to be telling me how it will be.”

“If you try to take her by force, none of us know what she is capable of. She disarmed a seasoned fighter as you might take a sugarcake from a child,” I said.

At this, Bargle chuckled. “I do like sugarcakes,” he said with a broad smile, giving Silva a sidelong glance that hinted at approval.

“She holds a magic that bound your ogre in her thrall, so much so that he nearly wet himself than cross her. Would you care to see if that little trick works on your men?”

Bargle barked a laugh worthy of the kobolds. “What do I care for these men?”

“Maybe you’d like your own soul bound, then?” I asked.

At this, his smile slackened, and the approving look he’d been giving the girl turned fear-tinged. His fingers twitched.

“If your men attack her, she will disappear and you will never find her,” I said, “and then you are right back where you started. Further back, even.

“Let the girls go, and we will accompany this one,” I repeated. “The morning grows shorter.”

He turned things over, his face going pensive, a finger unconsciously curling at the goatee at his chin. Then he looked up sharply.

“Very well. It shall be as you say.” He smiled his broad, charming smile. “You drive a hard bargain, druid.”


With some shouted orders, and waving of hands, things did indeed turn out as we’d agreed.

The ring of men surrounding the girls sheathed their swords and stepped back with a few murmured apologies.

Silva lowered the dagger, looking around nervously.

Rather than skipping away in a mass of confusion and fright, the girls filed out, some patting Silva’s arm, others hugging her, whispering to her.

She stiffly returned the sentiments, blinking back tears.

Some of the girls waved to us, and one or two blew kisses at Gilliam, who blushed. Ana elbowed him in the ribs when he made to return the gesture.

One of the taller girls stopped in front of Bargle, staring up at him, hands on her hips. Then she held out one hand, palm up.

He glanced at her hand, expression blank.

“You owe me three royals,” she said.

His mouth dropped open. Then it snapped shut with a sneer. “That was only if you helped,” he said.

The girl closed her hand slowly, looking over her shoulder at Silva.

“Fine,” she said. “Then make it three royals not to tell the baron what happened here.”

Bargle’s eyes widened. “That’s blackmail!” he sputtered.

“And this was kidnapping,” the girl said, gesturing over her shoulder. She held her hand out again.

Grumbling, but with a twist of a smile on his lips, the bard fished out three coins from a pouch at his belt, and handed them to the girl. She hefted them, then dropped them at his feet.

“Real gold, if you please, sir.”

Bargle laughed, ruffled her hair, and handed her three more coins, the heft of which seemed to satisfy her.

“Come see me in a few more years in Halag,” he said. “I can find a use for a girl like you.”

She smiled sweetly up at him, then kicked him soundly in the shin before turning and walking away down the path.

We watched the girls depart, and she was not the only girl to deliver such a parting gift to our host.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Mon Feb 16, 2009 3:12 am

Thorn's Chronicle continues...


Silva seemed genuinely confused that we willingly accompanied the troop of armed and armored men. But Durin and Kuric both patted her hand reassuringly, and Ana nodded when the girl appealed to her with a frightened expression, and that seemed to calm her somewhat. But she still held herself like the proverbial long-tailed cat in the mill.

The biggest shock came after we’d made our way down from the rocky plateau and onto the roadway along the lake: another squad of soldiers waited there, along with an ox-driven supply wagon.

“Well, it looks like the Black Eagle has more than just a passing interest in her,” Varis said to Gilliam.

“The baron has spread quite a bit of gold around in his search for this girl,” the bard said. “When we reach Halag, I suppose I could petition him on your behalf, and he would reward you all quite well.”

“I’d as soon take poison as the Black Eagle’s gold,” said Ana.

Bargle clucked his tongue. “There are many more rewards than mere gold,” he said.

“Prison, torture, slavery, take your pick,” Gilliam said with a laugh.

Bargle laughed along with him, and none of us were reassured by that.


We broke from the roadway almost as soon as we met up with the Black Eagle’s reinforcements, and headed south and west, following a trail they’d left on the way through the fields. We’d been given horses, so as not to slow down the column. Silva rode with Ana, but the two dwarves refused their horse, and opted instead to ride in the supply wagon.

Bargle let us stay together, but kept us in the center of the lines. Occasionally he would trade his horse for a seat on the supply wagon, and page through a large, leatherbound tome, turning the pages as carefully as he could upon the rough track, snarling at the driver if the ride was too bumpy. He would look up from the book every few pages, his dark eyes set on Silva.


After several hours, the sun passing midpoint in the grayness above, the column came to a halt in the woods just before they broke and opened onto the Windrush Road. There was much rattling and rustling as the soldiers climbed down from their saddles, and filed to the wagon to retrieve a meager ration of waybread and a large cup of wine.

Varis and Gilliam slid from their saddles, motioning for us to do likewise, and we all stretched and made our way to the wagon.

Bargle was leaning against the side, and held out a hand.

“Bread will cost you a silver. Two for the wine.”

We stared.

“You jest,” Ana said.

“Certainly not,” he said, and though he smiled, it reeked of something put up to hide an annoyance.

“They didn’t pay,” Gilliam said, pointing towards the soldiers.

“Well of course not. It is deducted from their monthly pay. But last I checked, none of you had sworn fealty to his Lordship von Hendriks, nor were in his employ, and so, if you eat his food, then you must pay him for it.”

“Ridiculous!” spat Ana.

Bargle shrugged, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. “I suppose it won’t be so ridiculous in a day or so, when you’re even hungrier.”

We reached into coin pouches, and Bargle looked up as he was counting the handful of coins we’d presented to him.

“Oh, it will be another silver apiece to rent one of the baron’s cups.”

“I would sooner drink—”

Gilliam clapped a hand over Ana’s mouth, and dropped two more coins in Bargle’s hand.

“This one is on me,” he said to her, giving her a long look, and then shifting his eyes to Silva, who was taking in the whole conversation with wide eyes.

She reached for her belt pouch, rummaging through it. Bargle’s eyes lit up at the sound of few but heavy coins clanking together. Gilliam, too, glanced back at the girl, his expression sharp.

“Who gave her any money?” he asked.

Kuric and Durin shrugged. “She’s always had a handful of coins about her. But we have had enough between us that she’s never actually had to use any of her own.”

Durin reached for her hand, a handful of coins ready to pay her share.

“Nonsense, let her pay her own way!” Bargle snapped, his fingers striking quickly, snatching the single coin from Silva’s fingertips.

He was about to slip it into his own belt pouch when he paused, frowning as he glanced down at the coin. He peered closely at one side, then the other, his dark eyes bright, an almost feral grin creeping across his features.

Then he looked up from the coin, clenching it in a fist. He turned to leave, but Gilliam grabbed his shoulder.

“Hold there, you owe her some change. That was a gold coin.”

The bard jerked his shoulder from Gilliam’s grip, brushing at the leathers.

“Do not lay hands on me,” he said, his voice flat but laced with menace, “ever.”

He tugged at the sleeve of his leather coat, then produced a handful of coins, holding them out for Silva.

She held the large chunk of waybread in her mouth, and cupped her hands, eyes widening as the silver coins filled them nearly to spilling over. It was easily two or three times what we had handed the bard.

“You truly have no idea, do you?” he asked. Then he left, shaking his head as he rounded the wagon, Silva’s coin dancing across the knuckles of one hand.


We had barely enough time to fetch our bread and drink before the call went up to remount and move out.

Bargle was again atop the wagon, another great book upon his lap, paging through it furiously, the coin between his teeth or flipping between his fingers as he paused to read.

“What is this great mystery he keeps rubbing our nose in?” Gilliam asked. “I don’t much like his tone, or being left to play ‘I know something you don’t know.’”

“Come now, Thorn, surely you must have some inkling,” said Varis.

“An inkling? Maybe not even that,” I said. “Nothing certain. I must speak with the Mastersingers, and secure access to the deeper histories. Things she has said, I know I have heard them elsewhere. They ring in my head! Its like… a song that you’ve heard before, and words you know, but cannot get the two married in your head.”

I reigned my horse in next to Ana and Silva. The girl was having a time keeping her hand synchronized with the gait of the horse, and she probably had more wine slopped over her wrist than left in the cup itself. I reached over and took the cup from her. She looked somewhat grateful, even as she blushed and wrung some of the liquid from her sleeve.

“Might I see one of your coins?” I asked her, pointing at the pouch at my waist, producing a coin, and then to her coin pouch.

After a moment, she nodded, again holding her half-eaten waybread in her mouth as she fished in the pouch at her waist. After plucking blindly and coming up twice with Bargle’s silvers, she huffed impatiently, then brought out a full handful of coins and held them out to me.

I saw among the angled edges of the Duke’s coinage a glint of something other than silver, and picked out the heavier, slightly thicker coin.

It had a smooth, rounded edge, and was stamped with a bearded figure’s head in profile — but it was not Halav, nor the Emperor Thincol, nor any of the Eastwind kings of our neighboring Darokin. A flowing of script traced the space beneath the representation of the man. Again, they were not in the common lettering, nor the dwarven or gnomish runic alphabets. It appeared more elven than anything else, but if it was, it was a form I’d never seen.

“What does this say?” I asked the girl, pointing to the words along the bottom edge.

She glanced briefly where I pointed.

“Ah. ‘Uther.’ It ‘Ekada uta sadaa.” She repeated it slowly, pointing with a bobbing finger to each of the words, which ran from right to left around the coin.

I felt a tingle at the first word.

No, not a word. A name. A name from in the oldest of songs about the World that Was….

Black Uther, Rectifier, last of the barons, first of kings
Freedom is what the Hawk of Andahar brings
To his people, his Blackmoor…


I turned the coin over in my hand. On the reverse was the likeness of a striking bird of prey, wings back, talons outstretched: The Hawk of Andahar.
Rob
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby Dave L » Mon Feb 16, 2009 10:54 am

RobJN wrote:T“take them with you as well while my men and I do what we have to to secure the Duchy and the entirety of the Known World.”

------------------------------
Show of hands as to who believes our buddy Bargle...? ;)

Oh I believe him - but secure the Duchy for WHO?
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Tue Feb 17, 2009 2:55 am

Thorn's Chronicle continues....


Silva coughed, her eyes wide, hands suddenly fluttering to her throat. Ana gave her a solid whack on the back, and the girl coughed again, the bit of waybread flying from her mouth.

She leaned forward, breathing deeply, her face even paler than her normal complexion.

Ana directed a frown my way, her eyes nowhere near as gentle as the hands that patted Silva’s back.

“What did you say to her?”

I blinked. Had I spoken?

“I… I was lost in my thoughts of this coin. Ana, I think I have figured something out.” I edged my horse even closer to hers, our knees nearly touching. I held he coin out to her.

“Have you ever seen this imprint on a coin before?”

She took it, turning it this way and that. “It does not look like any coin I have seen, but I am still not entirely familiar with the coinage of the West. I fail to see anything that would have you or the madman behind us in such a… a…”

“Ana, this coin, or rather, the imprint upon it, should not exist.”

She frowned, this time at the coin, rather than me. She rubbed her thumb across it, as if the design would wear off like wax, or fade as if an illusion.

“But it does. It is here, before us.”

“‘Once and Always,’” I said. “That face is Uther’s. And on the back is the sign of his house, his kingdom. The Hawk of Andahar.”

Silva suddenly snatched the coin from Ana.

Avazyamti kathayana!” Silva whispered sharply. Her voice trembled, her eyes verging on tears. “Yaacatetemi, avazyamti kathayana!

Ana and I both stared, first at her, then at each other.

“What—” I began.

Silva gulped a few deep breaths, then opened her hand. It was still shaking. She turned the coin over, then pointed to the hawk. “Nieah….” She paused, thinking. “Nieah vaada…

“I don’t think she wants us to say ‘An—’”

Silva’s fingers flew to Ana’s lips, as though she could keep the name from coming out that way. She looked back and forth, between Ana and myself.

“Right,” I said, with a nod. “I understand.” I made a sign of sealing my own lips, and she let out a sigh that drained all the tension from her.

I made a quick bow from the saddle. “Samaam,” I said, hoping the word meant what I thought it did.

She smiled, leaning over, reaching, and laid two fingertips on my forehead.

Astu vismra,” she intoned solemnly.

It was probably my imagination, but my forehead tingled when she took her fingers away.


We camped that night along the outskirts of Verge. Bargle took a horse into town, but informed us that we were to sleep there, in the middle of the camp. When Gilliam asked him about the price of the night’s meal, the bard shot a dark look at Silva, and grumbled that it had been paid for in advance. His eyes dipped ever so slightly to the pouch at her waist, and then he wheeled his mount, galloping off without another word.

The evening meal was actually pleasant — the outriders had brought back a couple sheep that they claim to’ve found stranded in a snowdrift, and so we had mutton to go with our bread and wine.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Mon Feb 23, 2009 11:49 pm

Thorn's Chronicle continues...
New moon of the Coming Snows (on or about Eirmont 1, 997AC)

The Black Eagle’s men traveled light, so there were no tents raised, just row upon row of bedrolls. Along with perimeter patrols, shifts were also devoted to keeping the dozen or so fires going through the night. The winds coming down the Foamfire Valley seemed to get colder with every gust.

The night’s rest was uncomfortable, and thankfully short — I’d seemingly just closed my eyes to doze a bit more, and was getting prodded by Gilliam.

“Peace shine upon you, my friend,” he said, handing me his waterskin as I sat up.

“And upon us all,” I answered, completing the ritual and taking a sip.

“Two silvers,” he said with a grin and a laugh as he helped me to my feet. The cold, hard ground had done things in the places the saddle had not.

“Perhaps we could get some of these men to beat us in the few places that aren’t pained,” I said as I winced, shrugging my cloak into place after working at a kink in my shoulder.

“Quickly, quickly!” one of the soldiers said, waving his arms as he made his way towards us.

“But, what of water, for some morning tea?” asked Durin.

“No time for that, Dwarf,” he growled. “Clouds are getting lower, and it looks to be snow before midday. I want us to be under cover of the woods to the south by then. We break our fast on the trail.”

He moved off, shouting more orders.



The procession was somewhat louder, most of the knights having opted to don their breastplate and forego the rest of the armor, leaving it secured to the back of their mounts. The lieutenant also kept the column moving at a canter, as opposed to yesterday’s walk.

We circled wide around Verge, avoiding most of the outlying homesteads as well. By late morning, we cleared the foothills of the Black Peaks, and the clouds began to sift the first of their flakes down upon us. But as with our trek from Highdell to Mistamere, our going slowed considerably once we made our way out of the foothills and into a stretch of pastureland. The snow dogged our every step, growing heavier every hour.

It was late afternoon by the time we finally reached the edge of the woodlands, and took another mile before the cover of the trees provided any protection. As it was, heavy collections of snow slid from the higher branches with a slithering rustle, followed by dull ‘plups’ as they hit the forest floor.

Evening approached, and we found another reason behind the lieutenant’s wish to hurry along: along one side and the other of the trail were the remains of their camp from their original journey through here.

“Not a bad tactic,” Kuric said as he and his brother wandered up, “returning in the footprints you left on the way. Many trade caravans do this — why, many dwarven roads beneath the mountains support regular hostels, spaced roughly a day’s journey apart.”

Varis nodded. “Not a bad plan. I’d heard that they do something similar along Thyatian roads. Perhaps the Grand Duke will do the same here someday.”

Gilliam snorted. “Whats wrong with spending a night out in the open, under the stars?”

“Snow?” asked Ana, looking up from combing Silva’s hair.

“Rain,” suggested Durin.

“Bandits,” said Varis.

Gilliam rose stiffly to his feet. “I’m going to gather more firewood,” he said, his voice nearly as stiff as his saddle-sore gait.

“Remember, take only what has been left on the ground,” I said after him.


He returned a short while later, bearing an armful of branches.

“I didn’t go far,” he said, after depositing the wood atop the stack the soldiers had allotted us. “Didn’t feel like having a clanking escort. But as I circled the perimeter of this campsite, I got the strangest feeling we were being watched.” He shivered slightly.

Risi,” Silva murmured, stretching her toes towards the fire.

“No doubt there is a contingent of Greenwardens watching us,” I said.

I admit, I had to do a double-take when I was met with silence.

“Its a bit far to the west, but we are still under Radlebb’s boughs,” I said. “Of course they would have a group as large as this watched.”

“Greenwardens?” Ana asked, looking to Varis and Gilliam with a slight frown.

“Knights of the forest,” Varis explained, “or so the stories say.”

“If you think of these woods as you would a city, then the Greenwardens are the watch,” I said.

“So, then, they will help us to flee from these men?” Kuric asked, pointing over his shoulder at a cluster of men about the next closest campfire.

“No,” I said, and spent the next few moments quieting the dwarves’ and Gilliam’s protests.

“These men have not harmed us, nor have they threatened to do so. They have fed us. We are not shackled. The Greenwardens — indeed, any of the druids we should stumble across here — will not interfere unless we should be in peril of our lives.”

“They have been a bit more civil since that scoundrel left,” Ana noted.

Gilliam snapped a couple of twigs in two and tossed them into the fire, then huddled deeper into his cloak.

“If it will make you feel any better,” I said, “they won’t stop you from trying to escape, but they also will not do anything to help you.”

“And what of you, then?” asked Durin.

I shrugged. “I will see this through to wherever it takes me. Where you go, I will go, for I feel that the fates peer closest at our threads in the tapestry of events. Surely, I will lend what aid I can, but my brothers leave me to my own fate, as they do you to yours.”

Kuric scratched at his beard. “Its an odd brotherhood that lends no aid to its own.”

I shrugged. “They merely act to preserve the balance.”

“You mean ‘don’t act,’” Gilliam muttered.

“As you say,” I replied. “I would, so they will not.”

Gilliam still scowled. “Well, its not right.”

I shrugged again. “Balance isn’t about what is right and what is wrong. Its the point between the two.

“Besides, where could we possibly run? We are days from anywhere in any direction. The weather does more to keep us captive than these men.”

That remark seemed to stem any further conversation, and shortly thereafter, the others shook out their bedrolls as close to the fire as they could get them.

I took the first watch at the fireside, keeping it from going out, also keeping an eye out for any of the Greenwardens. But they did not reveal themselves to me if they were there, which only affirmed in my mind what I’d been trying to impart to my companions earlier: something was meant to happen that I needed to chronicle, and the only way for it to happen was by going wherever these men were taking us.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Thu Feb 26, 2009 12:32 am

Thorn's Chronicle continues...

First quarter moon of the Coming Snows (on or about Eirmont 7, 997AC)

We spent five more days on the road, with very little break from the routine: rise, break camp, a short rest for noontide meal, then more riding until the shadows grew long, and the next campsite came into view.

At noon on the sixth day from Verge, the lieutenant drew the column to a halt shortly before midday. We were kept back from the bulk of the forces, but it was soon apparent what was discussed. Easily two thirds of the men split, continuing along the path we’d been following along the western border of the Radlebb. The remainder of the troops formed up around us, and we found ourselves turning sharply west, the forest thinning considerably as we wound our way around and over a series of hillocks.

It was several miles before any of us realized that the only sounds were the muffled hoofbeats of our horses, their heavy breathing as they struggled through the snow, and the clank and rattle of our armored escorts.

The few birds out and about in the snows and cold had gone silent. The men as well, their occasional chatter or complaint having tapered off to a heavy silence.

Following a bend around a particularly steep hillock, the horses — every one of them — shied, stopping abruptly with a snort or a whinny, eyes wide.

The snowy expanse before the highest hill stretched before us. Gray stones jutted from the blanket of snow at odd and uneven intervals. We tried to edge the mounts further along, but they resisted, tossing their heads and stamping their feet. One man gave a yell and pitched into the snow on his back as his horse reared. He barely had time to roll out of the way as his mount danced back away from the stones.

More than a few of the men had hands on swords, and looked about anxiously. But the surrounding hillocks offered no good vantage points for any sort of ambush.

The lieutenant ordered us to dismount, and I staggered as my feet hit the ground.

My vision swam, and I felt bile rising in my throat. For several seconds, everything seemed awash in a reddish-brown haze, as though I were peering through a veil of blood. The ground, it seemed, canted away from me, and I clutched the saddle, only to find that it — and the horse, too— were reeling the same direction……

Varis’ hand on my shoulder brought me back to myself with a start. I realized then that he’d called my name, and had been for some seconds. I blinked. The world was back to normal, the haze gone from my eyes, everything upright as it should be. But still a sick feeling clutched at me, twisting my stomach, causing my pulse to rush and roar in my ears.

I assured him that I was all right, but he shook his head. “I’ve seen some of the fellows in my troop go into battle after a night of hard drinking, and they looked then about like you do now: white as a sheet and green in the gills at the same time.”

A horse whinnied behind us, one of the soldiers struggling to get his mount to turn about. “I should have gone with the others, I knew this place was haunted!” he said in a voice high with panic. He gave the reins a snap, and the horse struggled back along the trial the way we’d come.

“Coward!” the lieutenant shouted after him. Then he glared at the rest of the men. “Anybody else soil themselves over this pair’s theatrics? Any other cowards had best turn back now.”

I glanced over at Ana. She was leaning forward, hands on her knees, trying to take deep breaths, but coughing with every second or third. Her pale skin had a yellowish cast to it, and was beaded with sweat despite the near-freezing temperature.

She and I both looked up at her horse, where Silva was trying to untangle her gown from the saddle horn. We both spoke at the same time:

“Do not let her down!”

The lieutenant dropped from his saddle, kicking his way through the snow to Ana’s horse. Before any of us could get around to that side of the animal, the lieutenant had reached up, taking Silva by the waist, and hoisting her up and over the saddle.

She laughed at the sudden rush of movement, her face lit up in a smile.

The smile dissolved as she sank into snow nearly up to her knees. She sucked in a sharp breath, and had I not felt sickened at the touch of the ground here, I would have thought she’d stepped on something sharp hidden beneath the snow.

She staggered, her gown dragging in the snow, and she tumbled forward in an uncharacteristic loss of balance and any semblance of grace.

The lieutenant was quick to catch her by the arm before she pitched headlong into the snow. He hefted her like a sack of flour, taking her by the waist under one arm, and began trudging towards the field of broken and tumbled stones. She squirmed against him, but as he threatened to set her back down upon the ground, she ceased her struggle.

We had no choice but to follow.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Sun Mar 01, 2009 3:50 pm

Thorn's Chronicle continues...

A chill even colder than the knee-deep snow ran through me with every step I took after the lieutenant. Even in the dead of winter, there is a feel to the ground, a buried warmth of the land waiting to come back to life. I did not feel that here.

In the earliest days of my apprenticeship, I accompanied my Master up into the Black Peaks. A rogue red wyrmling had thought to settle there, and provoked the ire of the great Azem, who quickly put the whelp in its place. Their battle was fierce but very short, and contained to a somewhat secluded valley. Within, there was very little left alive — what trees in the small grove that hadn’t been blasted to charred splinters lay flattened, great roots exposed like many-fingered skeletal hands reaching up from the ashen soil of their graves.

The ground was blackened and split where dragonfire had washed over it. Some of the very rocks of the mountain bore the same markings. In one wedge of stone, a pristine image of a dragon’s outstretched, clawed forelimb is marked out, the rest of the stone partially-melted around it.

The ground beneath the snows felt very much like the worst of the dragonfire-seared patches of ground in that valley. It was similar, but worse — the valley floor was simply dead in those places. Here, the land still lived, but it was…

“I’m going to be sick,” I heard Ana moan, and there came the telltale sounds of her doing just that.

“Thats it,” I said, the realization suddenly fitting into place. “This place. The land. Its sick. Deeply sick, like a… a wound left to fester.”

“How can the ground get sick?” Gilliam asked. “Its rock. And dirt. Rocks and dirt don’t get sick. When was the last time you heard a boulder sneeze?”

“No, he may be onto something,” Kuric said. “Certainly, there’s a feeling here, an uneasiness…” His voice drifted off and he shivered. “It grows every step closer we get to yon keep upon that hill.”

“Sick ground,” Gilliam muttered. “Next thing he’ll be telling us that it rains because someone hurt the sky’s feelings.”

Durin was inspecting one of the huddled rocky shapes that poked up from the snow.

“Well it was once worked stone,” he said, a gloved finger tracing a nearly invisible seam that seemed to flow along one portion of the surface. “But its as if the lot of it has been… smelted together. Heated up and poured back out.”

“Only dragonfire, or the fires within the earth itself are hot enough to melt stone of this type,” Kuric said.

"There has not been a dragon sighted in these parts since Halav's day," I said. "They keep mostly to the mountains." I looked at the other stonework, some huddled, some standing a bit taller. At first glance, the placing appeared random. But then…

“This is the town,” I said.

“Town? There’s nothing here,” Gilliam said. “Is nobody going to talk sense today?”

“Korizegy,” I said. “Two lords, brothers, summoned a terrible power they could not control, and in begging for their own lives, threw away those of every man, woman, and child in the township. Every animal and plant under care of men — gone, devoured when the… power—”

“It was a demon,” Ana said. “Blood-hungerer. The stench of it clings to these rocks.”

Durin leant closer, inhaling deeply. He frowned, stuck his tongue out, then thought better of it.

“But it was hundreds of years ago. Surely—”

“Those people were not just snuffed out. Oh, they did die. Eventually.”

“How could you… Not even the Mastersingers know exactly what happened here!”

“Nor do I, but I can read the signs. I have seen this… before.” Ana swallowed, closing her eyes and taking several deep breaths.

One of the guards trooping behind us cleared his throat, gesturing us onward with his sword.

“Sooner we get you to the keep, sooner we can begone from this blighted place.”
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Wed Mar 04, 2009 3:47 am

Thorn's Chronicle continues...

Korizegy’s Keep was in only somewhat better repair then Gygar’s Mistamere. The drab gray walls were mostly intact, and the main keep was visible peeking above the parapets. A square tower jutted one or two floors above the keep. There was no roof, just jagged remnants of the tower’s topmost floor.

We caught up with the lieutenant just as he rounded a spur of bare rock jutting from the hillside, where rough steps had been cut into the hillside itself. The narrow stairs climbed for 20 or 30 feet —- long enough that the closeness went from stifling to claustrophobic.

The courtyard we stepped up into was long and broad, the keep’s curtain wall rising half again as tall as any of us. Still, the hundreds of years of neglect showed — the tops of the walls were heavily weathered, the mortar crumbled away, stretches of the wall sagging inward.

Even though we weren’t yet inside the keep itself, it felt as if a heavy weight of stone pressed upon us. Varis and Gilliam, who hadn’t felt any of the effects of the tainted grounds below, looked around nervously, balanced on the balls of their feet, as if expecting attack at any moment.

“Well, it looks as though we’re not alone up here,” Gilliam said, pointing out two other less-distinct sets of footprints still visible in the courtyard’s accumulated snow.


We were marched across the courtyard to the great doors of the keep — double doors of the same ironwood used by Gygar. Two of our escort pulled at the doors and they swung open with barely a complaint of the great brass hinges.

“Recently oiled,” Kuric muttered. “Perhaps the two who came before us have been keeping house?”

“I cannot imagine actually living in this place,” Ana said, her voice shaking as much as the rest of her. She covered her mouth and nose with part of her tunic sleeve, but it did not appear to work, and she let her hand drop back to her side, breathing short, shallow breaths.

An age-darkened carpet — worn thin in more places than not — lay upon the smooth stone flooring. Tapestries hung from the entry foyer’s walls, the threads having long lost their colors, making each not much more than a drab gray or yellowed-white curtain.

Through the archway straight ahead of us the familiar orange-yellow flicker of a well-laid fire could be seen, and it was through that arch that the lieutenant led us.

“Here in this chair should do nicely,” came a now-familiar voice, oiled as well as the hinges of the ironwood doors. “Yes, those shackles are for her. Don’t be squeamish, man, you’ve seen what she is capable of.”

We stepped into the room just as the lieutenant fastened the second metal cuff over Silva’s wrist. She was seated in a plain wooden chair, close by the fire.
Several other chairs sat in a friendly semicircle before the inviting hearth, and our host bowed and greeted us.

“Please, please take a seat by the fireside. Warm yourselves.” He stepped to one side, revealing a sideboard topped with several decanters and an array of goblets. “Would you care for some refreshment? A mulled wine, perhaps? Maybe a nice warm glass of Callariian brandy? Just the thing to warm you up from the inside out.”

“Tell me,” Gilliam said, putting his arm up over the back of his chair as he sat, “do you actually have to rehearse being servile to keep the sneer from your voice?”

Bargle merely smiled his oily smile, putting the stopper back in the decanter. “Well, I suppose it is a bit early for that,” he said. “Perhaps some lunch? The aide I brought along makes a wonderful blood pudding.”

Ana had no sooner settled into her chair then shot back up to her feet, hand at her mouth, eyes wide.

The bard motioned off to his left. “Water closet is off to the left down that corridor, dear,” he said, not even missing a beat.


He had finished chuckling by the time Ana returned. He crossed the room to her, handing her a goblet.

“Oh, go on, take it. Its a fine Alphatian white. Figured you could use something to cleanse the palette.”

She took the goblet hesitantly, sniffed, then took a sip. She took another, then lowered the goblet, holding it in her lap.

“There, you see?” He smiled a wide smile. “No black tongue. No tossing about on the floor with your fingers turning purple. No coughing up blood.” I’d never before heard a man speak of poisoning and make it sound as if it were a minor annoyance.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you all here,” Bargle said, going back over to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of something so red it looked almost purple.

“Not especially,” growled Kuric. “We’re here because she is.” He pointed towards Silva, who was shifting uncomfortably in her chair, causing the manacles to clank. “What do you want with her?”

The bard actually appeared to pout, Kuric having taken all the wind from his story’s sails. Bargle blew out an exasperated breath.

“I have something I must do for a client, and I need her,” he pointed to Silva, “in order to do it. Once I am through with that task, I plan to sell her to another associate of mine.”

The room fell silent, save the crackling of the fire and the rattling of the length of chain between Silva’s wrists.

“And… you are telling us this, precisely… why?” Durin asked. “You know we won’t let you just… sell her.”

“Oh, you won’t have much choice in the matter,” Bargle said, setting his goblet down. “Soldiers, swords, all that rough stuff that goes along with them.” He fiddled his fingers at each other in a pantomime of battle.

“To be perfectly honest,” he said, “I don’t much like the look of this man claiming to be the girl’s father. No pale skin or pointy ears about him.” Bargle chuckled, almost to himself. “Look, you don’t need to fight me to keep her from going anywhere. Just wait until I’ve taken the man’s money. I have no qualms whatsoever about you fighting him.”

Gilliam laughed, and Varis and Ana both shot him narrowed-eyed looks.

“Well, it is a pretty good plan,” Gilliam said. “He gets his money, we take care of a problem of his, and he can honestly say he did not lift his hand against his client. So, how much do we get for eliminating this troublesome ‘friend’ of yours?”

Now Bargle was the one to laugh.

“I don’t know which has me more ill,” Ana said, “this place, or the fact that you’re discussing payment for killing a man.”

“This man kidnaps, steals, extorts, plots murder and Immortals’ only know what all else, and you’d help him out to keep him ‘honest?’” Durin’s face grew slightly redder with every word.

“And the money,” Bargle supplied. “One tenth, I think, is all this troublesome man is worth.”

“Hardly worth the effort to lift my swords,” countered Gilliam.

“Fine, a tenth, and half again that much.”

“One quarter,” Varis said, and all our eyes turned to him. He shrugged.

“Robbery!” cried Bargle.

“Murder and robbery, actually,” muttered Kuric. "Wouldn't have anything to do with it for less than a third."

Ana took a long gulp of wine.

Edit: swapped dwarf brothers' dialogue to better fit each's character.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Sat Mar 07, 2009 1:51 am

Thorn's Chronicle continues...

A cacophony of crashes, rattles, and clangs echoing through a doorway in the far corner of the room ended the negotiations rather abruptly. We all jumped, Bargle included. A long, throaty howl echoed after the metallic clamor, and Bargle slammed his goblet down on the sideboard with a snarled curse. He stalked across the room, a scowl crossing his hawklike face.

He went to an archway a bit further past the one through which Ana had scurried earlier.

“Confound it, Hyazha, I am trying to conduct business. To do so, I require some peace and quiet!”

“Hyazha is unhurt! But the or— or— the machine is not doing the moving so Hyazha thought—”

“‘Hyazha thought?” Bargle asked, his tone bordering on the incredulous. “Hyazha does not think! Hyazha does what he is told, and that is to get that orrery working!”

“Hyazha thi—,” the throaty, bubbling voice stopped as this ‘Hyazha’ caught himself. “There could be problem, Master Bargle.”

“Hyazha? Did you break it?” Bargle had stopped shouting, his voice sliding into a soothing tone, loud enough to carry to wherever it was that Hyazha was, but no longer a shout.

“Hyazha think it broken already and Huazha only help it to be so.”

Bargle bit off another curse, his face flushing red. He clenched a fist, only relaxing it after his color had returned to normal. He turned to us, that smarmy, oily smile again working its way across his face.

“If you will excuse me for a moment, there is a little something here I must attend to,” he said. “Please don’t try to escape while I’m away, hmm?”

“Begging your pardon,” I said, getting to my feet. “But I heard you mention an orrery. I have had some experience with those of my order, and may be able to assist in repairing this one.”

Bargle’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you help me?” he asked.

Durin also got to his feet, brushing at the seat of his trousers. “If its mechanical, no better man to fix it than a dwarf,” he said.

The bard stared at us for a long moment. “Very well,” he said. “Can’t very well make any more of a mess of it than that worthless excuse for a goblin. Come along then.” He gestured through the doorway.

“All of you,” he said, when Durin and I took a few steps and everyone else remained seated. “None of this ‘we’ll distract him while the rest of you make your getaway.’ Go on, up the stairs. You’ll know when you get there.

“You, too,” the bard said, snapping his fingers at Silva, who jumped at the sound, as though startled awake.

She glanced down at the floor, then slid to the edge of the chair, setting her toes upon the floor as if she were testing a sheet of ice to see if it would support her weight. She jerked her foot back with a pained hiss, pulling her feet up to the edge of the seat and giving the floor a fearful, wide-eyed look.

Etah risi!” she said, pointing. “Etah atiiva risi!

Bargle crossed the room in half a dozen great strides. “Come now, child. It won’t bite you!”

She shrank away from him as he approached.

He took a deep breath, smoothing his hands over his dark brown hair. He squatted down before her, but even still, had to look down his hawklike nose to meet her eyes.

“Come along, and I will show you the most wonderful machine,” he said, the edge of impatience gone from his voice.

She held out her hands to him, spread as far as the manacles would allow. “Haltimi,” she said.

Next to me, Gilliam choked back a chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” the bard snapped, glancing over his shoulder at Gilliam.

“The floor is cold and she wants you to carry her,” Gilliam said, his words infused with the laugh that he was fighting to keep from coming out.

Bargle rose sharply to his feet, tugging the short black leather coat into place at his waist. He glowered down at the girl, then snatched the chain binding the manacles together, and gave a sharp tug as he turned to stride back to the doorway where we’d gathered.

Silva gave a squeak of surprise and barely caught herself from landing on her knees on the floor. She staggered after the bard, biting her lip and walking as though the floor were live coals. Her expression eased a bit as they passed over the tattered carpet along the middle of the room, but she gasped and bit her lip afresh as Bargle swept her across the last stretch of bare flag stone, through the doorway, and up the steps.

We found ourselves once again following the girl.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Sun Mar 08, 2009 8:38 pm

Thorn's Chronicle continues...

The clanging began after the first turnback of the stairs, and by the time we’d passed the second floor landing and made our way up to the third, the sound beat upon our ears and rang in our heads just as surely as Hyazha’s hammer must be beating at the machine.

The sound stopped abruptly, and was replaced by gibbering apologies from a shabbily-dressed gray-skinned figure huddled on the floor, groveling at Bargle’s feet.

Still clutching the girl’s manacles in one hand, Bargle leaned down and snatched a bent length of brass tracking from the goblin’s long fingers.

“This is fixing it?” he asked, shaking the piece of gearwork at the goblin’s head. He threw it down, nearly missing the goblin, the metal clanging as it skittered across the floor. He then snatched up the hammer.

“I told you to oil it and make sure the gears ran smoothly,” the bard cried. “I need this in working order tonight! By sundown!”

Bargle looked up at us, from across the expanse of metal and stone that nearly filled the room. We were spread along the wall by the stairs landing. The bard flashed his disarming smile.

“So hard to find good help these days,” he said, giving the goblin a not-so-gentle shove with one booted foot.

The goblin gave a grunt, then scuttled back to out of arm’s reach.

“Hyazha only try to help,” it blubbered.

Durin and Kuric needed no prompting by the bard to take a look at the machine. They stared at it with eyes alight, silly smiles on their faces as though they’d just been kissed by their ladies fair. I gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of their ladies fair, wondering if the rumors of beards were true.

I, too, took a look at the marvelous machine. It appeared to be made mostly of brass, a great intertwining of gears and levers and metal rods. The purpose, of course, was to mimic the movement of the heavens, the turning of the major stars and the moon. The stars, as any child can tell you, are the heavenly beacons marking the alignment of the unseen realms that interact with the world, bringing the seasons, and seasonal events. As the dwarves busied themselves with the twisted bit of mangled brass the goblin had been.. Helping with.. I walked the perimeter of the great machine, marveling at the carved-stone and gemwork representations of the world, the moon, and stars.

On the nearest thin rod was mounted a diamond. Daanvi, the realm of Order, constantly fixed beacon by which all the sailors of the Known World navigated.

A ruby marked Fernia, realm of eternal fire, which was currently in retreat away from the world, but would return with the end of spring.

A brightly polished, if dusty sphere of red slate stood for the wandering star Shavarath, the place of eternal battle.

Riding up and over the blue-white stone orb representing the world, was a gold disk, marking the movement of the sun, Irian, Ixion’s home of Eternal day.

A rounded onyx marked Dolurrh, the dark star of the realms of the dead.

Closer than any of the stars was a gray slate orb marking Matera, the moon. And at the point where the moon would be new, its face hidden, was a wedge of obsidian — Mabar, the Endless Night. Closely following Matera was a marble of quartz: this would be Dal Quor, the realm of dreams.

Spun out along another geared path was a brass rod ending in an intricate setting for an emerald, fashioned to look like leaves curling about the gemstone. Lamannia, the Twilight Forest, would spin closest to the world in another two months, heralding the coming of spring.

Wheeling on an inward path was a sapphire, its mounting of silver, made to look like icicles. Risia, the plane of ice.

Something clicked in my head, and I stopped my circuit of the great gearwork.

Risia. Risi. Cold. Fernia. Firni. Hot.

The wandering stars were named ages ago, before Thyatis rose to prominence, before the Alphatians walked through their tunnel in the sky to reach this world.

The astrologers of Thonia first named the stars, and the scholars of Blackmoor took and kept those names as they calculated their paths across the heavens.

“Silva,” I said, and beckoned her to my side. She rose from where she’d huddled against the wall after Bargle had let her go. The bard was staring absently out the window, puffing at a pipe of sweet smelling tabac.

She walked without a hint of the searing pain of the chamber below, but her attention seemed fragmented, and she kept cocking her head, as though trying to catch a sound which she could not pinpoint.

I pointed towards the emerald. The main table of the machine came to my waist, mid-chest on Silva.

She glanced at the gem, then at the arrangement of the other gems and stones and the loops and interlacing of the geared paths.

“Lamannia,” she said.

Two languages, the same word.

She took a deep breath, and then chanted, in the sing-song cadence of something memorized as a child:

Upariti ziras Syrania, bahirlok etah Irian,
Fernia, Lamannia, Mystara, Mabar,
Shavarath, Thelanis,
Dal Quor, Risia, Dolurrh.
Cavarrti sparza at chaayaa
Dolurrh, Kythri et Xoriat!

Through the chant, she’d indicated the stars she’d named, pointing to the corresponding gems. Her finger faltered at the last word, one that struck me as not familiar, at least with regards to the heavens.

Aleva Xoriat?”

Bargle raised an eyebrow at that, and the steady puffing at his pipe skipped in its rhythm.

She frowned, and tried to put her hands on her hips, but the length between the manacles was not enough for her to do so. It was almost comical, the stern look of a teacher affronted dissolving into frustration at the bonds.

Etah bhinna,” she said, her voice tinged with disdain as she waved her hands dismissively at the great machine.

“Ah!” cried Kuric. “There’s the problem.” He gave a grunt, then slid from under the machinery. “Now just wind it up and set the date, and she should work perfectly.” He dusted off his hands, then grabbed one of the handles located below the main plane of the apparatus, and began hauling it back towards me. From the gearworks below came a rattling, ratcheting series of clicks.

Along the opposite side, Durin was spinning the main disk, counting on his fingers a bit, then giving it a couple more ticks. He nodded, then announced “She’s ready, Brother Mine.”

Bargle tapped his pipe out over the windowsill, slid it back into his leather coat, and eased himself away from the window. He looked over the arrangement of the stars in their cradles of brass, placed this-way and that along the paths plotted by sages in Blackmoor millennia ago, and confirmed again and again by skywatching Druids.

“You are certain of this arrangement?” Bargle asked.

The dwarves nodded. “At the very least, we may be off a day, but not more than that.”

I checked the location of the moon in relation to the blue-white stone, and nodded my agreement. “The alignments look about right for this time of year.”

He smiled a slow, oily smile. “Well, then. We shall wait for sundown and then I shall have a surprise for you.”
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Mon Mar 09, 2009 1:33 am

Thorn's Chronicle continues...

Knowing the character of our host, and the nature of the sitting room in which we waited, it was no small wonder that none of us did more than pick at the bread and apples and cheese that the bard provided. Ana did not touch her plate at all. Silva’s fidgeting in her chair by the fire grew more and more agitated the further the sun sank towards the horizon. At one point, she drew her feet completely up upon the chair with her, and clapped her hands over her ears, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Bargle did not prevent Kuric and Durin from going to her side, and with a short ring of a silver bell, the goblin Hyazha was dispatched to a kitchen somewhere amidst the ruins and returned with a kettle of steaming water, so the dwarves could brew the calming tea that Silva seemed to like so much.

The bard took a passing interest in the concoction, taking a small pinch of the herbs, rubbing them between his fingers, and sniffing and tasting the results.

The sound of the great ironwood door booming shut a few rooms away greeted us after what seemed an eternity of staring at each other and the walls and the fire.

A guard poked his head into the room, announcing that the sun had just sunk in the west. Bargle gave a cry of delight — a truly chilling sound — and got to his feet, ushering us back up the stairs with a great smile upon his face.

We filed in along the wall, and Bargle threw open another shuttered window. His smile dissolved when he saw that the sky was still clad as ever in the low, ominous stormclouds He gave a bit of a snarl at the weather, then turned to a brazier in the corner. It was not there earlier in the day — perhaps Hyazha had brought it in from another room in the tower. He had also lit several torches along the walls to push back the evening gloom.

The bard reached into his coat, withdrawing a small cloth pouch, from which he took a pinch of blackish-silver powder. He spat a few words, then tossed the stuff into the coals, where they gave a sizzling “crack!” and released a plume of gray-green smoke. The smoke did not dissipate, however, but hovered and roiled at about eye level.

“Zadamar,” he said.

The cloud tossed and roiled a bit more, then part of it melded into a hooded head and shoulders, a sharp chin the only feature visible beneath the smoky cowl.

“I asked for Zadamar,” Bargle sneered. “Fetch him.”

“The First Child is predisposed. You will speak with Jaleel.” The figure’s voice was femenine, but deep, the spell giving it a bit of a smoky resonance.

“I have his toy working. But there is the small problem of those infernal clouds of his. He said they would not be a problem. They are just such.”

The smoky head bowed once. “Your pardon. The First Child’s labors have proven more difficult than anticipated. We shall clear the skies above as promised.”

The head bowed again, and the cloud of smoke roiled once, then shredded as a stiff wind whipped through the open windows. Hoods and cloaks snapped in the sudden gale, and Silva gave a squawk and fell back against the wall, the wind having pushed her a few steps in its fierceness.

As suddenly as it came, so too did it stop, and as we blinked the tears from our wind-stung eyes, we saw not the gray of the clouds but a clear stretch of the night sky.

The great stretch of stars, Syrania’s belt, washed across the sky, and I picked out several major constellations at once — the Dragon, the Hydra. Glancing up from the Chalice was Daanvi, shining bright and steady marking the way north.

Matera, half-full, shone bright halfway up her arc in the sky. But… I blinked. It couldn’t be right. Between the rim of the mountains and Matera’s half-circle was a bright blue star where there should not be one for another month.

Varis and Gilliam didn’t immediately see what it was that I saw, but they gauged by the look on my face that something was amiss.

Bargle reached across the orrery and gave the spindle holding Risia’s saphire a sharp tug.

Durin and Kuric both gasped at the sharp rasping of gears and the jolt the machine gave.

“You said you needed it fixed!” said Durin, “and now look what you’ve done to it!”

“I did need it fixed. But now I don’t,” the bard said, and he drew his knife and pried the sapphire from its mounting. He held it up to the torchlight, turned it this way and that, then tossed it carelessly in the corner. Gilliam’s eyes followed the gem as it skittered into the shadows.

But my gaze was on the bard, who’d pulled a white cloth from his pocket, and was carefully unfolding it.

“Hyazha,” he said as he worked.

The goblin popped up from the stairwell, giving us a bit of a jolt. None of us had heard his approach.

“Hyazha is here Master,” the thing wheezed.

“Did you do what I asked you to do in the cellars?”

“Yes, Master. Hyazha do, not think, not try to fix. Hyazha not feeling so well.”

The goblin didn’t look very well, either. Its gray skin was pasty — pastier than usual, that is. And its eyes looked sunken and glassy. It licked dry, cracked lips with a tongue gone slightly yellowish.

Ana’s hand found my arm, and she squeezed so tightly I thought she meant to snap it off above the elbow. She and Silva both had their eyes locked on the pitiful goblin. Sweat beaded Ana’s brow, and Silva’s breath came in short, sharp gasps.

“Something isn’t right here,” Varis said, his brown furrowed.

Bargle reached across and snatched Silva’s manacles, dragging her several steps around the device, and out of my reach. Ana’s deathlike grip on my other arm prevented me from following to try to grab the girl back, though.

The bard brought the girl’s hands up over the disk of the orrery, holding them over the blue-black stone that lay exposed on the white cloth.

His dagger flashed in the yellow torchlight, and Silva gave a shriek of surprise that quickly turned to one of pain.

Bargle had run the length of the dagger along the girl’s right hand, a bright streak of crimson forming as we watched.

“Why didn’t she vanish?” asked Kuric.

“Where is her cloak of flames?” Varis asked. “She did that trick last time he pulled a knife on her.”

Bargle chuckled as a single drop of blood fell with a clearly audible “pat,” upon one corner of the cloth, and blossomed as the cloth drank it in.

The effect on the goblin was immediate, and horrifying.

It leapt the few steps to the edge of the machine, directly opposite Bargle and Silva. Its hands grasped the brass rim of the outermost edge so hard the metal shook and rattled with the effort. The yellow-pink tongue again licked out, and the goblin stared at the corner of the cloth with wide eyes gone red about the bottom, the pupils gaping open, something flickering deep within.

“Come along, then,” Bargle said to the goblin — but it was not to the goblin that he spoke. Nor was it the goblin that answered.

The voice that rasped back sounded of dust, decay, and bloodshed. If such things could be said to have a sound, this is surely what they would sound like.

“We are free now, as we bargained. We have this body — wretched though it is. Our deal is done.”

“I have a new bargain for you, Old Friend.” Bargle gave Silva’s wrists a shake, and another drop of blood fell, nearly perfectly atop the first.

The goblin licked its lips again.

“Would you care to hear it? Or you may walk free, as was promised, away from the imprisonment those brothers worked on you. I would warn you, though, quite some time has passed, and their line has died out. You will not find any sons upon which to vent your wrath.”

The goblin wheezed, its breathing irregular, while the entity within pondered.

“We will hear it.”

“That shoddy goblin will not hold up for very long. And when it goes, you will be locked within it.”

“Which is why we will leave immediately, to find another!”

“Why trouble yourself with leaving? There is one right here I would give you.”

The goblin sniffed, licking its lips again.

“It is sweet,” the dusty, rasping voice crooned. “But it was taken, not given, and it is fouled.”

“Trivialities,” scoffed the bard. “You took from all those in the village below.”

“They were given! A gift!”

“And I give you hers,” Bargle purred.

“It is not yours to give!” the creature rasped, drawing itself up to full height.

“I won her in battle,” the bard persisted, his tone a bit hurt. “Fair and square.”

The thing laughed a wheezing, choking laugh.

“Won by deceit and under duress,” it said, drawing the last word into a hiss. “Trickery gives you no claim, certainly not to this one.”

“I should think your kind would admire trickery.”

“Not when the blood is at stake. Not in a bargain such as this. We dare not touch it.” The voice sounded almost… wistful.

“So my suspicions about her are correct,” the bard crowed. His laughter shook more drops upon the white cloth, pattering a trail and splattering on the dark stone in the middle of it. Silva hissed in pain and bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“You mock us!” The thing's eyes were locked on the white cloth. Its hands shook harder.

“You’re a weakling and a fool if you choose not to take what I offer.”

“She is not yours to give, mortal. But… she is ours to take from you!”

The goblin vaulted atop the surface of the orrery, and sprang, arms and long fingers outstretched, teeth bared, red-rimmed eyes wide.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby Chimpman » Mon Mar 09, 2009 7:50 pm

Rob, this story is great! I'm still reading it and still enjoying it. I like how you turned the Eberron moons/planes into Mystara stars/planes and how you tied their names back to Blackmoorian times. Your mention of Xoriat (and it being missing from the orrery) makes me think you have something planned for that plane... perhaps Blackmoor had something to do with its disappearance. If its history is like its Eberron counterpart, then wouldn't Thorn know about its existence? Or perhaps too much time has passed for the druids even to remember it.

Another point of interest is the entity inhabiting the goblin, and the mention of the "brothers" who imprisoned it. Possibly a reference to some kind of holy order, but later mention of sons makes me think not. My first thought was of the Blood Brethren, but not sure the rest of the story fits. Does the entity also have a relationship with Blackmoor?

...so many questions ;)

Anyway keep it up. I really like where you're going with this.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Mon Mar 09, 2009 10:23 pm

Chimpman wrote:If its history is like its Eberron counterpart, then wouldn't Thorn know about its existence? Or perhaps too much time has passed for the druids even to remember it.

Another point of interest is the entity inhabiting the goblin, and the mention of the "brothers" who imprisoned it. Possibly a reference to some kind of holy order, but later mention of sons makes me think not. My first thought was of the Blood Brethren, but not sure the rest of the story fits. Does the entity also have a relationship with Blackmoor?

...so many questions ;)

Anyway keep it up. I really like where you're going with this.


Xoriat, like in Eberron's cosmology, is kept out of alignment with the other stars and planes, and effectively "disappeared" with the Great Rain of Fire.

Thorn does not know of Xoriat because he has not been taught anything about it. Not all Druids know of it, and those who do, do not speak of it openly. The word, and the glyph associated with it, has degenerated over time to simply mean "Warning" or "Danger," about like we would view the skull and crossbones. This is why Thorn recognizes the word, but not in a planetary/stellar/planar context. I do loves me some playin' around with the language. :twisted:

Not a holy order type of brother, but the brothers Korizegy, who, 200 years ago summoned the demon, foolishly let it rampage through their township, then managed to imprison it (probably by accident) when they realized their mistake.

The entity's relation to Blackmoor is tenuous at best -- its physical body would have been destroyed when Xoriat and the Prime were severed by the Blackmoor's Planar Disruption Engine, its spirit banished to the Ethereal. It probably tooled around the Ethereal until someone was stupid enough to allow it to bleed through the Prime during a Summoning. (which, of course, they did. See "Korizegy brothers" above :D )

The demon, like all of its kind, harbors no love of Blackmoor, the Engine, those who built it, or who maintain it, and would like nothing more than to see the Engine destroyed, its spell unraveled. To say any more will give too much away.... :twisted:

Glad somebody's enjoying it, its a lot of fun to write!
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Sun Mar 15, 2009 3:24 pm

Thorn's Chronicle continues...

Silva screamed, and the air around us seemed to snap, like a tightly held thread tugged just a bit harder. Almost as one, we all drew deep, shuddering breaths, shaking our heads as though awakening from a doze.

Varis and Gilliam drew swords and leapt after the goblin. The dwarves stood ready to aid, but without weapons, did not wish to engage just yet. Ana pushed past the dwarves, and began searching through the bookcases along one wall, fingers turning jars and bottles, her eyes flashing from one label to the next.

The closest to Bargle and Silva, I leapt just in time to catch the goblin’s left arm as it swung down to slash at the wild-eyed bard. The creature’s right hand bunched itself up with a handful of leather coat, and that was the only thing that kept Bargle from tumbling backwards to the floor.

“You said I would be unharmed!” His voice was high, thready.

“You were not. But now our deal is at an end.” The goblin gave the man a shake, and I hauled with all my strength against the other arm, though it inched closer to its prey.

Bargle whipped the dagger up, dragging it through the goblin’s right arm, and there was a clear sound of the blade grinding against bone.

The goblin wheezed a laugh, a sound like dust and ash sifting through the air. The wound knit itself closed, and the creature’s grip did not waver in the least.

“Cold iron does not bind our magic as it does hers. You will not make us bleed so easily, mortal.”

“See how you like the taste of this, then,” Ana said, flinging a handful of powder at the goblin. The powder shimmered and sparkled in the torchlight, and at a harsh word from Ana, burst into bright silver-white flame. The goblin shrieked, throwing me away, dropping Bargle to the floor, its arms flapping as it tried to extinguish the flames.

Durin scrambled around the machine, a knee on Bargle’s chest as he searched the bard’s pockets. After several minutes, he came up with a ring of keys, and he began working through them to find the one to unlock Silva’s manacles.

By that time, I’d regained my feet, reaching towards the torches in the room and drawing on their flames to call forth a burst of Elemental Fire, flinging it at the creature.

Its shriek nearly drowned out Durin’s cry of triumph. Silva scrambled to her feet, backing as far away from the bard and the orrery as possible, giving a slight squeak as she hit the wall. She slid down, hugging her knees, her silver eyes wide as she stared at the flame-wreathed creature.

I gave it another burst of flame, but this one was smaller. My magic could only stretch so far, and there was not enough left in the torches to pull any more. The last thing we needed was to fight this beast in the darkness.

“Get off me!” Bargle snarled, trying to push the dwarf aside. “If you don’t want that thing to rip you all to pieces, let me up!”

“Yes, because it looked like you were doing such a good job at keeping things under control earlier,” said Gilliam.

“Ana?”

“There is not enough silver powder left. And my powers are severely hampered since somebody took the symbol of my order.”

“What of another of your circles of protection?” Kuric asked. “At least you could contain it while we escaped.”

“We can’t let this thing loose. It must be destroyed,” Ana said.

“I was afraid she’d say that,” Gilliam muttered.

“How?” Varis asked. “Your powers are crippled, our weapons won’t even scratch it. If we press this fight, we’re done for.”

As if to emphasize his point, the flames sputtered and died around the goblin, and the blackened patches of skin began sloughing off, revealing fresh, healthy flesh beneath. It wheezed another laugh.

“It has been so long since I have been able to play,” it said with a smoky chuckle.

“Let me up!” the bard hissed.

“Here, let me help you,” the goblin purred, and it took a shuffling step to the edge of the orrery, reached down, and plucked Durin off the bard as if he were nothing more than a mewling kitten. The dwarf gave a shout, his arms and legs flailing for purchase that was not there.

Bargle scrambled to his feet, tugging his coat back into place. He opened his mouth — no doubt to say something snide — when the goblin tossed Durin aside, its hand streaking up to catch the bard by the throat. His mouth snapped shut as his eyes bulged.

The goblin cocked its head, a smile stretching its mouth.

Bargle met its smile with one of his own.

“You face our wrath, mortal, and yet you smile?”

Bargle croaked something, and the goblin frowned.

“I said,” the bard rasped when the creature loosened its grip just enough, “you’d best watch where you step in a dead wizards lab!”

His hand withdrew itself from the pocket of his coat, and he struck the edge of the orrery with a long, U-shaped bit of metal — a tuning fork.

A crisp, clear note sang out, amplified by the metal in the rim of the orrery. The goblin glanced down, red-rimmed eyes wide with surprise.
It was standing on the white cloth, its toes smeared with Silva’s blood.

The blood flared with a silvery-reddish light, that light snaking across the cloth, and up over the stone, where the blood had also spattered.

The smoky, dust-filled voice of the demon raised itself in a howl, the creature throwing Bargle aside, the bard laughing even as he gasped and coughed for air.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Wed Mar 18, 2009 11:46 pm

Thorn's Chronicle continues...


We stared, in awe of this new spectacle. The light began to fade, and the bard again rapped the tuning fork, this time against the tower tall.

And then a second note joined it, another crisp, clear note in a perfect fifth harmony.

Silva was on her feet, singing, right hand outstretched, pointing towards the goblin.

Or rather, she was pointing to the stone upon the orrery. The black stone pulsed once, twice, then burst into its own purplish-blue light, answered by the steady glow of the similar stone in Silva’s bracer.

Bargle struck the tuning fork again as the sound began to fade. Silva took a deep breath, matching the note, this time in a perfect fourth.

The light responded, flaring brighter, the upper edge dissolving into smoky strands and tendrils. The goblin shrieked, eyes bulging, fingers hooking into claws. Darker, oily-looking smoke was rolling off the creature’s exposed skin — by its howling, one would think that it was indeed being burned alive.

The two eddies of smoke swirled about each other, the brighter, redder-tinged tendrils weaving through the darker, sootier essences steaming off the goblin.

The light began to subside, the smoke-tattered edges of it sinking down, down towards the blood-touched black stone. The light flickered, then the stone and the blood upon it went dark. Silva’s voice faded, as did the tone from the tuning fork.

Hyazha gave a sigh, then collapsed over the edge of the orrery, landing hard on the stone floor.

Bargle broke the moment’s silence with a sharp, triumphant cry, snatching the stone up in the square of blood-stained cloth. He reached over, and wedged the gem into the silver mountings that had held the sapphire.

“There,” he said, stepping back from his work, tucking the white cloth into his coat. “As above, so below.”

“What have you done?” Kuric asked, leaning forward to inspect the geared mechanisms of Risia’s path along the orrery.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” the bard warned, as the dwarf reached for the dark stone. “Hyazah was the last one to touch a stone such as this, and just look where it got him.” The goblin didn’t budge when Bargle prodded him with the toe of his boot.

“You used that goblin to bring the demon up here,” Ana said. “If it had escaped…”

“It was not about to go anywhere,” Bargle said. “The girl ensured that.”

“You knew the girl would be able to do that?” I asked, pointing to the stone.

Bargle simply smiled another slow, oily smile.

“So,” he said, “we’re finished here. Everything all tucked away nicely. Duchy saved and all that. Shall we go back down stairs for a drink?”

Ana was still glancing at the stone.

“Come now, dear, that thing won’t harm anybody as long as they don’t touch it. And be honest — who in their right mind would ever come here?”

I had to admit, the bard made a good argument.

“Only a madman,” muttered Gilliam.

“Or a madman’s lapdog,” said Varis.

Bargle scowled at the men.

“I don’t —” Ana began.

“Do you feel the presence of that thing any longer?” the bard asked.

Ana frowned. “I— There is too much interference. I cannot reliably—”

Bargle took her hand, leading her to the stairway. “Come, then. Downstairs, where the air is… clearer.”

She jerked her fingers from his grasp, wiping them on the white surcoat. Bargle bowed, extending his arms towards the stairwell in a gesture of welcome subservience.

“I am a humble servant of the Flame,” she told him as she passed. “Do not bow to me.”

I took Silva’s hand and led her down the stairs after Gilliam and Varis. She slowed her pace as she drew close to the dark stone, pausing to trace a complex sign in the air with her fingers and murmuring what sounded like a prayer. I thought I saw a deep, purplish-blue pulse of light within the stone, but it could have been a trick of the torches.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Fri Mar 20, 2009 1:12 am

I couldn't wait to finish this section, but had to post a bit of a teaser. Pardon the brevity, but I thought you might wish to see the next guest's appearance... ;)

Thorn's Chronicle continues...


Something was not right as we filed through the doorway into the sitting room. Or rather, I should say, something was right.

The men in the armor enameled with the Black Eagle’s crest were nowhere to be seen. In their place were other soldiers — these in breastplates and chainmail jacks which were barely visible beneath ankle-length cloaks of deepest blue. They stood at attention, leather-gloved hands resting easily on the pommels of longswords, the crosspieces gilded in a gold likeness of eagles’ wings.

The expression on Bargle’s face at the sight of the men was worth the terrors of his dungeons beneath Mistamere, and the brief skirmish against the demon in the tower above.

He drew a sharp breath, we could all see that he meant to launch into some tirade or speech, but when his eyes fell upon the woman sitting before the fire... It was as if a bellows had just sucked all the air straight out of him. His eyes widened — even more than they had at the sight of the blue-cloaked men. His mouth hung open, and had there been a breeze within the room, no doubt would have creaked like an inn signboard.

“I am hiring a painter to capture this,” Gilliam said with a smirk.

“My brother and I will pay half that commission,” Kuric said.

Bargle’s mouth snapped shut, and he straightened, squaring his shoulders, tugging the sleeves of his coat down about his wrists.

“Aleena,” he said, striding into the room, his voice oozing a warmth that certainly didn’t touch his dark eyes. “How very good of you to come all this way for a visit. I trust your father is well?”
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby Chimpman » Fri Mar 20, 2009 5:38 pm

:D Very nice! I'd like to see that painting as well, by the way ;)
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Sat Mar 21, 2009 8:57 pm

Thorn's Chronicle continues...


She was perhaps of average height — sitting as she was it was hard to tell. She wore the same deep blue cloak and eagle-motif armor as the soldiers positioned at the room’s choke points. She uncrossed long legs clad in fitted leather breeks. The well-kept but road-worn boots that covered her legs the rest of the way down creaked as she flexed her feet, as if to ease muscles stiff from a hard days’ riding.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I served myself,” she said, raising a fine crystal goblet to Bargle in salute, sipping dark wine.

“The Glantrian plum wine,” he said, his voice purring with approval. “A fine choice, but I thought for certain you would have taken the Alphatian white.”

“You drink Glantrian plum wine, so I knew it would be the only one not poisoned,” Aleena said, her blue eyes twinkling as she smiled knowingly. “And you would know better than I how my father is doing, since the Black Eagle still has not responded to my missives.”

Bargle’s smile faltered for just an eye’s blink. “Well. The baron is such a busy man.”

“Yes, all those others in the dungeons that he needs to interrogate before he gets to Father,” Aleena said, another knowing smile made as cold as the winds outside by her tone of voice.

“VonHendricks is well within his rights to imprison and… question… those he deems a threat to the safety and security of his barony and its loyal subjects.”

Aleena glanced around, at us, at the soldiers who still stood, silent but watchful. “There is no magistrate here, you needn’t spout the niceties of the Grand Duke’s baronial charters for my benefit.”

Bargle’s mouth snapped shut, the fingers of his right hand curled into a white-knuckled fist slowly relaxing.

“Well then, since you have invited yourself in, taken a seat, and are already drinking my wine, what other courtesies could I possibly extend to you?”

Aleena flexed a finger away from the side of the goblet, pointing towards us. “You could introduce me to your guests,” she said, taking another sip before slowly rising to her feet.

“Ah. Yes. Allow me to introduce you to—”

Aleena stepped past the bard, crossing the room towards us, stopping an arm’s length away.

“You can only be Ana,” she said, extending her hand towards the dark-haired cleric. The girl took it, murmuring the appropriate pleasantries.

“Varis,” she said, with a sharp salute. Varis grinned, returning the gesture.

“Gilliam,” the young woman said, her eyes twinkling with the smile as she clasped his upper arm in the traditional greeting of the Ylari. I don’t know if his knees were weak from her knowing the gesture, or the wink she gave him before releasing his arm.

“Thorn,” she said, bowing her head in my direction. I returned the gesture.

“And you two can only be Kuric and Durin,” she said, clapping them each upon the shoulder.

The two dwarves pointed to each other, but their explanation of her mixing them up was lost as Aleena turned to Silva, who peeked somewhat meekly from behind mine and Ana’s cloaks. The young woman dropped to a curtsey, only rising when Silva took her hand, completing the ancient ritual as the Baron of Threshold had done many days ago.

“I greet you in the name of your own freedom from capture at the hands of the Baron von Hendricks, hereby restoring your liberties as free men— and women and dwarves,” she added with a blush, “as an agent of the Baron of Threshold, and as First Lieutenant, Thirteenth Company of the Fourth Division—”

“Oh, take a breath, Aleena,” Bargle said, rolling his eyes. “Before you turn as blue as your cloak.”

She rounded on the bard, cloak billowing.

“Another word from your lips and I will have you gagged, clapped in irons, and paraded to and through Threshold in nothing but your boots.”

He looked up from the goblet of wine he’d been pouring.

“Much as I know you would love to see that,” he said, swirling the liquid in the goblet, his tone as dismissive as the gesture, “I’ll have to see your writ of command, as well as those of the generals’ aides of Riverfork and Radlebb.”

Aleena’s figure seemed to shrink a bit within the cloak.

“Come now, girl, I haven’t got all night,” Bargle snapped.

“I haven’t quite gotten all the paperwork sorted out yet,” she said, somewhat petulantly.

Bargle arched an eyebrow. “And by ‘not quite sorted out,’ you mean ‘haven’t even petitioned the captain for detachment of the troops’?”

Aleena set her own goblet of wine down. Her hand shook.

“Aleena, you’ve got your rescue. Now run along and take them with you before I get angry. It would be a pity if I should have to mention this little breach of protocol to the baron, and he should get angry and do something… rash… to his prisoners in retaliation.”

There was another swirling of blue cloak, and the young woman stormed past us, making quick gestures, the men waiting for us to file out before following.

Bargle actually had the nerve to smile and wave.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Fri Mar 27, 2009 1:35 am

Taking a brief respite from Thorn's Chronicle to shuffle another writing project onto the front burner for a while.

I have plenty more of the Chronicle in the works, but just have to chase down this other idea while its still fresh in the ol' head.

Its not D&D related, so I won't link it. If you're interested, PM me.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby Aniodia » Wed Apr 01, 2009 6:49 pm

Rob, you sucked me in to this, and SO HELP ME you'd damn well better finish this.

I WILL NOT BE DENIED! :D
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Wed Apr 01, 2009 7:07 pm

Thanks for the vote of confidence!

I'm still chipping away at the other project, but also making notes for the next few pieces of the Chronicle.

It is such fun to watch the muses cat-fight ;)
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Tue Apr 07, 2009 11:14 pm

Thorn's Chronicle continues...

First half moon of the Coming Snows (on or about Eirmont 8, 997AC)

It wasn’t snowing, but the wind was up, cold and keen as ice, and it howled and whipped through the barren courtyards of Korizegy’s Keep.

Had we wanted to keep warm, though, we could merely have stood within arm’s reach of the young woman Aleena, her fury was so intense. The wind tore most of her words away, but by the way she kicked through the snow clogging the courtyard, and the number of times she punched a fist into her other hand, it was probably better we did not hear precisely what she had to say.

We followed her across the courtyard, then down the winding stairs to the level of the village below. The ground still felt sick, corrupted. I hoisted Silva onto my back when she refused to descend the last step. I felt her shivering against me the whole trip through the ruined streets. Aleena, we noticed, did not dally, but picked the most direct route through the ruins, though she traced a path to the south rather than back east the way we’d followed the Black Eagle captain.

A short distance from the village walls, the skeletal clattering of trees was replaced with the snapping of banners. Two pavilions had been erected, and the beginnings of a picket line of horses could be seen behind the tents.

One of the men with us jogged ahead and pulled back the flap of the leftmost tent, and he beckoned us through after Aleena.

There was plenty of room inside for all of us, and braziers in three of the corners provided light and warmth against the cold of the night. Though the walls of the pavilion fluttered and flattened, the material was proof against the knifelike winds.

A simple cot and travel chest adorned the darker corner of the tent, and Aleena fairly threw herself down on the cot.

“That did not go at all as I’d envisioned it,” she groaned, one arm up over her eyes.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Fri Apr 10, 2009 2:43 pm

Thorn's Chronicle continues....

“Fourth Division?” Varis asked her. “I served with the Goblin-Crushers.”

Aleena glanced out from under her arm. “Mountain Storm,” she said, pointing to the emblem of a stylized clouds over a mountain peak. I counted two lightning strokes descending the cloud, marking her rank as lieutenant.

Varis nodded. “A bit far from Castellan’s Keep, aren’t you?”

“Well, members of the Order of the Griffon are afforded certain liberties.”

“Operating outside your Division’s theater without writ of command? That Bargle character seems to be in pretty close with the Black Eagle. If he—”

“He won’t,” Aleena said shortly. “He was operating well off his leash in this case.”

“As are you,” Gilliam said. It wasn’t a question.

“The Order knows I have a vested interest in that man, so some provisions were made,” Aleena said. “We are simply putting things back in balance. This move of his was unexpected, so we moved to counter it.”

“It sounds as though you play at a game of Kingmaker,” Ana said. “Signs alight in the sky, demons afoot, and you play at your games?”

Aleena sat up, fixed her blue eyes on the dark haired girl.

“‘The game’ as you call it, has always been there. Games within games within games. Either we play, and stand a chance at winning, or forfeit.”

“I was never much good at Kingmaker,” Gilliam said. “Best I could do was stalemate.”

“Sometimes, that’s the best any of us can do,” Aleena said, though it sounded like she spoke more to herself than to us.
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby RobJN » Fri May 15, 2009 5:07 pm

Thorn's Chronicle continues...

It was an uneasy night’s rest. If the keening winds outside, and the constant flapping of the tent’s walls wasn’t enough of a distraction, Silva had started to dream again. The first time, she awoke thrashing, gasping what sounded like names. Aleena’s sword was halfway from its scabbard before she realized we weren’t in any danger. She looked on with puzzlement as the two dwarves calmed Silva as best they could.

Silva’s scream sent us all jumping, hours before dawn.

As Aleena jammed her sword back home, she gave the girl a long look. “Does she do this often?” she asked.

“Well, there’s been a lull,” Varis said. “But it looks like that was the quiet before the storm.”

There came a scratching at the tent’s entry flap.

“M’lady Aleena, you.. Ah.. Might want to come see this,” came a voice from outside.

The young woman stood up, pulling her cloak about her shoulders, buckling on her swordbelt. She poked her head out of the tent, and her hair rippled in the strong wind that was still blowing outside.

“For the love of Petra,” she started to snap, and then her entire posture went rigid. “Get the men and horses ready. A five hundred count, then we ride. Take what you can carry, nothing more.”

“M’lady, but the wagons, the tents—”

“One wagon, food and extra trail necessities. Where the hell were the sentries?”

“I think that’s one of them there, m’lady,” the man outside said, his voice shaking.

Aleena jerked back into the tent, then went to the travel chest at the foot of her cot. She threw it open, started rummaging through it.

“On your feet,” she said, without looking up. “Armed, armored, ready to run but prepared to fight as well.”

“What is it?” Kuric asked, looking up from where he’d been patting Silva’s hand.

“Trouble,” Aleena said, as she slid a foot into a boot. She tugged viciously at the leather cords, working the bindings tighter about her lower leg. “She better be worth it.”
Last edited by RobJN on Sat May 23, 2009 8:47 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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RobJN
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Re: [Campaign Journal/Story Hour]: Thorn's Chronicle

Postby Chimpman » Mon May 18, 2009 4:56 pm

Yay! I'm so glad you're posting more of this story. I was starting to miss it :(
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