North Bound

As Ademar Nightwalker ran to keep up with his newfound companions, Cor’Nal and Besali, he told himself again that morning had come far too early this day. His eyes were bleary and heavy-lidded, his head pounded with every jarring step, his limbs ached from the previous nights’ merriment, and his stomach protested loudly to not having been fed breakfast. It was late summer and the companions had finally left the comfort of Goodale in search of fame and fortune nearly a year after deciding to do so. It was their first morning out, and while Cor’Nal was eager to be on the road, Ademar had overindulged in his farewell celebration making mid-afternoon seem like a much preferred time for them to leave. That had been one of many arguments the rogue had lost to the calculated logic of the druid.

Ademar had to work hard to keep pace with the longer gate of both the wolf and the taller elf. Panting hard, sweat dripping from his face and running in rivulets down his arms and back, the elf was greatly relieved when the small troop stopped for a midday break. In the small glade deep in The Crown Wood, Ademar Nightwalker dropped his heavy pack and collapsed in a gasping heap. To this point Cor’Nal had been completely absorbed in the world around him enjoying the time back in the forest but, at the sound of equipment and body falling to the ground at his back he turned around seeming to remember his counterpart for the first time this day. A wry smile crept across the druids’ face as he beheld the spectacle of the thin elf on hands and knees forehead nearly touching the ground, wheezing for breath.

“Is there… a reason… we don’t have… horses?” The rogue puffed, seeming to be even more pale than usual.

“Actually there are several reasons.” Cor’Nal responded fighting hard to hold back his laughter.
“Room and board through the winter, extra blankets for said room, wine -only the best-, wenches, gambling, paying back a certain person for ‘lost goods’, paying the fine constables of Goodale to look the other way while investigating ‘lost goods’, shall I go further?”

Having finally caught his breath, the rogue pushed himself up on his haunches sitting with his head still bowed like a dejected child before the taunting wood elf.
“There are days that I hate you.” Ademar replied quietly.

Unable to contain himself any longer Cor’Nal burst into uncontrollable laughter. The druid did not begrudge the rogue for being himself, it had actually played into his favor as the overindulgent Ademar had spent all the money he would need to travel back to Caercaster and was now forced to accompany him further north in search of adventure. He found the entire situation humorous despite the fact that they were many months behind his intended schedule.

After a leisurely lunch break the trio was off again. Their planned route would take them northwest through the Crown Wood just outside Goodale and into the rugged lands beyond to a place called Snoam-Schlabach. It was said that there were actually two towns there between the foothills of the Greystoke Highlands and the craggy wasteland known as the Laandsraad and that a great deal of strife existed there. Despite Ademars’ complaints, Cor’Nal had decided that, where there is conflict there will be adventure and opportunity to create a name for himself bringing honor and glory to his family. The pace after their rest was decidedly slower to Ademars’ great relief though, it didn’t stop him from complaining.

“Curse my luck! I’m getting a blister already.” The rogue grumbled as they navigated the forest.

“Will you be this irritable for the entire journey?” Cor’Nal asked as they continued to march along.

“Not unless the weather becomes cold and wet.” Ademar replied smartly, knowing that they were heading into a land where the weather was always cold and snow or freezing rain were often encountered. Cor’Nal could only roll his eyes as they continued on.

For three whole days they traveled the uneven ground and thickly packed pines of the forest before they noticed the first signs that they were approaching the edge of the wood. More light was filtering in through the boughs and more undergrowth was encountered. Just after midday on the fourth day their quiet passage was broken up by an unexpected noise. Off to the east of them and down a small ravine came a deep voice speaking a very broken version of the common tongue.

“Why Vrock not listen to Grock? He tell me not to trust smelly one-eye. He say wine no good no way. Well, he wrong, wine good but now Vrock stuck in woods with no food. Stupid, smelly, one-eye!”

With not a word spoken between the elves they began making their way silently toward the conversation taking place. Cor’Nal motioned to Besali, to move out to the end of the ravine in a flanking position and the wolf obliged swiftly and silently. Carefully the elves moved from tree to tree taking care to watch their footing and remaining quiet while they drew their bows and knocked arrows.

As they reached the lip of the small valley and peered down the elves reactions were simultaneously aggressive. Bow strings stretched taught and fletching went to cheek as rogue and druid alike took aim at a hated ancestral enemy. Standing at the bottom of the ravine was a hulking beast standing a full head taller than most men and just as thick as many of the old pines they stood among. Although olive skinned and broad of brow, this creature seemed somewhat different than the orcs both elves had encountered in the past. Its skin was not quite as dark, its jaw line not quite as animalistic, tusks did not really protrude from beneath its lip, something was slightly out of place. Why a lone orc? Were there more of them milling about? Was this some sort of trap? The arrows were held at bay for a moment, neither elf sure of exactly what they were up against.

For nearly an hour the trio followed this strange character about the forest. After passing through the ravine for a third time Cor’Nal decided that this particular orc- no, half-orc as this beast was not of full orc blood, was obviously lost and definitely alone. The druid motioned for Ademar to stop. After only a few moments the half-orc moved off again on the same track that he had followed previously. As the misplaced creature wandered away the elves and wolf emerged into the clearing at the bottom of the small valley.

“I wouldn’t want him scouting for me.” Cor’Nal remarked with a frown.

“What do we do about him?” Ademar asked. “I almost hate to kill the beast. He doesn’t seem smart enough to hurt anybody.”

“True, but he is an orc, or at least he has orc blood, that much I’m sure of.”

“Is that alone a reason to kill it? Maybe there is a way to use the brute.” The rogue mentioned off handedly. “It sure would be nice if you could teach him to carry our packs.” That comment got the druid thinking.

When the half-orc came around as expected for the fourth time the elves and wolf were still standing in the ravine awaiting him. With a start the beast nearly fell over itself to pull a massive great sword off of his back. “Pointy-ears!” He growled in a low, gravely voice, yellow eyes narrowed suspiciously and he assumed a defensive stance, sword at the ready.

The companions held their ground and remained calm. Besali stretched and yawned before lying down to watch the half-orc seemingly bored already. Ademar stood back trying hard to look at ease while remaining ready should the creature attack them.

Cor’Nal stepped forward boldly, he had learned that strength and bold action were respected within orc society and he prayed to Kutenai that his plan would work.
“Well met good sir.” The druid began, holding out his hand in greeting. “We are looking for a brave warrior named Vrock. Could you tell us where we could find him?”

The half-orcs’ expression went from suspicion to pride then back to suspicion before ending in confusion as the elf spoke. For several breaths the half-orc mulled over what the druid had said before responding.

“Me Vrock, son of Grock. Brave warrior! Strong warrior!” Vrock proclaimed loudly. Then his voice lowered and suspicion furrowed his broad brow. “Why you looking for me?”

“We two elves are traveling in this dangerous land and we are looking to hire some protection from the beasts of the wild.” The druid lied. “We have heard that the warrior Vrock can assure our safe passage to the north.”

The half-orc stood before them, sword still at the ready in both of his gnarled hands. He listened intently and as Cor’Nal talked a frown worked its way onto his face. Seeing the frown on Vrocks’ face told the druid that he had to sweeten the pot somehow to earn his cooperation.

“We are going north to find treasure and adventure!” He proclaimed enthusiastically. “If you choose to help us we will give you a share of the take.” Behind Cor’Nal Ademar choked and coughed, a wounded look of shock and despair upon his face. Vrock smiled.

“Food?” The burly half-orc stated more than asked.

“Of course, you are welcome to eat with us this eve.” Cor’Nal told him thinking that things were going well.

“No, food now. Vrock hungry.”

As Vrock noisily devoured all the provisions Cor’Nal had packed for himself it was Ademars’ turn to smile while the druid stood by in astonishment at Vrocks’ appetite. Finally with a belch that rattled nearby pine boughs Vrock, son of Grock announced that he was ready to travel.

With the added appetite of Vrock forcing the group to forage for food much sooner than anticipated their forward progress slowed to a crawl. It took several more days before Cor’Nal was confident that they had enough food stocked to make it across the empty land between The Crown Wood and foothills of the Greystoke Highlands. Once the group was finally underway on a seldom used trail to the cold northern reaches of Edlrige their pace quickened. Vrock carried most of the supplies which greatly reduced Ademars complaints although he still found opportunities.

Within two weeks of travel Cor’Nal reported that the companions were nearing civilization. This was welcome news to Ademar who had not anticipated how severe the cold would be once they left the protection of The Crown Wood. As they had climbed nearer to the mountains the temperature dropped from cool to cold. Frost was an every morning occurrence and no matter how large the fire was stoked Ademar was always cold at night. When they finally came to the small camp known as Whitewall just south of their destination, the frost cover had given way to snow. Ademar was now cold day and night no matter how many layers he wore or how vigorously he marched. Inversely, Cor’Nal never seemed cold despite being dressed in only a light shirt, breeches, and his mysterious wooden armor. The smug druid just smiled all the wider whenever the rogue moaned over the weather. Vrock also seemed unaffected by the cold, insulated in his heavy hides and thick cloak, he marched on with the elves apparently happy with his current arrangement.

The group rested in the mostly abandoned mining town of Whitewall for two days allowing Vrock to eat his fill and Ademar time to thaw his chilled limbs. Norton, the tavern keeper in town, told the companions that there was indeed trouble brewing between Snoam-Schlabach and its neighboring hamlet Schudlichton although he seemed doubtful that there would be much in the way of coin to be had there. The reprieve was short lived. The druid predicted another snowstorm to be on its way.

Much to the chagrin of Norton and Ademar alike the group headed out from Whitewall Camp into the deepening snow and cold bite of a winter which had not yet even started. In the difficult and unfamiliar terrain it took the companions almost three whole days to finally reach their goal.

Over a hill in the midst of a mild, late-evening snowstorm it came into view, a small hamlet maybe 80-90 buildings in all. Mostly modest homes, only about three-quarters of which seemed to be permanent structures. But at the southern-most edge, along where the closest thing to a road could be discerned, lay a building larger than most but smaller than a few. Plumes of fragrant gray smoke, visible against the moonlight, billowed out from the chimney. Its roof of tarred pine branch and log walls of the same type wood. The only kind that could grow this far north. Instinctively, in their years of traveling they knew the building could only mean one thing.

"A bed." Cor'Nal said to himself.
"Food." Vrock said to himself.
"Heat." Ademar said to himself.

Of course all three things really meant one thing: An inn. Even now, uphill, upwind and still a mile away the smells and sounds were unmistakable. Rowdy banter, spiced potatoes and roasted lamb all filled their senses causing their exhausted pace to quicken. Though one more time they wished they'd found some way to acquire horses, flying carpets, goats or any other form of permanent transportation.

They arrived in minutes though it seemed like hours. Freezing, starving and exhausted they each passed but not a one of them read the sign at front that read:

"Welcome to Homebound"
Magda Dervish, Proprietor

Goodale

Leaving the accursed tower and the forest that held it far behind him, Ademar continued north. He pushed himself hard, traveling completely beyond the borders of Westheath and crossing over into the Dodanna Freelands, a sparsely populated marshland that stretched from the mountains known as The Broken Lands in the west all the way to halfling kingdom of Murgar in the east.

He had been away from Caercaster now for several weeks and yet his journey had just begun. Ademar redoubled his efforts to avoid civilization and curbed his curiosity near interesting places for another many weeks while he traveled always northward and away from his past problems.

Still he marched on not having knowledge of where he was going nor really where he was exactly. The mountains had faded into the distance behind him leaving a vast grassland before him. The few trees he encountered were full of green leaves, showing that summer was fully upon the land. The rains became cool relief as shelter from the sun became increasingly rare yet, he continued on, his soul full of inner turmoil. Eventually the elf did come to terms with his aimless wandering.

At the first snow, that is when I will stop. He told himself. The first snow will mark the end of my travel. There I will find shelter for the winter and then I will return to Caercaster in the spring. He felt that some of the burden had been lifted from his aching shoulders. The fact that he had formulated some sort of action plan came as an unexpected relief to the beleaguered elf. Yes, it will be fitting that Kendrick Cwik dies in the spring. That always was Deedras’ favorite time of year.

*** *** *** *** ***

The predawn glow crept into the massive forest that surrounded Goodale chasing the darkness further west as the sun approached the eastern horizon. The people here had named the large conifer forest The Crown Wood as it sat at the northern edge of the continent like a green crown upon the land. Despite the early hour, two shadowy forms made their way silently across the carpet of dry twigs and pine needles on the forest floor. In the lead was a large grey wolf, its black nose sniffing the air, intently following a scent deeper and deeper into the wood. Close behind the wolf followed an elf covered head to toe in some exotic armor apparently made of overlapping wooden plates shaped like leaves of various trees. They weaved effortlessly through the dimly lit tree trunks, moving with such speed and grace an onlooker would swear they were ghosts.

The elf, Cor’Nal Utharo, was a talented young druid from Sanctuary who had recently traveled the lions’ share of Atalanxia ending up here, in Goodale with his newfound wolf companion Besali. For nearly two weeks the pair had explored the large forest, practicing their stalking skills and enjoying what time they could outside before autumn came, forcing them to find shelter and supplies for the coming winter. The druid knew that summer was fast drawing to an end; as it was a short season this far north. While they ran through the trees this morning a thick white fog hugged the ground, a testament to large temperature differences from night to day which were already moving across the land.

The elf was not quite sure what Besali had caught scent of but he knew it must be something new judging by the eagerness in the wolves’ strides. Without warning Besali stopped. Cor’Nal, following so close behind him nearly ran over the animal before coming to a halt. Besalis’ hackles stood on end, his body was rigid and his brown eyes were fixed on something just ahead of them. Taking a moment to catch his breath Cor’Nal dropped a calming hand to the shoulder of his companion while scanning the forest ahead of them. Inside the predominantly pine forest it was not difficult to see past the bare trunks and sparse undergrowth and spot the source of their morning “hunt”. A slim figure lay up against one particularly large tree next to the grey ashes of a small campfire. Judging by the slight build and diminutive stature of the figure, the druid thought that it might be a woman or a very young human man lying beneath that black cloak.

Wanting to get a better look, Cor’Nal started forward while motioning for Besali to stay put. As he approached the form something caught him off guard, something the elf never expected to see this far north. A pointed ear protruded from the black cloak, the ear of a Cala'Quessir! Forgetting only for an instant about his surroundings, Cor’Nal took another step closer to the sleeping figure. His foot came down on an upturned twig accompanied by the sharp snap of breaking wood. Instinctively Cor’Nals’ hand went to his sheathed scimitar. His instinct served him well that morning. Within the blink of an elven eye the once prone figure sprang to life. The black cloaked elf was now on his feet and a long sword came across at Cor’Nal in a sweeping horizontal strike. Steel rang out on steel, a pure harmonic note sang out in the deep forest breaking the calm silence of the morning. Both elves found themselves staring at each other in bewilderment. Several tense moments passed before Cor’Nal spoke.

“ Well met friend.”

The tension between the elves evaporated quickly with those simple words and the cloaked elf retracted his blade. Both parties assumed non-threatening stances yet their blades remained naked as they continued to measure each other. This elf Cor’Nal noted had seen his share of hardship, bearing horrible scars on his hands and half of his face, now visible after his cowl fell away during the strike. It was the elfs’ eyes that held Cor’Nals’ attention though, something familiar about those bright green eyes which were even now darting about, making note of every detail about him, eyes which grew larger after taking note of the wolf watching intently from a distance at Cor’Nals’ back.

Seeing that no conversation was forthcoming from the cloaked stranger Cor’Nal attempted discover what he was about.

“An elf is an unusual sight this far north, especially with autumn fast approaching.” He began.

“Yes, that is unusual.” The stranger said in a measured tone, his eyes flicked back to hold Cor’Nal in a hard stare.

“Fear not my elven brother.” The druid replied, taking the initiative to sheath his weapon. “I bear you no ill will. I am just as surprised as you at this unexpected meeting.”

The black cloaked elf responded in turn, sheathing his sword although his eyes continued to watch both Cor’Nal and Besali warily, apparently ill-at-ease with the situation.

Moving slowly, the druid took a cautious step forward, moving almost as if trying not to spook the stranger before him, and extended his right hand in greeting.

“My name is Cor’Nal Utharo. I am the son of Legawyn and Nydia Utharo of Kemmermere.”

The cloaked elf stepped forward also, taking Cor’Nals’ forearm in acknowledgement yet, those green eyes remained on the wolf.

Recognizing that Besali would continue to be a distraction, the druid gave a shrill series of whistles not once looking back at him. Without a sound, the wolf stood and loped off into the forest, back the way he had come. Picking right up where his introduction had ended Cor’Nal continued. “And that, is my companion Besali.”

The elf opposite Cor’Nal relaxed at the exit of the large canine, his emerald eyes flashed back to the druid. “Pardon my manners.” The stranger spoke in smooth, practiced elven seemingly genuinely humbled by his lack of proper protocol. “I have long been on the road and in the wild. It makes one somewhat, suspicious of others. My name is Ademar.” After a slight hesitation he continued. “Ademar Nightwalker, also of Kemmermere.”

That name brought light to Cor’Nals’ memory; he remembered now meeting Ademar while delivering a message to the Helyanwë family many years ago. What had happened to the young Ademar to cause him to take up an alias? From what the druid could remember the Helyanwë family was a well-to-do merchant clan why would he stray so far from the comforts of Kemmermere? Deciding that Ademar must have a valid reason to abandon his family name, Cor’Nal chose to feign ignorance of his kin but he was interested in how he came to be in Goodale and hoped that Ademar had news of Kemmermere.

“So, what brings you to the wilderness of Eldridge my friend? And, what news of Tel’HithTal?”

Ademar thought about the questions for a moment, seeming to be carefully constructing his answers before responding.

“My family thought it would be advantageous for me to travel the world for a while. They are trying to gain knowledge of the goings-on beyond our borders. We are hoping to open up more trade across Atalanxia. I have been throughout Westheath, The Dodanna Freelands and Nargosath, before coming here. In the spring I will be returning to Caercaster to report my findings.”

Cor’Nal nodded throughout Ademars’ explanation seemingly believing the entire thing though he secretly wondered why he would return to Caercaster, a city of humans rather than the forest of Kemmermere.

“As for The City,” the rogue continued, “They were still rebuilding when I left nearly two years past. Regulus Silverfire is determined to have every detail within the citadel perfect which has made things difficult for the craftsmen to say the least.” Happy with the direction the conversation was turning, Ademar asked a question of his own. “If you ask news of Kemmermere you must have been away for quite some time yourself. What of your journey Cor’Nal Utharo?”

Happy to be having a conversation with another elf, the druid happily told Ademar of his journey which had taken him all about the continent over the past two decades and how he had ended up in Goodale looking for adventure. The conversation lasted long into the day, stretching on to dusk.

Knowing that winter was fast approaching, Cor’Nal suggested that Ademar stay in Goodale and continue his travels in the spring. Beginning to tire of traveling, Ademar readily agreed with the druids’ suggestion but decided that he would prefer the comfort of a bed in an inn to the hard ground of the forest floor. Reluctant to leave the wild but unwilling to let go of this newfound link to his homeland, Cor’Nal relented to this request. Throughout the fall and all through the winter both elves worked for Iwan Welsher, a fourth generation brewer of his families’ famous Welsher’s White ale. Using the silver they earned from Iwan the pair waited out the winter trading stories of their homeland in the warm shelter of The Wizards’ Charm inn.

Vlad

The young dwarf sat with pleasure wenches on either side of him at the bartable of a well-known tavern in Goodale called the Broken Skull Inn. A place where the ale was expensive (likely to be expected in a town called Goodale) and so were the wenches. Neither mattered to the dwarf as he was the type who wasn't interested in handing over his silver for the standard wench or the average ale. No sir, only the finest wenches and ale for Vlad Pwent but he thought if the circumstances were different, today he might reconsider. Yes, he thought to himself, today would be different. The entertainment here was good after all (he was surprised to see a band of minstrels playing in such a small town) the food wasn't bad by dwarven standards and the continuous flow of ale provided the dwarf's head with just the right amount of a delightful buzzing to keep him in good cheer.

Indeed, Vlad Pwent thought to himself, this day will be different.

At that thought he lifted his latest tankard of ale, one purchased only moments ago, and drained it to the last. Satisfied, he slammed the tankard down to the table dramatically, straightened himself in his seat, threw his shoulders back and let go of an impressive belch that caught the attention of everyone nearby, only a few of whom seemed to admire the display, not that Vlad cared.

He waved toward the barkeep with one hand and wiped his neatly braided beard with the other. As with most dwarves, Vlad's beard was no exception in being his pride and joy, though when drinking ale, the cloth of his shirt-arm was just as good as any finely knitted napkin. Reluctantly, the barkeep relieved himself of wiping down the wooden ale-mugs he'd just washed and deliberately made his way to the smug dwarf.

Frowning, he spoke. "Another ale dwarf?" The human was massive, even for those of his kind, easily six-and-a-half feet tall and seemed just as wide. His expression and body language, a spectacle of clenched fists and even tighter shoulders, told Vlad he had very little patience, for the little people.

The dwarf offered a mock expression of surprise at the enormous human's reluctance to serve. This lasted for a brief moment before he slowly changed his expression by adding a wry smile, seemingly reveling in the barkeep's annoyance. He then turned his head, looking to the pleasure wench on his left who returned his smile with one of her own. He eyed her up and down like a starving dog would gaze at a freshly roasted rack of lamb. She shifted closer to him, daring a hand upon his forearm and rested her ample bosom against his shoulder. He liked the firm, yet soft caress her breasts made upon him and, if it hadn't been for the recently consumed glut of ale he imagined that, like the one in his head, there would be a buzzing in his pantaloons where there was none now. The dwarf's smile widened, regardless of his lack of rigidity. He grunted an approval as he failed to notice the growing impatience of the barkeep he'd summoned.

"Come now dwarf," The barkeep interrupted. "I do not have time for this." Sweat glistened on the barkeep's balding pate. "What'll ye have, another ale?" He furrowed his sweating brow and pursed his lips into a scowl.

"No barkeep," Vlad said at last. His gaze never leaving the resting bosom of his new female friend. "Bring two. One for me and one for the lady" She fanned herself dramatically as if Vlad's gesture of kindness had suddenly, and quite magically, risen the temperature in the room. Thinking to herself, the wench hoped that Vlad realized that the price of her services slightly exceeded that of a few kind words and a tankard of ale.

"Right," The barkeep replied, slightly amused. "One for you and one for the... lady. He laughed at the misuse of the word and spoke it with disdainful inflection. Chuckling he left the two in order to retrieve their ales.

The pleasure wench to Vlad's right tugged innocently at his undershirt and whined in a surprisingly high-pitched, grating voice.

"Wha' abou' me Vlad?" She pronounced his name like many poor folk of the Southern Eldridge Kingdom: Vlot. "I would also like an ale." She risked an expression of childish neglect, it was a poor attempt and even in his inebriated state, Vlad wasn't fooled. He snapped his gaze toward her, the smile he wore disappearing instantly into a scowl. The wench let go and recoiled slightly. He eyed her for a few seconds before smiling wickedly.

"Get yer own ale, wench! I've nay the gold nor the energy for the both of ye!" He snapped viciously before continuing. His voice became gentler in tone though his words retained their acerbic intonation. "But in a tenday or so, I'll have enough gold for the services of yerself and all yer whore friends!" He then became thoughtful and his sarcastic left his face as it went blank. "Although I'll likely still be too knackered for more'n one of ye a' a time." He whispered the last to himself though the right-side wench wouldn't have heard it anyway as she had already left his company, scurrying away on her plump little feet to sell her wares to more eager, and hopefully even more intoxicated patrons.

Before the boastful, arrogant dwarf could return his attention to the dark-haired beauty that he had become so anxious to begin receiving services from, the barkeep had returned to them with both ale tankards and was impatiently awaiting payment. Vlad reached into his coinpurse and payed the barkeep what he owed. The barkeep took the coins from the dwarf but remained still even after pocketing them, eyeing Vlad intently. Vlad, never making eye-contact initially, looked up at the barkeep sheepishly, half-expecting the barkeep to accuse Vlad of somehow shortchanging him.

"You'd be wise not to speak to the wenches in that manner." The barkeep spat the words threateningly as he crossed his arms over his thick, barrel-shaped chest.

Vlad's expression remained blank. "And you'd be wise not to speak to me in that manner." He curled the corners of his mouth into an arrogant smirk, barely visible beneath his thick, red beard.

"Is that right?" The barkeep taunted, leaning over the table slightly to remind the dwarf of just how much larger the human was than he.

Before Vlad could explain to the human just how right that was the pleasure wench that he had nearly begun to forget about interjected, trying desperately to change the subject in order to avoid a confrontation which almost certainly would end up costing her the patronage of a well-paying customer.

"That's right" She said. "Vlad here is goin' t' be a hero. Ain't ye Vlad?" She spoke loudly to ensure that both of them would give her their full attention. Unfortunately, she got the attention of half the rest of the pub's patron as well.

The barkeep turned to her, unconvinced and half on the verge of uncontrollable laughter. "Is that right?" The barkeep repeated. Suddenly, Vlad began to wonder about the size of this human's vocabulary.

"Yes," The wench continued, half-impressed with herself at seeming to diffuse the encroaching confrontation. "he is goin' to the 'Goodale Cave'. The one about a dozen miles Sou'east a' here" She smiled and looked at Vlad with mock pride. "It's supposed t' be 'aunted."

"I know." the barkeep spat. "The Bearded-Child has been boasting about it since morning." He laughed heartily and then glanced at the dwarf, whose face had begun to redden. "But what he failed to mention to ye lass, is that he hasn't been assigned to Faramin's party yet."

Vlad remained silent, incredibly angry and embarrassed by the barkeep's revelation. He watched as the wench's expression melted from mock pride to genuine disappointment.

"Is 'ee speakin' truth, Vlad?" She asked sullenly.

Vlad paused a moment to consider his next words, a feat which required an enormous amount of will for him even when sober.

"As of now, aye." He spoke the words and felt the gaze of at least a dozen onlookers. Their eyes pierced his back like tiny assassins daggers. "However, I am confident, nay, certain, that his Lordship will find me of adequate quality to represent him and fight for the people of Goodale." Whatever confidence Vlad felt a few moments ago was now whisked away and replaced by the feeling that to all those present, all those listening to himself and the wench, that he had begun to bear a striking resemblance to a horse's arse.

The barkeep threw his head back and laughed. "Obviously you've not been paying attention." He said between peals of laughter. "Faramin has abandoned selecting the adventuring party's." He wiped away a tear, reveling further in the dwarf's humiliation. "Not after the last party he selected went down into that godsforsaken cave and never returned."

"Never returned?" The wench spoke the words in Vlad's head.

"That's right," The barkeep continued. "Faramin has decided that he can no longer bear the terrible burden of sending young men to their deaths himself, so he has commissioned volunteers to select, or bring to town, their own parties in order to travel to the cave and commit suicide themselves. The fools! Though he promises to reward any party that returns with the head of some mage who calls himself 'Raylock' the hefty sum of one thousand gold pieces." Vlad hung on to every word but tried to keep the air of aloofness, he failed miserably as the barkeep continued. "I've heard of only one such suicidal idiot." The barkeep finished his speech, again crossed his arms in front of him. He winked at the pleasure wench who seemed genuinely troubled by Vlad's sudden change in demeanor.

Vlad chanced a look over his shoulder, noticed that over a dozen bar patrons had begun to make their way towards the bartable. Inching closer in order to get a better position from which to eavesdrop on the suddenly very interesting conversation. He tried his best to ignore them and turned his attention back to the sarcastic barkeep.

"What 'Suicidal Idiot' is this you speak of?" Vlad asked humbly.

The barkeep smirked as he looked down on the small (at least to his eyes) dwarf who seemed to be getting smaller with each passing moment. "A vagabond, silver-haired elf... calls himself, Razell. Or some such. Travels with another of his kind, red hair and freckles. I don't know 'is name. Don't care either." He snorted the last bit, pleased with himself.

"Razell..." Vlad whispered absently to himself, staring into his full, untouched tankard. Then he frowned. "An elf!" He reached into his purse to pay the barkeep for the information but the barkeep refused it, holding his outstretched arm palm out toward the dwarf.

"No need. Information's free. I like to watch smart-tounged, loud-mouthed braggarts like you running off eagerly killing yerselves trying to become heroes." He smiled broadly as Vlad wondered what he may have said earlier to make the human hate him so. He supposed he didn't really care.

"Is that right?" Vlad said, knowing the barkeeper's answer.

"That's right." The barkeep repeated to Vlad's expectation.

"Thanks nonetheless." Vlad said moving from his stool to stand on the dusty tavern floor upon shaky, unsure legs. He found himself slightly dizzy from his consumption of ale but tried quickly to forget about it. The same way he forgot about the pleasure wench and the full tankard of ale he left behind as he pushed his way past the gathering crowd and out into the streets of Goodale, in search of this fairy elf. This, Razell.

Again, he thought to himself as the mid-day sun crept behind a large cluster of threatening purple clouds, this day, indeed, will be different.

Oakflame and Silverfire

The silver haired elf shifted uneasily as he stared out the second floor window of the room he rented of the inn known as "The Wizard's Charm". He looked out over the village of Goodale as the mid-afternoon sun crept higher into the sky casting long shadows across the small town. As his watchful silvery-blue eyes scanned over the nearby "Broken Skull Inn", the abundant farmland that seemed to stretch out, rolling forever out from the town fringe toward the horizon and the majestic site of Lord Faramin's fortress he wondered how, in this small town, was he going to find a large enough group of experienced warriors to take down into that dungeon when all of the willing and able-bodied young men had either already ventured down there and died, or returned unsuccessfully in their task and vowed never to return? Facts that brought he and his elven companion here in the first place.

He sighed and reached for the glass of fyrewyne on the adjacent bedtable that he had poured for himself only moments ago. He sipped it casually as he stared out the window, losing himself in his own thoughts. "Perhaps I should have taken Jerrak's advice." He spoke aloud to only himself. "Maybe I am treading waters too high for my own head." He sighed again and sat down heavily upon the horribly overstuffed bed, taking his eyes away from the window. "Maybe I shouldn't have opened my mouth in the first place." He spoke again to himself. "Maybe I should tell Faramin that I've had a change of heart and respectfully decline." He drained the last of his fyrewyne and set the empty goblet back down to the bedtable from which he'd taken it. "Before somebody gets killed."

"Are you concerned for your own life or perhaps for the life of an old elf like me?"

Razell reached into a sheath at his belt and slipped free a slim dagger as he stood simultaneously, snapping his body out toward his intruder he held his weapon out in front of him, ready to strike.

The sound of soft laughter and the realization of his intruder's identity caused Razell to relax and sheath his dagger. He flushed heavily in embarrassment. If he wasn't certain of his unreadiness to lead a band of men before, he was now.

"Jerrak, my old friend, I apologize. I was daydreaming and did not hear you enter." He exhaled sharply.

The auburn-haired, heavily-freckled elf smiled as he stood inside the doorway to the room they shared. "There is no need for an apology." He spoke in an even voice, apparently unfazed at Razell's anxiety, his tone carried with it a depth and comfort not normally associated with his kind. More than once in his years with the youthful, brooding silver-haired elf had this voice brought Razell down from the heights of apprehension and up from the depths of despair. Without effort, he used it to manipulate the younger elf as a mother would her babes. Sometimes unconsciously, and this was one of those times. "I imagine there is much that weighs on your mind with what the days ahead have in store." He paused and smiled, glancing at the now-sheathed dagger at Razells hip. "Besides, I'm still alive... you haven't killed this old elf yet."

Razell laughed without humor. "Will you please cease with this 'old elf' nonsense? You're barely a hundred years older than I am!"

Jerrak Oaklflame moved inside the room, gently closed the door behind him and sat down in a small wooden chair at the foot of the bed.

"Having second thoughts?" He asked as he folded his hands over his lap.

Razell took in a deep breath and paused a second before answering the question. Was he actually considering turning back and forfeiting all he had cost himself and his friend journeying to this human-infested town?

"No." He said aloud but more to himself than Jerrak. "No, I will proceed with what I promised Faramin." He frowned as his eyes raised to meet Jerrak's gaze. "It is just that I have never taken part in this sort of endeavor before. I've never considered myself a leader, responsible for lives other than my own." He paused as another dreadful thought occurred to him, one that had plagued him repeatedly during his journey here from Kemmermere. "What if I am forced to employ the services of... humans?"

Jerrak laughed out loud. "I would strongly suggest you get used to the idea. There aren't many elves other than the two of us here and we can't do it alone." He crossed a leg over the other and sat back, his body language oddly reminded Razell of typical human crassness. "I warned you this journey would be difficult. I thought it best that you wait, but all you could think about was the reward offered for your, for our, services" Jerrak frowned. "However during our meeting with Faramin you were able to conceal your greed and now he is convinced that you undertake this mission purely for the sake of justice." He spat the last word as though it were a curse.

"I care not for the problems of humans, nor the types of justice they propose, and I will not be made to feel guilty over profiting from their self-inflicted strife." Razell had to force himself to keep his voice below a shout. "It is humans we go to save, yet it is humans we go to save them from! Is it not?"

"Yes, it is..." Jerrak began to reply.

"And what elf, or group of elves would dare do so to their own kind?" His eyes flashed. "None!" He spat, answering his own, rhetorical question. "None that I know or have ever heard tell of."

"I fail to understand your conundrum, Razell. You haven't come here to serve the "greater good". You come here for money alone." The auburn haired elf narrowed his eyes into accusatory slits and sat forward in his chair. "Perhaps you've tried to justify it some other way, but it's true isn't it? You and I are no better than common mercenaries, profiting from the troubles of the humankind you so passionately despise."

Razell recoiled at the word so commonly associated with the lowest caste of the human species: Mercenary. He turned and sat down upon the bed again, his back facing his dearest friend, shoulders slumped, hiding the embarrassed flush upon the fair flesh of his face. Absently he reached for the empty goblet upon the bedtable, his hand stopping short of it as he remembered that the glass contained no wine.

Jerrak raised an eyebrow as his young companion turned away from him. "There have been some, Razell..."

"Some?" Razell asked confusedly.

"Elves, Razell. Elves who have turned against other elves. The 'Dark Ones' for example"

"The Drow turned their backs on us ten thousand years ago."

"We turned our backs on them."

"Stop advocating them. Are you ashamed to walk in the daylight? Ashamed of your superiority?"

Jerrak Oakflame ignored the questions. "Perhaps someday we will talk more of those I speak of; These elves who would, and did, see harm come to others of our kind. I fear now the lesson would fall on deliberately deaf ears." He sighed and stood from his chair, moving toward Razell. He rested a hand upon his shoulder. "We will speak of it when your mind is at ease."

Razell angrily brushed his companions hand away. "Spare me your condescension!"

Despite his petulant outburst, Razell was calming, soothed at the touch of his friends hand. It was true that he had much weighing on his mind. He faced a lineup in the coming afternoon of adventurers who would willingly throw themselves upon the sword of enemies they didn't understand at the command of an elf they didn't know, one who hadn't earned their trust. Razell was confused about the conflict he felt toward potentially leading a band of men to their doom, wondered why the thought brought him such guilt when he cared more for the wind and rain than for the lives of the breeders polite elven society called "Humanus".

Another sigh from Razell before he spoke. "We are the favored of the Gods, Jerrak." His voice lilted musically as he spoke the words in the Northern Elf-tongue. The language of his childhood. A childhood he'd forgotten for reasons unknown to him. "Humans are a sub-race, living their short, spontaneous lives killing and spawning at will. With little thought or regard for anything other than themselves." He waved a hand toward the window nonchalantly.

Jerrak took a step back and sighed himself, fearing the argument he'd had so many times before with Razell and other elves like him. "Yes, we are the favored of the Gods, Razell." He straightened and looked out the window Razell now stared out of. "But it is our responsibility to help protect the lesser races."

"Even if it means protecting them from themselves?"

"Especially when it means protecting them from themselves." Jerrak replied. "Besides, my young friend, eventually, if you spend enough time with them, you may grow fond of humans. Like them, even."

"Unlikely." Razell grunted sarcastically.

Ignoring him Jerrak continued. "Perhaps you'll even grow to envy them, as I have."

Razell fought a gasp, composed himself and turned to face the elf he thought he had grown to know well.

"Say again?" Razell said in the crude common speech.

"Yes. Does that surprise you Razell?" More condescension, Razell thought as Jerrak met his gaze and sat back down before looking away reflectively. "I envy them. I envy them because many of them live swift, glorious lives. Greatly affecting the well-being of a city, or even an entire kingdom while those humans whose lives are filled with suffering begin and end before the youngest elf comes of age." He smiled. "You see my friend, Those humans who accomplish much do so in a fraction of our lifetime. And those humans whose lives are spent with suffering or in disgrace are also, mercifully, over quickly." His face melted into sadness though his smile remained. "And that, my young friend, is a comfort not often afforded by those elves who suffer themselves."

Razell found it difficult to speak, though he supposed he shouldn't be so surprised. Oakflame always did seem to play advocate to the humans when Razell criticized them after all, but to envy them? Razell found himself more likely to pity humans than envy them. Now though, he felt pity only for Jerrak. What would make him so unhappy as an elf to feel envy for a human? Razell could only imagine.

"I..." Razell began.

"Can't believe what you're hearing?" Jerrak interjected.

Razell nodded.

"I figured as much. Do not worry, Razell, I am the same 'old elf' you've always known." He rested his hands upon the arms of the chair, gripped the wood delicately with his slender, sun-browned fingers. "I was careful to keep these thoughts from you, knowing your own." He laughed. "You've never been one to hide your prejudices and if you ever meant to do so around me, you were very poor at it. No, from the first days of our friendship I was more than aware of your deep-seeded hatred."

"They kill elves Jerrak. They drove us to the West during a time when we walked freely among the peoples of the Southern Continent. It is a human who keeps us living in fear of our own borders along that cursed Toryth Vol!"

"Do not dare speak that name!" Oakflame, an otherwise unsuperstitious sort, spat disdainfully. "Yes, its true some humans have killed elves in the past. It's true some do so now, but the elves who retreated to the West during The First Descension did so of their own free will. They chose to stay out of the conflict, and it caused the deaths of millions when we turned our backs to the continent. They have every reason to hate us, perhaps more reason than we to hate them! Thankfully their memories are shorter than ours." He paused long enough for Razell to speak a single sentence.

"I will not listen to this."

"You will, my friend." He tried to hold his anger in check but it was becoming difficult. Razell's intolerance was always an issue, but as a duo they needed to maintain the charade if they were to lead a group under the ground. A force that would almost certainly consist exclusively of humans. They traveled hundreds of miles for what they hoped would be a fortune in gold. Razell's prejudice threatened that at the least, and at the most it threatened their lives. "Humans are not a perfect race by any stretch of the imagination, however neither are we elves no matter how favored we are among the Gods. Believe what you will my friend but in my opinion, your hatred could be best suited toward other things."

The silver-haired elf lowered his head as he turned away from Jerrak. He glanced back once more toward the sky and realized that soon the sun would be obscured by thick, black clouds.

A storm was coming.

"Enough of this talk of racial politics." Jerrak spoke, deliberately returning to the soothing, manipulative tone he'd used for nearly fifty years of friendship. Ever since the silver-haired boy became a ward of Jerrak's father. "Such talk vexes us both. And neither of us will change the mind of the other."

"Yes." Was all Razell could manage. He was exhausted, that much he could agree with Oakflame about.

"Perhaps we should reconsider this Razell." Jerrak said defeatedly. "A thousand gold pieces is..."

"A fortune!" Razell interrupted.

"Yes, but if you do not believe in the cause in which we are fighting then our deaths would be as empty as your wineglass, if we are to find ourselves so unlucky."

"Mercenaries..." Razell whispered, still staring out the window. He cringed at the word so often associated with human "adventurers".

"The mage, this... Raylock, is killing children here Razell." He lowered his voice to a whisper, the last resort Jerrak turned to when desperation was at hand and he needed to bend Razell to his will. It wasn't supernatural, though it seemed to be at times, like the way a mother can guilt her children into acts against their desires. "And not just human children..."

Razell stood, turned toward Oakflame and narrowed his eyes inquisitively, wondered why he hadn't heard this information before now. "Elves?"

Jerrak nodded.

"Then the bastard will die!"

Jerrak smiled.

A Job Gone Wrong

-Recap of recorded session #2-

Realizing that the DM is busy, I thought I might try my hand at the recap as I have little going on at work today. Please go easy on me, it's my first time, and as always if you see a discrepancy or something that was missed please do let me know.

With the miraculous reincarnation of Pudge who is now Luethar again, the party finds themselves outside The Longest Mile once more. Still undecided about what to do with the ships log that they had successfully recovered from the Widow MonTorrey's house they hold a quick meeting outside the inn. Luethar asks to see the book and after a slight hesitation it is handed over for him to examine. The halfling begins his examination as the rest of the group continues to discuss how they will move forward. Before long Luethar discerns a code hidden within the old, tattered pages and excitedly reads a snippet of the message, "the treasure-". Immediately the DM's best laid plan is dashed as the group votes to keep the book and attempt to defuse Black Rhett's impending tirade when it comes.

Luethar, being in his new, new body has not yet been seen with the party and is asked to stay behind in the parties covered wagon while Raell, Cor'Nal, and Ademar go inside the inn. They choose to get rooms at The Longest Mile and plan to rest the remainder of the day while they wait to hear of Ryan's fate. A mere hour after they arrive at the inn Flanders summons the group for a meeting with Black Rhett.

Rhett is quick to business after demanding that everyone be seated. He is direct to the point asking if the mission was a success. The companions feign ignorance of the whereabouts of the ships log saying that perhaps the previous party found it and never delivered. Raell attempts to shift the subject, saying that the mansion was full of undead including a banshee. Rhett is unconvinced of any of this and blames the part for the burning of the house and the failed mission, suspecting that the party is holding out on him. All attempts at deflecting blame and making compromises with Rhett fall on deaf ears. Rhett quickly tires of the meeting and promises a slow and painful death to them all (especially Cor'Nal) if he finds out that they have his book. Following this most of the group is promptly ushered out of the room by Cypher, Rhett's orc bodyguard. The exception to this is Raell who pokes his head back into Rhett's meeting room long enough to leave him with 300gp as a good will offering. Raell hopes this will diffuse Rhett and leave the group with a window for future work. Rhett is caught off guard by the gesture stating that it is either "stupid or revolutionary".

The group decides to pack up and move to the west side of Henutsen in order to put some distance between the angry guild leader and them. Raell, not wanting to eat at Low Skye again convinces the group to try Tread Light instead. Ademar readily agrees stating that he will not sleep in "that crap hole again". The group collects their belongings and travels to Tread Light, opting to leave Loomis at Low Skye as his room is paid in full and, the companions joke, he has probably found happiness in the arms of Neesa. Raell decides to go to the Temple of Myrrdin to check on Ryan, the elves go to Tread Light to secure rooms while Luethar remains in the wagon reading and attempting to keep from being recognized as part of the party.

********** It is about this time that the DM berates himself for mentioning anything of a secret code or treasure as his plan goes completely off track****************

Tread Light the elves find, is a middle of the road inn/tavern although the help is a little strange. They first encounter Stuckpig, a handicapped young man who walks with a heavy limp and a lame arm. He seems thrilled to see customers and promptly hollers for Tink. Tink is a thin and worn looking man of middle age who apparently runs the establishment. He takes their orders for food and collects for the meals and rooms before disappearing into the back. Stuckpig brings out drinks for the elves which includes wine much to Ademars delight, then promptly begins a conversation with the two asking all manner of questions and giving many answers to the pairs questions (after being slipped a couple silver of course). For all of sympathy Stuckpig's appearance conjures the elves are alarmed his knowledge of slavery and slavers within the town. Although they are friendly with the table boy they regard him with a great deal of suspicion. They do find that Farkas Winslow has visited the tavern recently which is encouraging. Ademar and Cor'Nal also pry a bit of information out of Stuckpig on The Blackglove XIII, another secret and apparently dangerous organization in Henutsen.

At the Temple of Myrrdin, Raell is informed that nothing has changed with Ryan and this will probably not change until tomorrow. Raell decides to sit for a while at the temple apparently in spiritual support of his fallen brother-at-arms. The half-elf barely sits down before Cypher shows up to escort Raell back to The Longest Mile for a private meeting with Black Rhett. Apparently he left a better impression than the rest of the group and Rhett gives Raell a chance to earn back his 300 gold. All he has to do is visit a farmer who has been losing livestock and remedy his malady. He is given strict instructions that if he employs his friends on this mission that he not mention Black Rhett as being involved. Raell agrees and leaves the inn, going straight to the farmer McMartin’s house at the south west side of town.

While Raell and the elves are doing their thing, Luethar quickly becomes bored and wanders over to the east side of town to see what Henutsen offers in the realm of magic. He eventually comes to a three story tower, the tower of Gaen Baliol an aging mage with weathered skin and hair that is more grey than black. Luethar asks if he has any items for sale which Gaen has none. The halfling settles for having his cloak identified (+2 cloak of charisma) and his fortune read. During the palm reading Gaen notices that Luethar has seen death before and no longer inhabits his original body. He also gives a cryptic description of his future which includes a dangerous one eyed dwarf that one of Luethar’s company will fall to, a change in Ryan, and the potential for riches. Gaen also notes that his companions do not always work in his best interest and Luethar should be wary of them.

After eating their meal the elves take their leave of Stuckpig and retreat to their rooms. Cor’Nal takes up the ships log from the Crimson Chimera and promptly shape changes into a hawk then, flys out of his window straight to Snoam Schlabach where he leaves the book in safe keeping with Derris MacBrady. The druid leaves a purse with 100 gold in it as payment for Derris’ services. This journey will take most of the day.

In his conversation with farmer McMartin Raell quickly surmises that he is dealing with one (if not more) owlbear which probably is living in a cave near the farm. He decides that he will need help and promptly seeks out his companions at Treadlight. Ademar and Luethar thinking that they should be fine without the druid on this side quest and, having nothing better to do, readily agree to help Raell. This will prove to be a major mistake.

********** a great deal happens next but in the interest of time I am forced to pear it down a great deal **********************

Around dusk the group (minus Cor’Nal and Ryan) goes to the farm and tethers an injured lamb outside the cave in hopes of luring the owlbear out of hiding. This only brings in a pair of dire wolves which are eventually killed before they can eat the lamb. After regrouping they decide to enter the cave as their trap did not work and darkness is closing around them. Inside the cave they are attacked by carrion crawlers which prove to be a larger threat than expected. The following encounter brings in several dark winged creatures which float about the ceiling before descending on the companions. This encounter decimates the party laying low Raell’s wolf companion Salem twice before Ademar and Raell both retreat into a cave too small for the monsters to follow. Luethar, becomes separated from the group and fears that both the ranger and rogue are dead. Knowing that he will likely not survive on his own the halfling flees the cave and runs directly back to the inn. Luethar brings the druid, just back from his long flight to Snoam Schlabach, back to the cave in hopes that they might save somebody from the massacre. With the help of the druid the flying ray-like creatures are eventually vanquished, but not before Salem is killed. Following this Luethar asks for a moments rest so that he can prepare some spells. He is ignored by Raell who charges on deeper into the cave where he encounters two owlbears. The ranger charges headlong into battle and is handily defeated by the two powerful monsters before the remaining (and heavily injured) party members can intervene. The owlbears are finally defeated but it is a hollow victory as the party is left with two more dead members (Raell and Salem) and the remaining, living members are near death.

The companions scoop up their dead, cut the heads from the owlbears and leave the cave. Heading for the inn they leave a great deal of the cave complex unexplored and a lot of speculation as to what will happen with Raell now dead.

Bath

Thick steam rose from the water all around him. Soothing heat crept slowly into his thin frame, comforting his aching bones and easing tense muscles. Ademar watched lazily as a delicate hand brushed past his neck, and began stroking his chest, gently playing over the half dozen puckered white scars that dotted his torso, then dipped lower, tracing along a long jagged line that crossed horizontally along the bottom of his ribcage.

“So many scars,” the girls’ soft voice lamented in his ear “a shame to blemish such a beautiful body.”

Ademar was paying little attention to the woman sharing his bath. He had paid for her services not, her conversation. Enjoying the heat of the water the elf simply lay his head back on the woman’s breast and closed his eyes completely relaxing his body which slid lower into the tub. She kept talking despite the lack of response yet, Ademar had already slipped into his inner thoughts and her quiet banter fell on deaf ears.

Strangely though, his thoughts lingered on the scars he wore. Not those which disfigured his face but those that laced his arms and torso, the jagged reminders of the often dangerous life he now lived. The small white rings on his torso were testament to a barrage of arrows which had nearly killed him. The long slash across his upper stomach was the doing of a curious snake creature which seemed to be part man, one of many injuries which nearly ended his life. Unseen beneath his thick copper hair was another disfigurement, a mark left by a boulder throwing giant who had tried to crush him from afar. Various other, less noticeable white lines marked him, the signs of battle.

Battle? How had that become such a normal occurrence in my life? Ademar had seen the passing of 118 winters. In the first 116 of those years he managed to remain unscathed. Only in the last two winters had he acquired these scars, scars that belonged to a hardened warrior, not a delicate elf. He was not built for war, certainly not interested in it, yet, he always seemed to be near the center of conflict.

It’s all Cor’Nal’s fault. It was his idea to come to this frozen wasteland in the first place! Adventure is what he had promised; adventure and gold to help us travel back to Caercaster. Now, two years past, I have come within a breath of death too many times and I am no closer to my goal than when I left. Bitterly, he wondered, not for the first time, if he would ever see his ambitions completed or if he would die in the wild wilderness of Eldridge.

His anger passed quickly though, he found it difficult to be angry with the one person who kept him grounded to his past and never questioned the secret motives of Ademar. Despite Cor’Nal’s sometimes infuriating character traits, he had become a dear friend who had saved Ademars’ life many times. When others faltered in battle it was always Cor’Nal who managed to get them out of trouble.

Unlike Luethar. Ademar didn’t know what it was about the halfling, he hadn’t been able to gauge him. The only thing he really knew was that when violence broke out it was likely that the halfling would disappear. Even in the comfort of an inn or tavern, Luethar was more interested in reading than conversing. He did seem to be warming up to Ryan though which, was encouraging, perhaps he would find his place among them and contribute something…

Ademars’ thoughts were interrupted as a glass was pressed into his hand. Opening his eyes he was greeted by a goblet full of wine. Bringing it to his lips he glanced around the room. It was a good size as far as inns go, and clean too. The bed was soft and piled high with blankets, it even had a chamber pot so he didn’t have to go outside. His survey ended on his equipment piled haphazardly beside the bed. Hidden somewhere inside that jumble he knew, were several pouches full of gems and coins, the spoils of their recent exploits. The smooth skin of the womans’ leg rubbed seductively against his own then, her hand slid along the inside of his thigh. Ademar took a long swallow from his glass before placing it back on the table next to the tub. Perhaps the scars were becoming worthwhile after all…

The Widow MonTorrey

This latest recap begins with the party outside the Widow's estate. With their new dwarf friend in tow, the badly injured party flees to Low Skye to discuss going forward. Ademar retrieves his horse from The Longest Mile while the others return on foot. Upon arrival, they all head to Cor'Nal's room where the worst of the injured are healed by the druid. While at the inn they discuss what the next course of action will be. MacBrady attempts to get the party to back out of the deal while the others goad him for cowardice. He responds by telling them that he doesn't "mess with the dead". Raell appeals to his sense of honor by telling him that if they don't back their word, no one in town will trust them. Reluctantly, MacBrady agrees.

The next morning, Raell spies the old couple in the common area that he saw two days before and palms the old man a gold piece. Presumably for his continued diligence in looking for his missing dwarf. Surprised, the man accepts the gold coin, going so far as to hide the newly acquired gold from his curious wife. Ademar notices a member of the Baron's constabulary sitting alone at a table. He decides to keep a close eye on him.

Raell heads to the east side of town to scout the rest of the village and get a sense of the geography, paying special attention to specific landmarks. At one point he stops by the busy marketplace.

When the watchman leaves, Ademar decides to follow him out the door. The watchman goes on horseback and Ademar tails him in the same manner.

Cor'Nal strikes up a conversation with Neesa that goes in some strange directions. Among other things, they discuss matters of orcs, inns burning down and Loomis' marital status. Cor'Nal orders a meal and water.

Ademar, still following the watchman heads toward Treadlight where the watchman stops and dismounts. The watchman seems to be patrolling the area when Ademar spies him approach a young man exiting the tavern. They move to the east side of the building where they disappear from view. When confident that they will not return for many moments, Ademar approaches the constable's untethered horse and slaps it on the rear, giggling as the steed gallops away to the south. Pleased with himself, Ademar returns to the Low Skye Inn before being spotted.

Following this Ademar and Cor'Nal head to the marketplace while Raell decides to further scout the east side of town to get more acquainted with his surroundings. While at market the two elves dump some more of their surplus goods and run into a merchant selling showpiece weapons. While intrigued, neither buys anything and Cor'Nal becomes insulted when asked to pay five silver pieces in order to examine one of the merchants more exquisite items. When the merchant is shown Cor'Nal's own "Wildman" scimitar he asks if he may take a closer look, to which Cor'Nal smartly replies: "Sure, for five silver". The merchant is left unamused. A few potions are purchased from the apothecary and after a few more minutes in the marketplace checking on the items left with Aben on consignment, the group decides to wait out the rest of the day in Low Skye, awaiting the cover of darkness.

Upon arriving back at the inn Luethar, who has been quietly keeping to himself since arriving at Low Skye, takes his new dwarven form to Cor'Nals' door where he knocks abruptly. When Cor'Nal gives permission to enter he comes in, book in hand, offering it as a token of thanks for bringing him back to life, despite the unfortunate form he returned in. Cor'Nal tells the dwarf, whom he did not seem to trust even when still a halfling, to set the book in the doorway, on the floor. Luethar obliges and then promptly leaves. Rising, Cor'Nal walks carefully to the book and pokes it with his staff. When sure that the item is not some sort of trick or trap he takes it into his hands. The cover reads: "The Glorious Tome of Understanding", there is no credited author. The book is thick and leather bound, it's pages edged in gold leaf. Cor'Nal is intrigued.

The party wait out the rest of the day and leave, once fully prepared, to infiltrate the Widow's home a second time when night falls. They reach the front door again unhindered, it seems as though fate itself wants them in the house. They open it and enter, quickly closing the door behind them while simultaneously bathing the room in the light of a sunrod. They head downstairs first, giving the stone basement another look to make sure they didn't miss anything the first time. When satisfied that they have looted all they can from this mostly empty room, they head back upstairs, again forsaking the large landscape painting behind.

From there they move into the eastern hall checking rooms as they go, first they encounter a couple of closets, mostly empty, though an invisible force angrily throws a set of knucklebones at Cor'Nal when he tries to examine the upper compartment of one of them. Disappointed they enter the cobweb filled archway that leads to the kitchen. After a brief discussion about what should be done about the cobwebs Raell impatiently tears them down with one of his swords when he tires of the debate. They enter the kitchen to find it unused, seemingly for years, maybe even decades as the rot of the cabinets and the thickness of the dust in the room seem to tell. Instead of moving further west into the dining room they head back to the east hall. Ademar picks the lock on a door along the east wall that reveals a large study. The study proves to be a gold mine of potential information as books on the art of necromancy are found along with a stack of letters from the Widow's husband, Stefan to her while he was away fighting in the primarily fought at sea "Freedkin War".

A painting on the wall of a galley at sea in the throes of a wild, dark-night thunderstorm is noticed by Luethar, who is now calling himself "Pudge". Pudge approaches the painting and reaches for it, in order to see if there is a hidden safe or some other such thing, hidden behind it. Immediately upon touching the painting he disappears, much to the surprise of his fellow adventurers. Raell approaches the painting quickly and, without touching it, peers into the oil painting. Looking closely, he sees Pudge appear upon the center of the ship's deck, near the mizzenmast. Moments later, Raell spies a skeletal pirate who rises up through the deck, materializing into solid form. The skeleton is clad in the trappings of a pirate captain, he pulls a cutlass from its scabbard as ten more skeleton pirates rise from below decks behind him, also brandishing cutlasses. The captain welcomes Pudge to the Crimson Chimera. When Pudge decides against polite conversation and yells "Where's the Book?". The captain attacks, ordering his men to do the same.

Within moments, the rest of the group and their animal companions touch the painting, sending them all inside of it alongside Pudge. A fight ensues, with Cor'Nal dispatching most of the skeletons via a flame strike spell. The rest of the skeletons are also easily destroyed, only the captain being much of a problem, though he too is dispatched with only medium effort. When all of the skeletal enemies have been destroyed, a door, suspended a few inches above the deck in midair appears.

Instead of inspecting the door the PC's decide to infiltrate the captain's quarters, they find a wealth of information and even some treasure as they frantically search the quarters. They also find a sizable wooden box which holds a large, ornately crafted key. In a small chest they find gold doubloons as wide in diameter as a human fist, among other treasures. After taking all they can, the PC's risk opening the suspended door and walk through it, unknowing of where the door leads.

Fortunately, they find themselves back in the Widow MonTorrey's study. They discover moments later that all the items they procured form the Crimson Chimera have disappeared, save the key. It still remains in it's box.

From the study they head north into what appears to be a washroom. There are large wash basins at the north and south of the room and a large iron tub along the east wall. Inside the tub is a disgusting, viscous black liquid from which an insidious stench nauseates those inside the room. The group decides to leave this room with virtually no inspection, only taking a cursory look into what appeared to be a linen closet at some point. They move west into a large bedroom, possibly what served as a Master Bedroom. In it they find an armoire, a large bed and a treasure chest in the upper west corner of the room.

The group finds the room in excellent shape, only slightly dusty compared to the rest of the house. The bed looks as though it were made only hours ago, the blankets at the head are turned up crisply, the down pillows look ready for a weary head. Ademar quickly goes to the chest and attempts to open it. He finds a trap, but has trouble disarming it, setting it off several times. Luckily, his reflexes allow him to escape the flames of the magical trap in each instance. He opens the chest to find an abundance of coin, a pair of "Boots of Elvenkind" bearing the symbol of the elven city of Sanctuary and a pamphlet entitled “On the Perilous Journey of Awakening They That Sleep” by a cleric named Berkely Whitecloak. The writing is essentially a warning to those who would seek to raise the dead, speaking of the horrors one would encounter in this life and the next if they decided to attempt such a crime against nature. It is not as heavy handed as one would think written by a cleric of the white. Shortly after the loot is collected from the chest Pudge finds a magical cloak that makes him appear more attractive, even more likable. They move from the main floor area of the bedroom to the closet area. When they approach, the light of the sunrod is extinguished, apparently for no reason. Then a wild mournful wail can be heard from the floor above. Undaunted, they start another sunrod and enter the closet, finding nothing of value.

They then continue south through the bedroom door and then west back through the cold and dusty kitchen. from there they move into the dining room. There they are greeted by what can only be described as a demonically possessed dinner table. It rattles for moment, before rising on two of its legs. the other two wrapping around in front to form makeshift arms. An evil, vaguely human face protrudes demonically from its surface. It grins evilly as it begins to swing wildly at the group. Despite the horrifying visage of the corrupted table, the group dispatches it with little pain, breaking it to splinters before it does any real harm to the group.

The group then heads north into a storage room, where boxes and barrels contain what sustenance the widow and her husband likely survived on before they became corrupted. Barrels are first moved away from the wall, containing various rotten or petrified foodstuffs. After moving them, a message appears on the wall amongst several symbols of the God of the Undead, Orcus. In moist, apparently fresh human blood the words "Die Whore! die, die, die, die" are scribed in finger scrawl. The crates are then moved away from the wall and inspected. More of the same inside but behind them there is another eery message scrawled by finger in fresh human blood: "You don't belong here!" the words read.

The group decide to leave quickly, but not before Raell can smash and empty two of the barrels, one of which contained what was once wine but is now vinegar and the other with chunky, fetid ale that turned ages ago, spilling their contents onto the floor, with the intent of aiding Raell in a future endeavour. They then decide, satisfied that they have inspected the ground floor adequately, to head...upstairs.

The trip upstairs is frought with peril as there is much difficulty in ascending them. Eventually, everyone makes the climb with minimal harm done. After a little healing, the group inspects doors leading to three rooms on this, the apparent top floor. The first door gives them an overwhelming sense of dread, and so they avoid it. They get a cold, but otherwise normal feel from the second door, and another feeling of dread, though less foreboding than the first door, from the third, which is the one they choose to enter first.

Inside the group finds the room ransacked. Apparently torn apart, again and again by someone, or something, searching for a specific item. In the center of the room stands a large, skeletal being surrounded by an aura of dread. The skeleton is partially armored and wears a scabbard at its side. Pieces of it's former mortal shell stretch and hang from limb and rib. Strings of sinew now petrified connect bone to joint, hanging where muscle once remained. The face is contorted and evil, it's jaws clenched in hateful rage. Pudge confronts the undead monster, calling it by the name he believed it was known by before entering eternal unlife, Stefan. Brandishing a gleaming longsword, it answers by charging the invaders.

It is a tough fight, but the skeletal warrior seems little match for the group. Upon destroying the undead warrior it crumbles to dust. In the room they find a magic cutlass, a bag of assorted jewels and another of healing potions but nothing else of value.

They then proceed to the second, less intimidating room. Inside they discover the last horrifying act of the play that was the life of Widow MonTorrey. The room they find to be completely black. The walls at first look to be painted that way, but upon closer inspection it is obvious that they have been covered in soot. There are white symbols on the walls, glyphs of Orcus of varying size and style. There is writing of a language no one in the group can read. In the back of the room there is a pulpit, it is as black as the wall, a polished horned skull rests at the top of it. In front of the pulpit is an altar of black, carved from solid stone, stacks of books on dark ritual and necromancy circle it. There is no obvious explanation for how it was transported here or how the ancient, rotted floors of this structure still support it. Perhaps it is the will of the house itself.

Upon the altar lies what can only be the Widow MonTorrey herself. She rests on her back, the decaying remains of what was once a white dress draped around her partially rotten, but mostly petrified form. Her hands clenching a ceremonial dagger that she herself has plunged deep into her own heart. Her skin has turned black, her cheeks have sunken and the petrified flesh looks as macabre paper pulled across skull. The final expression splayed across her face is a faint remnant of what looks to be terrified betrayal. As though a promise, whispered into her dying ears had been snatched away just before the final light of her eyes dimmed forever. It is a look of almost unbearable anguish.

But not to these heroes as Pudge wonders aloud, "How much do you suppose that dagger would fetch at market?" referring to the one the Widow had plunged into herself as a final act of devotion to her beloved. It is an antique, after all. Without warning Pudge enters the room, he is instructed to leave the dagger alone but he snatches up every book he deems worth his study. Which is all of them.

They decide no further search of this room is necessary and head, reluctantly to the final one. Ademar reaches for the door handle to check for a lock and is surprised when the door opens by itself slightly, though not enough to see all that it hides. They decide to rip the door open as a soldier will tear away a crusty bandage and enter as a group. Inside, the unbelievably horrifying visage of a nearly transparent elderly woman, vaguely resembling the dead woman on the altar in the previous room, a twisted look of evil and rage is splayed permantly across her anguished face. Her form is mostly human, though her lower half is mostly disembodied as she seems to levitate, without legs, several inches from the ground. The tattered, spiritual remnant of the dress, perhaps the one she wore at her wedding hovers just inches above the ground, though no legs or feet protrude to touch the floor. Her hands are bony blue-gray claws that jut sharply out from the arms of their tattered sleeves, without warning she opens her mouth to scream.

Before she does this, most of the group flee her horrifying sight. The only few that stay behind are Cor'Nal and his wolf, Basili, Ryan MacBrady and Pudge. Once those who have been engulfed by fear flee the undead spirit, she wails as a banshee of legend. Instantly all color and warmth leave the faces of Pudge and the barbarian MacBrady. They both let out a final gasp as they fall to the wooden floor. Dead before they hit ground, their faces twisted in sunken, blue-tinged horror.

Cor'Nal and Basili survive the wail of the banshee however and a long, grueling battle ensues that is won by the druid and his companion. Inside the pair find a chest that contains many various treasure, including coin, a nightmarish looking idol made from various precious metals and stone, a pair of magical bracers, an electrum ring encrusted with pink diamond stones, a moss agate silver earring and an inkpot encrusted with moonstone gems. The rest of the group that had survived return a few minutes later.

From there, seemingly without burden of forethought Raell begins to set fire to the Widow's bed and anything else he can light on the way out of the door. Within minutes the house is fully ablaze, lighting the east side of the darkened town.

The bodies of Pudge and Ryan MacBrady are hauled out of the house with the rest of the group. Once back among the village, Raell attempts to find someone willing to raise MacBrady from the dead. He ends up settling for the Temple of Myrrdin but in the process becomes honor-bound into service with them after signing a contract in blood. Pudge, however is reincarnated, again, by Cor'Nal and this time returns to the mortal coil as...

a Halfling, again.

And now Pudge is called Luethar, again.


Unbelievable.