A.N: UPDATE! You may now scream in delight... or fright. I'll wait. Finished? OK then.
I hope you have a Forgotten Realms world map in front of yer eyes for the rest of The Abominations Unleashed, and any eventual Interludes, because these chapters will take you all over the world: North and South, East and West, ice and fire, civilization and wilderness.
I recommend the Forgotten Realms World Map on .
Much easier than looking at the Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting book every time I need geographical info.
Enjoy the story, sorry for the long wait. I am slower than molasses, than a snail, than an Ice Age. I know, believe me. Real life has been causing me problems, not the least of all an unexpected financial crisis in my family. Oh, and many thanks for the views that kept coming even when I hadn't posted for a looooong while.
Please focus your criticism on:
-dialogue
-paragraph formatting
-combat scenes
-story flow
-plus a personal nitpick or two. Or three. Or a dozen. I know I have a few.
Also, are the player dialogue bits too numerous? Are they annoying?
I'm trying to make a compromise between recreating a realistic game session – including interruptions by the players and DM – and telling a good or at least decent story. Tell me how's that working out. Or you know, criticize whatever. As long as it helps me improve as a writer, I'm OK with it. As always, Please Examine And Critique Honestly (PEACH).
Thank you.
Previously, on the Gospel of Chris (read in a booming narrator voice for added effect):
An awesome time was had by all, as they watched the daring escape attempt by Bryn Riderion, rogue commando extraordinaire. On the cusp of freedom, he was captured by the pet bounty hunter of an unknown mage in purple. What purpose does he have in taking the young Tethyrian prisoner? What unspeakably-horrible cliches are in store for the rest of our heroes, not yet introduced? What sort of D&D can be played by a drunken Native American geek? Prepare thyself reader, this story is only just beginning.
1353 Dale Reckoning – Forest of Cormanthor, the Ordulin-Highmoon Road
The fresh pine scent was amazing. No matter how long he'd breathe it in, it would never get dull. Aelthas Telstaerr breathed deeply, held it in, then exhaled, his powerful chest heaving with a satisfied sigh. This had been worth the long sea voyage, and the bumpy, dusty road they were driving their wagon on. Forests of pine and such on a sunny day looked and smelled as good as he'd been brought up to believe. His granddad, a former scribe and employee at a big-town newspaper, used to sit with him and his sisters by the fire and read them all sorts of stories. His favorites were the adventure stories that were printed every two weeks in the paper. And now, he supposed, it was his turn to live an adventure as well.
Ahhh, the open road, fir trees all around, birds chirping in the trees. By all rights it should have distracted him from his troubles. It didn't, even if, as far as adventures went, this was finer and cozier than most. He lost himself in thought – his mind gazing into the past, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. How far would a man with his money-troubles would have to flee to escape his tormentors, or the threat of poverty?
Chris frowned."Wait, what's this got to do with your character intro?"
Wahya was still sloshed. It was quite funny actually. Nobody in the group had ever seen her even mildly drunk.
"Back story, trust me. Hey, any more of those uhhh, bon-bons left?"
Abby shook her blond ponytail and glared at her friend.
"No, you ate 'em all. I think you have enough alcohol wreaking merry havoc in your blood as it is."
Wahya protested. "N-no I don't! I play better when I'm drunk! And I'll PROVE it! I think."
But Chris wasn't letting up. "Back story for who? Multiple characters per player aren't allowed, you know."
"For my character's pants I MEAN PARENTS. She wasn't always a druids-druidess-druid-person. Unreal*hic*istic. Bon-bons please?"
"No!"
The blond DM assented. "Well alright, let's see where this goes."
Aelthas Telstaerr's loans had started small, but had escalated soon enough. The winter had been harsh, and his mother-in-law Sinda had taken ill. He may have disliked the old bat, but he could scarcely leave his wife's mam to die of the chills. The remedies of the wise women were not proving useful, so he'd gone to the temples to beg for a cure. The townsfolk had been fooled by the priests of Waukeen, the Goddess of Trade and Profit, into driving out the local sect of nonviolent healers. The sect-people preached their silly beliefs of reincarnation and the circle of life in peace and healed people for free. The money-priests did not care for it, because they actually charged for their services. The sect people had done nothing wrong except drawing worshipers away from the Waukeenars.
Oliver looked at his cellphone. "Clock's ticking. No offense, but could you wrap up the intro a bit faster? Or at least give us a summary? We're waiting in line to play, after all."
The young narrator replied, "Keep your pants on. It ain't gonna take long, I plomish... promise. Okay? Or was it 'keep your shirt on'? I dunno, onwards!"
The local pottery market had crashed due to some damn fool making a golem that was churning them out by the cartload, and his decent earnings were suddenly cut short. An angry crowd had eventually lynched the golem-maker and his creation. But the damage had already been done. He could hardly sell any of his wares every day, the money was drying up, and soon they'd been forced to dip into their life-savings. The pottery market was ruined for months to come, at least. A small child (his first) to care for, a funeral for his wife's mother, and rumors of a war stirring between the neighboring nations of Aglarond and Thay were compelling arguments to move.
Across the inland Sea of Fallen Stars they sailed, over to Deepingdale. The Dalelands were some of the oldest lands of humanity still standing, colonized over a thousand years ago. The Elven Court of Cormanthyr had allowed humans to settle in the more open regions of the forest, and had raised a mighty Standing Stone to immortalize this contract between the races. The year had been know as the Year of Sunrise, or 1 Dale Reckoning (DR). Folk could make a good living as farmers there.
Charlie deadpanned, "Whoa, that's a big info-dump you just took there, girl."
Alfie sniggered, "Heheh, 'dump'."
Fedor butted it. "Wow, his life sucks. And I thought living in Sankt Petersburg vas bad."
Abigail whispered, "Shush, I wanna see how long she lasts before it gets ridiculous."
"Don't you mean even more ridiculous?" replied Fedor.
Wahya said, "Jussssst for that, you're getting the full gamut of drama. No comedy in this back-story no sirree. Role-playing is SERIOUS BUSINESS. You guys wouldn't know role-playing if it bit you in the... where was I?" They let her ramble on without interruptions for awhile, and turned their attention back to the amazing game mat. It recreated everything that Wahya said in real-time, high-definition holographic glory.
New directive received. Modifying perception and broadcasting new scenario... Complete.
The view and smells were gorgeous, but the bumpy ride was less so. Now they were passing a dead... something, with four short legs, an arrow sticking out of it, barely visible in the roadside ditch. Poachers had lost sight of a kill mayhap. The barrel-chested, dark-haired former potter didn't know if it had been a wolf, deer, badger or some sort of monster. It was swarming with flies, wasps, maggots and rats, all eagerly fighting over the unexpected feast. He leaned to his right, trusting in the sure-footed shire horse to keep the wagon on track, angling for a better view.
That's when the wind decided to betray him.
Aelthas, personally, loved the wind. Cool in summer, creator of melodies using plants and leaves, engine of maritime shipping – it seemed like there was nothing it couldn't do. But the wind had decided to play a 'rotten' trick on its admirer, pardon the pun. Instead of a refreshing breeze, bearing the scent of pine and earthy forest floor caressing his face, the sickly sweet stench of carrion assaulted his nostrils. He'd been enthusiastic over the trip so far, but the mood had been... spoiled.
A pretty auburn-haired head poked out from under the wagon cover into the sunlight. She smiled at him. "Lunch is ready, husband. Bread and cheese and a little slice of that salted pork ye fell in love with. Sometimes I wonder if ye love your food more than your... what's with your face? It's like you've seen a ghost."
Just like Blaera, to hop from one subject to another. Sharp wit, sharper tongue and impressive aim with a crossbow. They had served in the town militia part-time. He'd once seen her plug an arrogant mercenary in the arse with a bolt from two hundred feet away. But all the love in the world couldn't stop him from retching due to the stench. Just a little.
"The ghost of a ghost more like, dearest. We just passed an animal carcass on the way. Swarming with vermin it was, and a smell to wake the dead. Had an arrow sticking out o' its back. Mayhap a fool adventurer took a potshot at some poor creature."
Blaera frowned. "Hold, what kind of arrow was it? You can usually tell by the fletching."
"And any old fool can dye his fletching any old color. I know that at least, dear. It was in the poor thing's back and swarming with maggots and such."
"Pray, stop the wagon, Aelthas. We've more than enough time to get where we're going."
"...What?" He knew that eager look on her face. She dearly wanted to know what kind of arrow had felled that animal. Never mind that it was stuck in a corpse. Her passion in life was missile weaponry, and the firing thereof, and he'd never hear the end of it if they didn't take a look. Stubborn woman.
He rolled his eyes.
"Oh come now, please?"
"I suppose I can expect me pork ration to stop if I don't halt the blooming wagon..."
"Yes husband, I expect ye can." she replied with an impish smile.
"Hah hah, he's under his wife's thumb. Sucks to be him." Alfie was butting in again.
Seems like no one could resist poking and prodding at poor drunk Wahya, seeing what sort of reactions they'd get out of her. Wahya blurted out, "Yeah well, sucks to be 'im. Big strong man like him, tee-hee. What? Don'tcha like women being empowered Alfie? I thought you liked women, oops sorry, I mean women being empowered and... junk."
Alfie said in a neutral tone, "Women being empowered is nice and all, but I wanna know what's gonna happen next. In English, not Sumerian."
Isabel replied imperiously, "And you will, if you'll stop interrupting." To Wahya, "Go on, please."
The wagon travelers dismounted, armed themselves and approached to take a closer look.
The carcass was less than 20 feet away and literally buried in vermin.
The travelers dismounted, armed themselves and approached to take a closer look.
The carcass was less than 20 feet away and literally buried in vermin.
They both had rough scarves over their faces to ward off the smell. It wasn't helping much.
They arrived at the corpse. The former potter was not happy.
"Verily, it's the corpse of a critter with an arrow through its back. It's starting to smell ripe in the heat. Mystery solved. May we leave now?"
Blaera shook her mop of auburn hair. "Not yet. I want to remove the arrow, little souvenir of our journey to the Dalelands. Gods know, it might be magical."
Aelthas was quite adamant that they should leave things be. He gestured with his staff.
"The arrow might be cursed for all you know. Or poisoned. Or this carcass might be a... a walking dead-thing, luring us into an ambush!"
"I say take it. If it's magical, we could use the coin."
"If it's undead, it ups and eats us woman, don't be daft!"
Blaera turned and smiled. "If it's undead, we put it down again. Why'd you think we brought these? "She gestured to her light crossbow and his quarterstaff.
"Aye, these weapons are fine and dandy, but we're nae adventurers. I'd rather leave it... be..."
Blaera had gone down to one knee in the dusty road, and was examining the arrow up close. The corpse-eating vermin started to swarm away, shooed away by the blasted human that had shown up to claim their prize. He sighed theatrically. "Oh ye gods, what will I do with you?" He got into position to watch his wife's back.
As she was examining the arrow, little did the two travelers know that they were being examined as well.
"Oooooohhhhh, ominous." said everyone in a choir.
Their timing had been both amusing and slightly disturbing.
Even Isabel couldn't resist joining in.
"Quiet, you. It'sh MY story-time now. You get yoursh later."
Chris snapped out of his reverie.
He'd become engrossed in Wahya's story, despite the frequent interruptions.
But the fact that the two travelers were being watched triggered an alarm bell in his head.
"Oh God, encounter. Where are my notes, where the FU..."
"Clam down, I MEAN calm down. Check the DMG."
Thank God for NPC sample stat blocks.
Relieved, he started rifling through his Dungeon Master's Guide.
The young bandit removed his hand from his bow in order to scratch his arse. Gods-damned pine needles, getting into his britch-OW! He bit his tongue in the haste to stop a squeal of pain from escaping. His older comrade, hidden behind the same massive Dalelands fir tree as he was, had elbowed him hard.
"Hands off yer arse and on yer weapon!" he hissed. "Rotting illness take you, chief 'll be giving the attack signal soon."
Chris stopped inputting bandit stat-blocks in the tablet's game program and frowned.
"Wait, I don't get it. They stopped their important journey to look at an arrow they just happened to see, stuck in a corpse in a ditch? Gee, can you spell 'contrived'?"
"Hey, I couldn't think of anything else! It just popped into my head, just seemed... appropriate, I dunno. It felt... right, I guess." *hic*
Chris smirked. " 'It felt right'? Spent all your creativity budget already?"
For a moment there, Wahya looked as is she were gazing far away.
She half-hardheartedly shrugged.
The DM relented. "Well OK, let's see where this goes."
"Well, time to see if I was right, husband, or if you were... and we get eaten." said Blaera jokingly.
Her man grumbled, never taking his eyes off their surroundings.
She grasped the arrow tightly, and pulled. It was out. The last of the bigger vermin streamed away.
She froze, for she had discovered two things.
"Umm, Aelthas?"
"Yes, wife?"
"You said good neighbor Tiggal left ahead of us?"
"Aye, he did. First off the ship and to the rented wagons place, Tiggal was. Said he was gonna get a head start on the growing season. Lucky sod. Why?"
"Or rather not-so-lucky sod." Blaera waved him over and pointed down at the corpse. It had the same crude, stupid tattoo of a unicorn with a four-leaf clover sticking out of its bum, on the back of its neck. That tattoo had been the pride and joy of their neighbor of ten years. The skin was scratched and caked with dried blood, but it was still there... It was the only thing they could still recognize of poor Tiggal. His face had been partially eaten, the limbs were gone at the knees and elbows. He had died painfully.
For you and me, this would be murder. For regular bandit gangs, it would be a bit extreme.
For this group, this was standard operating procedure. It was just setting up bait.
And their prey had been caught – hook, line and sinker.
The DM said, "Roll Awareness for the character's parents."
"They don't have it trained. No skill points in it." said Wahya.
"-2 penalty then, I think. Can't be assed to check."
She rolled the die. "Will a 7 do?"
Chris answered, "Let me roll Stealth for the bandits. Nope, with a -2 penalty it's 5 Awareness, you fail. They got a 3 on the d20, but they've got a bonus of +5, 8 in total."
Wahya was unconvinced. "+5 on Stealth? What're you pulling? Also, my buzz is wearing off."
"14 Dexterity and a Stealth skill of +3. Nowhere near optimal. Look, they're bandits, they've got some practice and skill at this. Your character's parents, don't."
Fedor grunted, "Prepare for major headache und nausea once ze buzz wears off. I would know."
At last Wahya had become a little bit cooler, even if she'd gotten drunk off stupid liquor bon-bons.
RULES
For skill rolls, you roll the d20, factor in any relevant bonuses (bonii?) or penalties, then you compare the result to the target number of the action. Say, a Stealth check of Difficulty Class (DC) 15. If your total roll of the d20 plus bonuses meets or exceeds 15, you've succeeded. If it doesn't, you've failed and are discovered by whomever you were trying to stealth by. Some skills are opposed by rolls from other skills. For example, Hide/Move Silently (Chris and the guys are using Stealth instead of these two) are opposed by Spot/Listen (or Awareness in this case). If the Stealth check beats the Awareness check, then you sneak past undetected. If not, then your Dungeon Master will let you know, in no uncertain terms, that you fucked up.
The leader of the bandits, a large blond scarred man in leather armor, with a powerful composite bow, grinned from cover. The targets were like lambs to the slaughter. The woman couldn't resist the lure of an obviously magical arrow stuck through the back of a fool farmer they'd cut up for fun. Just like the Boss had said. He didn't know why the mage in purple robes would even bother with pissant dirt-grubbers like these. And he didn't care. Folks that poked their noses in wizard's affairs tended to die very messy deaths.
The blond DM reached for his die and rolled. "Rolling initiative. 6 plus Dexterity bonus 2 is... 8. Dangit. Your turn."
Wahya reached for her green d20, rolled in the dice tray, and nodded in satisfaction.
"Well, your pet bandits might get the surprise round, but they better make it count. 18 on the die plus Dex bonus 2 means my parents DAMN IT I MEANT my character's parents go first."
Chris panicked a little bit. "Keep your voice down! I barely got my parents to agree to let me host this game here, with eight people. I don't need crap from my neighbors."
"Calm down, geez. Sorry."
At the scarred leader's signal, all bandits strung arrows, rose from cover and started firing.
Surprise was achieved, arrows went flying... and achieved sod-all.
"Rolling for attacks... misses all. Some arrows now decorate the outside of the wagon. Your turn, Wahya."
"Hah, those free attacks from surprise were for nothing." The girl grabbed at her dice, stopped, then got up and left for the kitchen. She returned, waving a bottle of vodka triumphantly. Chris cocked an eyebrow.
Fedor said in a flat voice, "Vat the flying fuck are you doing, woman?"
She uncorked the bottle, took a swig, grimaced, then took another swig. "Boozing, what's it look like? Gotta get this elixir to work its mojo. I'm ten times the gamer I am when I'm drinking!"
Abigail shook her head sadly. "Buggering bugbears, we've created a monster."
Fedor agreed. "Pocahontas und fire-water Do Not Mix."
She took a third swig, stoppered the bottle, and set about rolling dice with abandon.
Everything began to slow down.
Space and time had become as thick as molasses. Blaera saw the projectiles flowing from the tree line. She dropped in a crouch and snapped off a shot. Her quarrel flew past bandit arrows and tasted a foeman's flesh. She'd avoided death, returned fire, now it was time to escape. Her man had not been hit either and was already moving towards the wagon.
Two volleys of arrows plunged into wood and thankfully not flesh. Blaera reached the wagon first, with Aelthas close behind. He gave her a boost on the run – hand on arse, and a mighty push. While she took up firing position, he threw himself into the driver's seat. A quick yell later, and they were off. It had gone as clockwork, just like they'd drilled. It payed to be prepared.
"Boo-yah! Two volleys fired, two volleys missed! My druid-person's parents are AWE-SOME! FREA-KING AWE-SOME!"
Abigail said, "More like freaking awesome luck at dice, you mean. Sit down and relax. And lay off the drink."
Fedor grumbled, "Sit down and shut ze hell up. Und leave more than a few drops of vodka for ze rest of us!"
"See? They planned ahead and their plan worked! Told you they were awesome!"
The DM grinned. "Your druid's parents aren't the only ones with a plan. Actually..."
The bandit chief had had enough. As bandits further up the road loosed arrows on the fleeing wagon and its occupants, he signaled to one of his archers. The archer drew a specially-prepared signal arrow, set fire to its fuse, and fired it upwards. High above their heads, it burst into alchemical purple sparks, easily seen for miles. It was the signal for his backup to arrive. The mage wanted that family alive, and by the Hells he was gonna get it. Never mind that now he'd have to share the reward with the backup. They'd made a fool of him, and the farmers would pay.
The covered wagon lurched into motion. The arrow storm had motivated the shire draft horse to new heights of speed. She ducked behind the old wooden shields, nailed to the back of the wagon as cover. The canvas roof had been torn here and there by arrow fire. The sack of food had taken hits and the water barrel was leaking. All irrelevant.
"How's the baby, wife?"
"Checking now, husband. You hurt?"
"Thanks to the buggering militia drills you buggered into me head, no. It weren't a waste o' time after all. You're right however; would've been safer to leave earlier with the convoy."
" 'The early bird gets the worm', Aelthas. We would've been with the convoy now and safer if you hadn't haggled for pork so much."
"Heheh, 'bugger'." sniggered Alfie. Everyone else shushed her.
"You forgot 'pork'." whispered Oliver. Everyone else shushed him as well.
As they were having their exchange, Blaera had reached the baby's cot. Her man's proficiency with cheating at cards had come in handy. That weaponry merchant had never know what hit him. 'Twas his own damn fault for having a passion for cards and poor luck. At least he honored his debts. The cot had been armored with four steel kite shields fixed to the sides, front and back, plus a light mail shirt draped above. Baby's first fortress.
She gazed within and was greeted by the sweetest smiling face in the planes – her daughter. Little Fearow had her big, brown, wonderful eyes and her father's raven hair. The very light shade-of-cacao skin she'd inherited from an ancestor from Turmish, either of hers or Aelthas. Small holes and spaces had been reserved for the flow of fresh air, especially across her face. She was busy playing around with a wooden wolf doll and a few balls of clean rag, undisturbed by the trouble that had befallen them.
Isabel immediately started gushing about how cute the "widdle baby" was, comparing her with a box of kittens and other such diabetes-inducing things.
Abigail rolled her eyes. "Oh please no, you're giving me diabetes just by speaking."
"On please don't. What would ve tell ze paramedics if you go into coma?" sniggered Fedor.
Chris shook his head. "Don't encourage her, guys. She's just trolling you."
Isabel grinned and answered, "Just a little harmless teasing."
Oliver deadpanned "A friend of mine once threw a kitten off a tall building. We heard a splat and that was that."
Charlie said "Well that shit's just cold. He an asshole."
"That he is."
Isabel was mortified. "Did you honestly spend your time with hoodlums like that?!"
Oliver and Charlie locked gazes and grinned in unison. "Counter-troll Achieved."
Selim smiled. "You mad, Isabel?"
Alfie was bored."Enough of this intense and prolonged gayness. Let's see what the hell happens next. I'd like to take my turn sometime this century."
"But seriously. A friend of mine really did that."
"Shut up Olly. Olly Olly."
Reassured, Blaera took her post at the back of the wagon and started to scan the road and treeline. All clear – just a dusty road and bird-songs, forest trees and sunshine. She was quite pleased. It's not everyday you see your hard work paying off. After the tense escape, Aelthas was in the mood for chatting.
"Gods above, I can't believe we did it. Say, they might have newspapers in Deepingdale as well. Sell our story to the paper maybe, become famous!"
"Or become dead, husband. Think you our pursuers don't read the paper now and again? Even if it becomes bum-fodder afterward. Would they not put two and two together?"
"You mean recognize it was their quarry featured in the story..."
"...from our actions, yes. You catch on quick. A childhood spent at your grand-pappy's knee listening to all those stories have not managed to make you any dumber, I see."
Aelthas puffed up his chest with pride, even if the wife could not see him. "Grand-pappy always said I was the smartest tool in the shed."
Blaera rolled her eyes. Whenever Aelthas bragged about himself, he puffed his chest up like a crowing rooster. Honestly, men. " 'Sharpest', Aelthas. The 'sharpest' tool in the shed. Mayhap your edge has blunted with age after all." she teased.
"Bah! Hardly! I feel sharper than ever! Why, I could outrun a race-horse, out-wrestle a maddened ogre, out-think the most wizened o' sages!" Blaera stifled a giggle. "And you know why, wife?"
"And now he'll say it's due to me cooking. Why, husband?"
Aelthas smiled. "Our love makes me feel sixteen again. The hardships we suffered, the good times we've had... we faced 'em together, and together we got through, just like we've beaten the bandit ambush. Just like we can beat anything." Blaera was touched, even if a little. She felt a little tear escape the corner of her eye. She was just about to reply...
"Aww, they make such a cute couple!" crooned Abigail, of all people.
Everyone else shushed her.
… when, for the second time that blasted day, they came under fire. Arrows whizzed past their heads and pinged off the steel shields defending Fearow's cot. She rushed into cover behind the shield-armored back of the wagon and looked to her weapon. "Now look what you've done, Aelthas! You and your blather of romance are getting us shot up!" hissed Blaera. "I take my eye off our back for one drop of time..."
Aelthas yelled back, "Now's not be the time to start firing back, dearest! Pot holes ahead!"
And sure enough, this bit of the road was full of more holes than a whole city of crazed gophers could've dug up.
" 'Drop of time' ?" asked Chris.
Wahya said "Made-up regional expression. Hey, nice timing with the ambush. I was getting tired of talking to myself, roll initiative again?"
"Nah, keep the old initiative, but count this as a surprise round for the bandits."
"Alright. Where did they come from?"
"Make an Awareness check." A die was rolled.
A separate screen on the holographic projector showed the number 11 on the die.
"Success."
"Bloody horse archers!? They have bloody horse archers!" screamed Blaera whilst reloading her crossbow. "Aelthas! Why are they chasing us with bloody horse archers? What did you do? Knock over a merchant guild bank!?"
"How in the Nine Hells should I know?" roared Aelthas back.
"How the...how the Hells should you know?! You made the loans and put up the collateral, husband!"
"Bugger that! Never without your permission, Blaera! Never without talking to ye first! GAH!"
"Don't you yell at me, Aelthas Telstaerr!" she snapped. "This 'ere relationship of ours is based on a partnership, and a partnership implies... oh. Aelthas, you're injured." she finished in a dull tone. She'd seen the blood. And to think not a few seconds ago she'd been yelling at him. Over mere money.
Blood was flowing from her husband's right forearm. Aelthas spared a furtive glance at his injury. "Just a scratch, my dear." It was just a scratch. "An itty-bitty flesh wound." It was just a flesh wound, true, but bandits had done that. Bandits had harmed her husband, they'd endangered her family's survival, her baby's survival.
She whispered, "How dare they...?"
The arrow had just nicked her husband's forearm, embedding itself into the horse's neck-collar. The poor animal was spooked and hard to steer. All their fault. The bandits of the world – the ones that killed with weapons, spells, or money. The bankers, merchants, priests, wizards, lords. The brutes that took and took until you had nothing but your dignity and life, and then they took those too. No more. They would pay. They would die.
"You... rat-bastard sewer-lurker money-humping mother-buggers!" she roared.
Aelthas shone in the light of the forest. So strong, fighting the spooked horse tooth and nail. So calm after being injured. He kept his eyes on the road ahead while he talked. "Blaera, I'm sorry fer screaming at you like that. I need you, me sweet. Without ye, me an' wee Fearow both would be feeding the worms right now. Without you, we wouldn't have made it past the first ambush. You're my hero." An arrow whizzed close by, then another. Neither of them flinched. She, a hero? First time for everything, Blaera supposed. She wasn't feeling particularly heroic just now – just madder than a wild cat.
She gazed at his eyes, his beautiful, foolish eyes. "I'll kill them, husband." she vowed quietly. "For you and me and wee Fearow. For everyone that's ever lost a friend, a lover, or kin - to a slaver or bandit or money-bags. They're all the same. I'll kill them all."
She sat down behind the barricade of old shields and gazed at her crossbow. It had been the weapon of a bandit, sold by some adventurers to a drunk who couldn't even aim. Before that, it had served a stint in the hands of a slaver, and before that, had been a serial-killer's toy. She'd bought it off the drunk for home-brewed moonshine, some bread and onions.
The weapon possessed an undignified past and murderous masters, serving evil causes – now, sanctified in the defense of her family. It deserved a better history. She would give her one. The world was slowing down again. She could feel the smell of enemy blood, screaming for release from their master's undignified veins. She would give it that release. With fluid movements, she reloaded the weapon, poked up from cover. And started taking careful aim.
She compensated.
For the slight wind. The jerking movements of the wagon, the distracting noises of frantic flight.
She compensated.
For the intensifying bow fire coming her way.
For the mad cat-calls and jeering coming from the pursuers.
She compensated.
For her blood-lust, her justified, murderous feelings towards her tormentors.
For her immense, never-ending love for her family.
She compensated, then took the shot.
"Well, she's pissed. Now we know that peasants can talk the talk. But, can they walk the walk?" said Chris in a quiet voice. "Personally, I think their little excursion will be cut short by horse archers."
Wahya took her green d20, and with a confident toss, she threw it.
It bounced in the dice tray, rolled around, stopped.
Critical hit. Natural. Freaking. Twenty.
Wahya said triumphantly, "Personally, I think their little excursion will go on a bit longer."
The crossbow quarrel darted forth, guided by a mother's rage. It sliced through the air. Then through cloth, and skin. It sliced through muscle, tasted blood, then remained embedded there. The external genitals that formed the sum total of this bandit's thinking power, had been torn asunder. He screamed – a prolonged, tortured yell – and collapsed from his saddle. In shock, in shame, streaming blood, wrecking his friends' morale.
Chris sighed, and said, "Rolling Will saves for the horse archers – failed. They have a penalty of -1 attack and saves versus fear for 5 rounds. Sort of like the bard's song Inspire Courage, but in reverse."
Fedor grinned. "You could say he's... got wood."
"That was horrifying." squeaked Isabel.
"Epic cock-shot." blurted Alfie.
Bandit projectiles thumped into the wagon's wooden sides again. Aelthas Telstaerr flinched as the four-wheeled wagon struck yet another blasted pothole. At the speed they were going, it was a miracle that they hadn't crashed. That would have been fatal to them – if lucky, instantly, if not, a lingering, slow death. That wretched pothole had saved his life, as another arrow whizzed past where his head had been moments ago.
He strained his powerful arms on the reins and rode 'round a fallen tree trunk just in time. Then came a terrified neigh, a meaty crunch, a scream of surprise then horror and pain. The horse of an attacker had tripped and impaled its rider onto a fallen log's sharp branches. He shuddered so strongly, his dark mop of hair shook. Dear Ilmater, that was no way to go. "Well, 'tis a fine mess you got us into, husband. We could've stayed in Wizard's Reach and ride out the rumors of war. But do you ever listen to me? No ye don't. We just had to emigrate." said Blaera matter-of-factly, as if she hadn't just shot a man in the dangly bits.
He shouted, "Nice shot, dear! Going by the screamin', seems you got your point across!", and finished with raucous laughter. Blaera was ducking beneath the wooden shields they'd fortified the covered wagon with. She began reloading the weapon and answered sweetly, "Yer silly jokes are not helping my aim. Don't ye have a wagon to steer?"
He laughed good-naturedly. "Ahhh, me beauty, yer a sharp shot with more than words! Just keep yon scoundrels away, and we'll live through this yet."
Blaera finished reloading in relative silence, then retorted, "I wouldn't have to work this winch except for militia practice days, if it weren't fer your passion for sea-travel, Aelthas."
His muscles straining from working the reins, he said, "Now that ain't fair. We couldn't stay somewhere where we owed gold to ruthless folk, and no livelihood to sustain us." She glanced up from reloading. "You're right. What we had there, in th' last miserable months, wasn't life at all. Keep driving and I'll keep shooting and we'll live through this. Hear me?"
Gods, he loved that woman. He answered warmly, "I hear you. We'll live through this."
Several projectiles swooshed through the space their heads had occupied a scant time ago. She threw herself back behind the improvised cover. Her man concentrated solely on driving them the hell out of there. She risked another peek, which was rewarded with arrows sticking into wood, inches from her face. Those horse-buggering bastards were annoyingly persistent.
Wahya commented "Wow, that was close. I really, really don't wanna lose anyone this early in the game session."
Chris replied "By 'not losing anyone this early' I assume your druid's going the orphan route? Raised by wolves or rabbits or something?"
She smiled. "To be honest, I'm feeling adventurous today. I know I'm a stickler for back-story but this time I'm rolling with the punches. If she ends up an orphan, fine. If her parents get away, she becomes a druid later. We'll see."
The DM was unperturbed. "That's the way it should be. The bandits are now readying actions to shoot Blaera Telstaerr as soon as she pokes her head out of cover. They got her sniping position pegged."
"Yikes. Time to up my game."
RULES
Cover is generally a good thing. To determine whether your target has cover from your ranged attack, choose a corner of your square (on the game mat). If any line from this corner to any corner of the target's square passes through a square or border that blocks line of effect or provides cover, or through a square occupied by a creature, the target has cover (+4 to AC). There are various sub-rules dealing with cover which I won't be covering right now – such as cover and area of effect stuff, melee and cover, cover and large creatures, varying degrees of cover, cover and cannibalistic Zoroastrian clowns from planet Zebulon, etc.
Readying actions – you can ready a standard action, a move action, or a free action. To do so, specify the action you will take and the conditions under which you will take it. Then, any time before your next action, you may take the readied action in response to that condition. The action occurs just before the action that triggers it. If the triggered action is part of another character's activities, you interrupt the other character. Assuming he is still capable of doing so, he continues his actions once you complete your readied actions. That's the gist of it.
Say, you ready an action to shoot an asshole wizard before he can blast you with magic. The wizard starts casting the spell, and you fire as a reaction. If you succeed and hit the wizard, he's forced to do a Concentration check to avoid losing their spell. If the wizard fails, you may proceed to dismember your enemy at your leisure. Or not, I won't judge.
For the Telstaerr woman, time started to slow down again. 'Fight-time' the militia instructor had called it. Useful stuff. When she'd popped her head out of cover, she saw how several pursuers had held fire. They were waiting for her to make a mistake. Their mate's death-by-groin-shot had scared them. Time to give them further reasons to fear her. She'd only fired from the center of her cover so far, and that's where most of the bowmen were aiming.
Big mistake.
"I ready an action to shoot the lead horseman's mount from another spot. The idea being that the mount will either freak out or hit the ground, wounded or dead. Then the other guys crash into the lead guy. BAM. Multi-horse pileup."
Chris smiled. "A brave little plan, and actually quite cool, assuming they fail their Ride checks catastrophically. Assuming you kill the lead's mount in one shot. Assuming I'd let you do this."
"Oh come on, DM, please, pretty please? With sugar, spice and everything nice?" Wahya was going all puppy-dog-eyes on him.
He sighed. "Eh, sure why not? It sounds cool, and I allow you guys to do cool stuff, within reason."
She readied her dice, excited. The DM said, "It'll take a critical hit and rolling max damage to do it, at the very least." She nodded, rolled...
Chris face palmed.
She got her wish. Another twenty.
He was going to run out of face to apply palm to before this game session was over, he could tell.
Everyone had her favored sniping spot covered. A storm of arrows would avenge their humiliation. All discipline, all caution, all orders had been thrown to the wind. Most of them had been military before this, mercenaries or regulars, serving various warlords from near or far. Men of skill and strength such as they, to be bested by some farm wench, was unthinkable.
They had her.
The crossbow bitch popped up, like a fairground toy. Faster than a snake, faster than they had time to blink or panic, she fired. The lead horseman's mount was brought down by a bolt to the neck. Neighing, bleeding, twitching, the horse fell. Dumbstruck, the other bandits felt detached from the reality of having been bested... by a farm wench. They were now tangling with the fallen horse and being detached from their saddles.
Almost half their number bit the dust, literally. One mount did an impossible somersault and landed on two of their comrades' backs, killing them instantly, with a sick snapping sound. A few halted their horses roughly, in panic. Some of them had the presence of mind to get up and start shooting again. The lucky ones had stopped short of the mound of flesh that now barred their path.
The bitch had popped her pretty little head out of cover, alright. But their aim had been lacking. They were left staring in shock as the wagon pulled away. The last thing she'd done before getting back into cover, had been to jauntily wave goodbye to them. The leader, a mustachioed archer with dark skin named Korcer, got up and swore. Viciously. That whore and her husband had cost him his stallion and four men. Two crushed beneath a horses' arse, another young fool and his best grenadier.
Korcer yelled at his signaler to fire off a 'failure' signal arrow, which he did. It was time to use their contingency plan. A man like the Boss had the resources to arm his own private army with magical and alchemical weapons. And all to pursue and capture a family of farming schmucks. Clearly not one to be trifled with, and being impaled on sharp branches would be a sweet mercy, for the Boss would not be so lenient in his punishment. It wasn't cruelty, maybe not even insanity. It was simply... standard operating procedure.
Fletcher Crufire, half-elven archer, hadn't always been a bandit. Once upon a time, he'd dreamed of becoming a protector of the woods, a defender of all travelers. Florin Falconhand had been his inspiration – skilled ranger, good soul and member of the legendary Knights of Myth Drannor. Fletcher's fall from grace, or 'Fletch' as his fellow bandits called him, was a typical story. Drunken abusive father, loving ranger mother that taught him the ways of the wild, and had the wisdom to get herself killed in a meaningless skirmish. He eventually fell in with a group of bandits after many sundry other misfortunes, and here he was.
He supposed that his background of drama, desperation and particular skill set would had made him suited to the adventuring life-style. Then again, you didn't hear of a lot of former highwaymen turning their life around in such a manner.
Sitting in the cool shade and cover of the roadside trees, he noticed the red light of the signal arrow through the foliage, bursting high above his head. Korcer's horse archers had, seemingly, taffed up. They were now asking nicely if Fletch and his band of merry men would kindly rescue their bacon from the fire. He'd oblige, if only to see that pompous mustached idiot squirm as he thanked him. The Boss was keen on inter-gang cooperation.
Still, sod Korcer.
He told his log-crew to make ready. They had chopped down earlier some pine trees and stripped the foliage off. That left the logs, with now shorter, sharper branches, to serve as road blocks. His half-orcs had done a good job, all things considered. They weren't nearly as dumb as the other bandits had made them out to be. It was just like the Boss had said – delegating tasks is one of the keys to successful leadership.
In spite of his injury, the bandit assault and the shock of seeing their neighbor dead, Aelthas had a good feeling about their situation. They'd succeeded. They'd escape. They'd even left the pot-holes behind. Oh, they wouldn't be free for a while yet; yon pursuers would fight tooth and nail to clap them in irons. Sod them. They would escape, even if only to spite them. Even if they sent all the hordes of the Hells down on their heads. Even if they blocked the road with... logs. Oh buggery.
Trying not to panic, he said to to his wife, "Dear, we've a problem ahead."
Blaera was elated. "Come now, man, you don't need me to hold your hand now, Aelthas? We've lost the horse archers, we are escaping, we'll survive the problem ahead surely."
"Look to the front."
Her face dropped. "Are those bloody logs in the road?!"
"Yes, wife."
"Husband?"
"Yes, wife?"
"Remember when I said not to panic?"
"Sorry but no."
"Well, now's a good time to panic." He panicked.
"Alright wife, panicking."
"WATCH OUT!"
The world seemed to slow down, and then freeze altogether, as they stared helplessly at the approaching barrier.
"Hold on a second, guys." He grabbed a stylus, browsed through the tablet's simulation menu-screen, and 'clicked' Pause Simulation.
Chris stared at the holo-screen intently. The logs his bandit dudes had laid as road blocks were about as long as the road was wide, doing the term 'road block' justice. When he'd fed his notes into the tablet's campaign and session organizer, he did not anticipate this. The unthinkable had happened – commoners, built to represent the average Joe Schmo peasant and unskilled laborer, the weakest class in the game – were kicking serious ass.
The wild and wacky nature of the game system itself, Dungeons&Dragons 3.5 edition, was to blame. It all but ensured that weird and wonderful statistical aberrations such as this scene would and could happen from time to time, (sometimes) to the delight of players and/or Dungeon Masters. Fact: they were having fun. Wahya especially was having a blast so far, drunk or no. Fact: The Telstaerrs were freaking action heroes, but they weren't getting past those logs, which blocked the road completely. They were too long. Hmm.
He then went to work hunting through his Session Notes folder.
Abigail asked, "Err, what are you doing?"
The dungeon master smiled. "First rule of D&D: Have Fun. The road blocks were too big to get past. So I'm making them shorter."
And with a few 'keystrokes' and 'clicks' of the stylus, he did just that.
Wahya smiled back. "Thanks, DM."
"Hey, don't mention it. Don't expect freebies from now on though."
"Don't worry, I won't. Preserve the challenge and all that."
He unpaused the simulation and they resumed the game.
The world unfroze. Somehow, the logs ahead were shorter than they needed to be.
It was their only chance.
Aelthas urged the draft horse on, and they thundered past the now-useless road block. Fletch and his blockade team stared for a moment... then rushed frantically to string arrows and load crossbow bolts. Too late. The few shots they got off went wild. The wagon got past the bend in the road, the trees mostly shielding them from view, and thundered away. Fletch whistled dejectedly. He'd taffed up as well, somehow. Boss was not gonna be happy. He drew a signal arrow, lit the fuse, then fired. A shower of blue sparks lit up the sky. You win some, you lose some, he thought.
A minute or two later, the frantically-galloping horse archers finally reached the failed road block, and halted. Well, time to face the music. Fletcher smiled and greeted his nemesis. "Korcer old friend, so glad to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Cut the bullcrap Fletch. The farmer wagon, where'd it go?" rumbled the massive bandit.
Always so direct... and rude. "My dear Korcer, you are an expert at draining the fun out of everything. They got clear of the blockade, they got away. My bad. By the way, nice horse. Is that a new one?"
"Cut the crap. There's a fork in the road up ahead, you damn well know that. The wagon, which way?"
"I wouldnae cut that crap with my own food-knife, to be sure. Maybe with yours..."
"The wagon, Fletch. Boss ain't happy. Where'd it go!?"
Fletcher smirked. "You could do with some manners. Firstly: is that a new horse? And secondly: say please."
"Mine was killed. By the crossbow bitch. I'll impale her and her whole family, see how they like that. Wagon, where?! P-please..."
The last word was spat out as reluctantly as one would spit out good mead. Fletcher savored it, then answered. "Now, now, you know the Boss wants'em alive and unspoilt. All of them. They went left. My half-orc scouts have the best eyes I've ever..."
"At least they're good for heavy lifting and seeing. 'Cause they sure as shite can't build a road block!"
Korcer laughed heartily at his little joke, and was joined by his cronies.
Fletcher answered coolly "At least I lost no men to a bunch of dirt-grubbers. Guess there's a good reason why you took on these gents. No-one else could deal with their incompetence like you Kor. Like leader, like trooper."
Korcer stopped laughing abruptly.
From atop his new brown mare, he sputtered, "I'll get you, you taffer, for everything."
He fixed him with a murderous stare.
"Shouldn't you be going? Catching the marks and all that? " said Fletcher with a sarcastic smirk.
The mustached idiot rode away, taking his cronies with him.
The Boss was keen on inter-gang cooperation, and Fletcher Crufire had cooperated. Somewhat.
Still, sod Korcer.
Selim was impressed. "Was that whole exchange improvised by the system? It was... seamless."
The DM answered excitedly, "I know, right? Those two, being bandit officers, get more personality than regular mooks. I set the relationship between them as antagonistic / competitive, then all I had to do was place a cutscene trigger at that place. The AI in this tablet is really something." Chris was delighted, this techno-toy had more going for it than he'd thought.
Alfie said, "Yeah well, I skip cinematics in games 'cause I wanna get to the ACSHUN! Now please let's get this over with quicker so I can get my turn already!"
Abigail answered, "Actually before you, there's Selim, myself and Charlie. You're third-to-last. Sorry."
"Fuck's sake."
As Korcer and his posse set out baying for blood, the blond lad, most junior of all the bandits, swore and spurred on his mangy ornery horse.
Arnall the teenage bandit often questioned the wisdom of his leaders' decisions.
Why chase peasants? What did they have that was worth all this trouble?
Who the taff knew? He didn't taffing care. Their wizard-boss was probably mad. They all were.
Madness came part-and-parcel with the magic and the pointy hat, even though the Boss didn't actually wear one.
The point man yelled something at Korcer. The big, mustached bandit had learned his lesson, since losing his prized stallion, and now lead from the middle of the formation. Korcer yelled something back at the point man, then screamed a few choice curses and a general command to follow the scout. The mass of mounted marauders picked up speed, stirring up a dust cloud. Apparently they were closing in on the fugitives. At last. Maybe then this stupid chase would end without him getting shot by the crossbow bitch.
With dust in his eyes, Arnall could scarcely see about him. He took at face value the scout's reassurance that they were closing in. Which they were, for it was five infernal minutes later, of riding through the heat and choking dust, that they made contact. A whizzing crossbow bolt, the gurgling death of the fifth horseman to perish that day – they'd caught up to the farmers' wagon. At least now there would be retribution. Korcer shouted orders to disperse and start herding the targets. He was answered by excited whoops.
The horse archer formation split with practiced ease into two groups.
Riding like madmen, pulling alongside the covered wagon, they began their savage war cries.
Drawing an assortment of scary weapons, the bandits closed in... and began to board.
First was an ugly bear of a man, armed with a hand axe. He sliced the rough cloth of the wagon cover, then threw himself off his horse awkwardly, screaming, through the hole... straight onto Blaera's waiting dagger. She didn't even have to do much, other than hold her arms stiff as the stupid taffer impaled himself, then cruelly twist the blade in the wound.
"Ohohoooo, she hits, she scooooooores! Look at that guys, max damage!" Wahya was ecstatic.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the company. Maybe it was the game. Maybe all three.
"What is this I don't even..." Chris was amazed.
At this rate there would be nothing left of the bandit ambush.
Rambo the peasant-woman might actually level up.
"Hey, I'm the Meme-Man, not you!" protested Selim in jest.
A team of two riders came up to the front of the wagon. They were big red-headed lads with bastard swords. They drew their blades cackling aloud, intending to double-team a very busy Aelthas. He noticed the attackers and a cold sweat poured down his back. Quarterstaff against two swordsmen attacking from opposite sides – even with his skill at staff-fighting, a dicey prospect. But two attackers might also risk injuring one another, especially with blades as unwieldy as those.
A plan was quickly hatched, raised to maturity and kicked protesting from his head with great speed. He tied the reins onto a peg, to keep the horse's heading steady, and retrieved his staff. The big bastards by now had boarded unsteadily. They began their attack as one, hoping to cut him down in one blow. Two sideways slices were barely avoided in time. Aelthas struck back – two vicious jabs to each belly in turn.
The red-heads switched tactics – one feinting an attack whilst the other would try to stab or slice Aelthas. They took turns doing so for a short while. The massive potter ducked, parried and tried his best to counter them. He struck them over the shoulders, shins and sometimes cheeks. They were not letting up. He spared a glance at Blaera. She was busy heaving a large corpse out of the wagon. Good for her.
Now time to end this, lest they became corpses as well. The red-heads were gearing up for a savage coordinated slice to the neck. He ducked down in the nick of time – and the dumb whoresons were not so lucky. They killed each other with their synchronized attack – jugulars split open, spraying blood, dumb expressions on their faces. They fell off the wagon, twitching, like the sacks of shit they were. The plan to make them kill each other had worked (if barely), noted Aelthas with satisfaction.
"Ahahahahah fuck you, assholes." laughed Alfie.
"Jesus, it's like you're the drunk one, not Wahya." grumbled Chris.
" 'Ooohhh, peasants are the lamest class. They'll NEVER survive. They can get taken out by house cats stat-wise.' EAT THEM WORDS, DM!" added Wahya, in jubilation.
"I stand corrected – you're both drunk."
Korcer gritted his teeth when he saw the red-headed brothers die. Losses were embarrassingly high for what was supposed to be a quick and easy snatch-and-grab. Multiple ambush points, road blocks, horse archers – all had failed. The last surprise though, the last asset – that was a doozy. That was a sure thing. He grinned, like the savage beast that he was. All they had to do was keep them busy a while longer, keep them focused on the fight. He roared for more fodder to board the wagon. Time bought with lives.
Blaera wrenched off a wooden shield and tested its balance. Solid oak, iron rim. Good. She retrieved her previous victim's hand axe and twirled it around. Good balance, sharp edge. She'd wanted to grow up to be an adventurer or soldier, when she was just eleven, like her favorite adventure story heroine, the Crimson-Axe Maiden.
The Maiden had grown up with the Uthgardt tribes of the Frozen North, had traveled with whalers and explorers over the Great Frozen Sea, and had carved a bloody path through monsters and slavers up and down the Sword Coast. She'd even looted an ancient ruined city in the Anauroch Desert, and had become blood-sister to a chieftain there, rescuing him from a losing battle. The idea that being a woman didn't mean giving up a military or adventuring career was heartening. She may have not been able to follow her dream in the Wizard's Reach, but she might in the Dalelands.
At least her silly dream would mean that her family would live. Even if she had to kill every last foe between them and their future home. More of the taffers were boarding. Through the back, or holes in the wagon's covers, they came. Five young bastards, all ugly, save one. They carried short swords and spears. If they would capture her alive...
Arnall had boarded the wagon with four of the new guys. He let the eager four go through first. He'd seen how the woman had gutted old Gorrin and shot two others. The other four didn't seem to care. As they drew their weapons, they started leering at the woman and making suggestive comments. Arnall hated it, but he was a bandit now. Not much he could do about it.
Then they threw themselves forward, howling like mad dogs.
"Rolling to attack. Totals of 6, 9, 12 and... oh! 15, does that hit?"
"Damn it, yes it does. Well, congratulations. How does it feel to kill an awesome NPC?" Wahya seemed a bit upset.
Chris felt a little bad. "Well chill out, I haven't rolled for damage yet. She might make it after all."
He rolled, and Blaera survived. "3 damage. Try to not get her killed now."
Blaera acted like living lightning. She blocked one sword with her axe, parried a spear thrust with the shield, kicked at another attacker, causing him to stumble... and took the second spear in her right shoulder. She felt the tip pass through her simple woolen dress, then flesh. The warrior-woman sucked air in her chest greedily, to dispel the haze of pain. Luckily, the stab had been shallow. The attackers flinched back, surprised at their success, at her speed...
"Wait, are they moving back? Out of Rambo-Mom's threatened squares? That's an attack of opportunity right there!"
"Yeah they are. Cowardly bunch, aren't they?" commented Chris.
Wahya didn't listen. She scooped up her green d20 and rolled fiercely. The attack hit, the damage roll was good.
Payback time.
The axe lodged itself in a bandit's neck, a lanky lad with acne-covered cheeks. The gurgling scream and blood spray had intimidated the rest. She dislodged the axe from the corpse with a sickening slurping sound, and made a comment about their lack of courage and amorous experience. "Delay her, you whoresons! Or else!" Korcer roared. The shire horse was putting distance between them. It was another section of road with pot-holes. The young fools would be the only bandits to engage for a while. It would have to be enough. They feared the warrior-woman, but they feared their leaders even more.
Unnerved, the young fodder switched tactics – they began to harass Blaera by clumsily feinting attacks, stalling for time, just like their chieftain had ordered. Time for what, they didn't know. They wouldn't have liked it if they'd known, anyway. Blaera parried and dodged, keeping her eyes peeled for tricks or an opening. The loud noises of the ongoing chase had eventually roused little Fearow from her sleep. She'd started crying - a prolonged, warbling wail. This, naturally, had only made Blaera angrier.
Aelthas had caught a few snippets of the fight in the back of the wagon and his daughter's crying. He dearly wanted to help. The enemy had other ideas though. Two horse archers, grim-faced men with composite bows, were riding hard, to get alongside his seat. He'd be shot to bits if they got close enough.
"Umm dearest? I need some crossbow fire to the sides!"
Blaera parried a spear, then tried to kick a bandit in the shin. "Mildly busy over here, husband."
"You'll be a widow shortly, then. These gents are fixing to fill me with arrows."
"Where are they?"
"Coming up from behind, real fast."
She spared a glance to confirm. "I see them."
She had to swiftly kill or disable the bastards she was tangled with, and aid Aelthas immediately.
Or else they'd lose the fight, and likely their lives.
Arnall had held his ground, to the back of the boarding party. The wagon was on the small side, few men could board or fight at the same time. He focused on the fight, ready to step in, and fill any gap that might form in the battle line. Blood spray hit his face. Morens was first to die. That demented berserker woman had split the poor taffer's neck open. She was grinning and commenting on their unused manhoods and lack of martial skill.
"Delay her, you whoresons! Or else!" Korcer wanted results, and rather urgently. They started feinting attacks in order to keep the warrior-woman's attention focused on them. Suddenly, he heard a keening, prolonged warbling sound – a wail that seemed to contain the full sorrow and confusion of a dying world. Namely, the crying of an indisposed toddler. It hit Arnall like a hammer blow. There was a child aboard!
The horrid warbling crying came from what seemed a miniature fortress – armored in steel shields. A light mail shirt draped above the cot made the thing damn near impervious to arrow fire. Doubtlessly the kid was in there. The expense, the paranoia, the sheer insane lengths the thirty-something-old couple had gone to, in order to escape the bandits – despite their previous military experience, ambush, superior weapons and horse archers.
No risk was too dangerous, no sacrifice too great – for parents protecting their offspring.
Just like his parents had done, years ago.
His parents...
Arnall had always enjoyed riding and archery, ever since his pa took him hunting for the first time. Their life had been good back then, living in their little cottage in the woods, ever since his parents had migrated there. The land was kind, providing game to eat and furs to sell. Life had been good. Past tense. Then a local warlord took control of the land. Invoked "colonization rights". It was "first come, first serve" in the Moonsea lands.
The warlord's men had decided to collect 'land ownership taxes' from his family's little cottage. Korcer had been in charge. His pa had fought back and been stabbed real bad. His ma fought back like a wild cat and she'd been dog-piled by the burly laughing soldiers. They tried taking advantage of her, but she'd cut her own throat rather than suffer that shame. His pa rose from where he'd been bleeding all this time. With an almighty roar, he slew two of the lord's men with a woodcutting axe before being turned into a pincushion of arrows.
The then-fourteen Arnall had thrown himself on the back of his father's still-saddled bay mare and rode like the wind. The soldiers gave chase, and eventually cornered him. He was about to be slain as well before he started begging, begging, begging for his life. The laughing soldiers decided to spare the young coward, and took him in as their 'servant'. A year of gutting fish or fowl, cleaning, caring for the mounts and digging latrines had turned him from a joyous, if-a-little-cowardly youth, into a bitter young man, aged before his time.
And into a proper coward too, always willing to overlook injustice or look the other way, as long as he avoided another beating. The lord his captors served was eventually attacked and slain by one of his rivals, his lands taken by the victor. His tormentors, with him in tow, wisely deserted beforehand. Thus they avoided the fate of their former comrades, taken prisoner and used a bait for shark fishing. Such was life around the Moonsea.
They drifted for awhile, plundering here and killing there, until they fell in with other gangs, forming one large band.
And then he had been set, ready to become what he had hated all these years. A wandering brute, slaying, raping and taking what he willed from those too weak to protect themselves. The natural laws of strong fang and claw rending the flesh of prey, and the dominion of human greed and cruelty – two disturbing parallels between animal-beast and man-beast.
Not him. This would not be him.
He would not turn from victim, into tormentor.
He'd not make another child an orphan.
He'd not take the lives of folk that never done no harm to him.
This had to stop. And he'd try to stop it.
"Stay your hands. She's fighting for her babe, can't you see? You're trying to slay a mother!" The fighting had ceased, for the moment, combatants regarding each other warily. "Hold on lads. Dismount and disengage." The warrior-woman and his young comrades stared at Arnall slack-jawed, as if he'd fallen from the moon. Was he serious? Offering a truce, after all that happened? Arnall knew this was going to be a hard sell. But he'd promised to himself that, at least this one time... the cycle of victims creating other victims, because their mental anguish hadn't been healed, would cease. At least this one time. You only had one life, or so he thought.
"Come on lads, be reasonable. They haven't anything of value. They've the shirts on their backs, the tools of their trade. And their babe of course," he gestured to the fortress-cot, wailing still going strong. "They'd give anything, including their lives, all to keep their child safe. And they'll take ours eagerly, too, to do the same."
"What... is he doing? Is he suddenly turning traitor?" Wahya was intrigued. "Why?"
Chris frowned. He paused the game and checked his notes. "Apparently, the game randomly decided that this one should be Chaotic Neutral at first. But now I see his alignment bar slowly creeping towards... Chaotic Good. What the hell, game?" He blinked in confusion.
Everyone leaned forward in their inter-war wooden chairs. The living room, furnished in old but presentable inter-war style furniture, had come alive. This twist had made everything a bit more interesting. Everyone wanted to add something to the discussion, all at once.
"Alright alright! You each get your turn. Inverse order in which you arrived. Oliver," said Chris, pointing at the wraith-like South African, "you first."
"Did you program this in, Chris?"
"No, although I wish I had. It's a nice twist. Wahya!"
The crystal-bedecked girl rose to speak. "I have NO idea what's going on anymore. But it's a pretty interesting twist. Maybe it's some randomization script. Could be a feature to grant a given game session a further element of randomness and additional plot hooks. Look through the game options. I dunno." She shrugged and sat down.
"Interesting suggestion. Selim?"
The Saudi teen said, "I have no idea. What I love, though, is to see this fictional character turn from a road of darkness, back onto the righteous path. Good for you, digital man."
"Nice philosophy. Charlie?"
"Same shit, different story. Only instead of Islam, I speak for the Path of Buddha. But I'm afraid this lil' dude's gonna suffer for his goodness. You don't turn on yo homies, on yo gang and expect to walk away. Even if they are bad."
Abigail interjected, "Hey, you forgot me."
"Sorry. Opinion, Abby?"
"I really admire what he's doing, and I hope he makes it. Even though I've no clue why this is happening of its own accord."
"Okay then. Alfie!"
"Yeah?"
"Your opinion on this, please."
"Well alright. My opinion is - he's boned. A goner, dead-man-walking."
Chris was curious. "OK, why?"
Alfie snorted in derision. "Does the poor SOB really think his bosses are just gonna... let him walk away? And spoil their little plan? Even if it's a pretty fucking dumb plan, if you ask me. Chasing peasants... feh. He ain't gonna make it."
"Thank you for your immense optimism."
Alfie gave him a thumbs up with a bored expression.
Chris said, "Let's make this snappy. We got a scene to finish. Fedor. Opinion plox."
"At last, Fedor gets something!" He leaned his massive bulk forward. His chair creaked alarmingly. "OK, OK, here's how it is. He vill not escape alive. Ze laws of dramatic tension demand that he sacrifice his own life to help ze family escape. It's gonna happen, you just vatch."
"Very likely. Isabel?"
The gorgeous Phillipino was not tremendously interested in this philosophical discussion. She removed her headphones. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"
Chris sighed. "One of the bandits turned friendly. He's blabbering to his mates to withdraw and leave the family alone. What are your thoughts on the situation?"
"Oh, it could be a computer glitch. Maybe the system accessed some dialogue file it was meant to play later, or... something of the sort. It's not impossible in a brand new product. Why, didn't you program this in?"
"No, and thanks. Why did you have your headphones on right now?"
"Err... I'm sorry. I didn't realize you hadn't paused for a break. When you paused game, I thought it was break-time " She stretched her arms above her head, giving Chris an unwanted, or perhaps calculated, view of her substantial cleavage. Chris was understandably distracted by the sexy.
"I'm sorry about that, dear." she purred. "It can be... rather unhealthy, to spend so much time just... sitting down, not doing much of anything."
Chris was still distracted by the sexy. He hemmed and hawed, and tried to collect his thoughts. "Y-yes yes. We'll be ummm, we'll be taking a break soon enough. After Wahya is done, that is."
"Well, thank ye very muchly for your incredible generosity there, DM." said Wahya snarkily.
Oliver frowned. "But we are doing something. Playing an adventure/combat game and socializing."
"Seems more like a queue simulator to me, so far." grumbled Fedor. He was right, to an extent.
Reality resumed. Shaking wagon, forest, sunshine, dusty air, a warrior-woman and three fellow bandits staring at him. Shaken by his switch of allegiance. It's as if the world had been frozen – Fate and the gods taking a break from managing things. Maybe they'd taken a sip of wine, stretched their legs, before returning to their thrones. Like players taking a break from a board-game – mused Arnall bitterly. Probably some mad wizard playing with the structure of the Universe – again. It wouldn't be the first time and it would not be the last. But that was out of his hands. What he could influence, was the fate of his fellow bandits, his own, and that of the family.
"Well," he asked, "what say you?"
"Are you mad!? You wish to die? Is that it?" roared Aeron.
Aeron was a stocky Heartlander with furious blue eyes, the most aggressive of the new recruits. "Think you Korcer will be kind? Think you the Boss would care? Think you they're blind or stupid!?"
"Think I, maybe you shut the taff up for a moment. Listen to what I have to say."
Aeron harrumphed. "Say your piece, then die like the traitor ye are."
Arnall breathed deeply. This was going to be a bitter pill to swallow. "Korcer is spending our lives to stall for time, keep all of us busy whilst we hurdle headlong into our graves."
"Load of shite I says." Aeron wiped the sweat from his eyes.
'Twas a hot day. He could barely see anything of the trees for the dust.
"All you say is shite, Aeron. But listen here: there be a large hole dug a hundred feet or more ahead. Festooned with spikes, meant to kill this 'ere horse and keep the family from escaping. We're being sacrificed so's they can capture the family."
"Why the hell do they want with these folk? And where're you getting this information from?'
"I keeps me ears open. Caught a snippet of conversation between our 'esteemed' chiefs. The mage... he wants the child."
Blaera's eyes went wide. "Little Fearow...? Why? Why her? What's he want with a babe barely a year old?" She may have been shocked by this new development, but she was keeping her armaments close, and her stance loose but ready. She weren't no stranger to warfare and killing, noted Arnall.
He shrugged. His mind was tired - recalling his family's murder, his act of sheer will to turn from banditry to regain a shred of dignity, his effort to persuade his comrades - no, his former comrades – to cease their attack. To withdraw, flee, save their lives and future. "I don't know, ma'am. Maybe to raise as an apprentice. Maybe something worse. You can never tell with mages. Mad, the lot of 'em."
Blaera could only agree. Her previous look of mistrust had been replaced with... something.
He could not tell. But hers was no longer the gaze of an enemy.
"Blaera! Them horse archers really want to unload their quivers in me!" Aelthas winced. Poor wording. Could lead to a joke about buggery. Blaera would have normally pounced on such an opportunity, mercilessly mocking him. But not this time. He spared a glance back. They were not fighting. What the Hells? They were... talking instead. Was she captured? Nay, she still bore arms. She still had a child to defend. She still drew breath. His wife would have never surrendered, not even to a God.
Was she spell-bound? Did the bandits have a spell caster among them!?
"BLAERA! TAFF'S SAKE, ANSWER!"
She snapped out of her 'trance', irritated. "What?"
"What the blazes is wrong back there?"
"Seems like one of our esteemed boarders wishes to defect. Swear to us allegiance, husband."
"Are you mad? Could be a trick!"
"Since when has anyone ever lied to me, and gotten away with it, Aelthas?"
He nodded to himself. It was true. "Make him swear by the merciful Gods."
Blaera saw the wisdom in those words.
The Gods where ever watchful, and fairly swift to punish broken oaths, 'specially if they were sworn by their names.
She enveloped the bandits, especially Arnall, with her steady gaze.
Blaera said, with an even voice, "Swear to me. Swear by Ilmater and Helm, by Tyr and Tymora, that you mean us no harm, not now, not ever. Swear that you'll aid in our escape with all your strength and skill. And in turn I swear that I'll do everything I reasonably can to aid in yours."
Arnall answered, choked with emotion. "I swear, by Ilmater and Helm, by Tyr and Tymora. I mean you no harm, not now, not ever. I'll aid in your escape with all my strength and skill. And in turn I do accept your aid for mine own escape."
Chris had never talked quite so much in-character, since the young NPC bandit had, somehow, decided to defect to the parents of Wahya's character. It had been fun for awhile, he playing the part of the bandit, and Wahya the part of Blaera, Warrior-Mum. But they had to get back to the action, Wahya's turn had gone on long enough. The others were getting a little restless.
"Roll Sense Motive."
"Aww, still haven't merged the diplomacy skills together?"
"Not yet, and I'm not tempted to. Roll dem bones."
Rattle, rattle, rattle. Clickclackclackclack in the dice tray. 19 on the green d20, result duplicated on the holographic projector. Chris applied palm to face. "Success. Arnall is not lying. I swear, your luck is hot tonight. You guys haven't rolled a one yet, and already several twenties."
"Yeah well, the Force is with me."
They locked gazes. Blaera smiled. It was the first time Arnall had seen her content.
He liked her smile. He looked forward to seeing her smile again, and more often. But before that, they had to survive this. They heard Korcer's bullish voice again, yelling his head off, goading them to fight. For his own gain of course, and that of his master, the mage in purple.
Aeron had waited long enough. "If you're with them, then you're against us. And you'll die for this. Real slow."
He grinned. His cronies mimicked him. They readied their weapons.
Arnall smirked at the stupidity of the statement. Blaera shared his humor.
The bandits pounced at once. Two on Blaera, and Aeron thrust his spear at Arnall with fury.
A battle for survival had been joined. The world turned, the Fates spun their golden thread.
The future revolved around a young child... and the mage in purple.
"Phallic joke alert, phallic joke alert! You have been warned! Heheh, 'thrust his spear'. It's like that Viking porn I read sometimes." joked Alfie.
Nobody payed her any attention.
Author's Notes – 255 words. RULES – 410 words. NARRATOR THINGY – 102 words. ACTUAL STORYTIME – ~ 12,117 words.
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