GM

A bellow.

He landed in a bare-footed squat on the fallen tree trunk and reared upwards.

260 pounds of orc chieftain, Lermoriach stood, breathing in through his nose and his throat sac ballooning. The symbol of twin axes were carved into his dark face, gruesome red scars. His fangs were yellow, with gold teeth in between and he bared them now, as he turned his fierce, amber eyes on his band.

He had orcs, lightly equipped, with their menagerie of freakish, simian faces. But he also had goblins. These were a breed apart from the orcs, and looked it. Where the orcs were thickly muscled and dark, earthy colours, the goblins were wiry things, almost bird-like, with bright, pigmented skin and eyes. They chittered with rows of sharp teeth, clearly flesh-eaters, and trilled through their long noses. The Orc Lord used them for hunting Fey, for nothing was better at that task than goblins. Lermoriach's hunt was for a more mundane creature. A female of the humans.

"Only her!" He growled, "On the others, do murder! DO MURDER!!"

"MURDER!!" His warriors squawked, roared and spat, surging downhill through the trees.

Lermoriach dropped down from the treetrunk, blocking two of the goblins. Their skin and eyes were red, and their noses had been cut off, leaving only holes that oozed with a bubbling puss. Shamans.

The chieftain eyed them with disdain. "Bring her down and bring her to me." He snarled.

***

Ahead of the shamans, the rest of the goblins broke from the forest.

Groil was amongst them, a vicious, vile goblin, the thought of being too late to the fray and perhaps only mutilating bodies, made him panicky.

He watched the backs of the goblins in front of him, desparate to overtake.

Rich sunlight rushed over them as they rushed from the trees. Groil's shadow fell long and black against the sun-bleached rock and he could see the axe he wielded looking gigantic in his shadow's hands.

He grinned ear to pointy ear. Most of the other goblins carried wooden clubs with paddle-like heads. They could lay open a man's chest if unprotected but Groil and some of the proven warriors carried the Orc Lord's steel, bearded axes that would cleave leather, padding, breast, bone and heart.

The rock underfoot was trecherous, carved by the river into a labyrinth of walls and promontories with sheer drops either side. More goblins had been lurking in these shadowy troughs, hidden by the late sun.

Less than 10 paces ahead, Groil saw the adventurers. His brethren were scrambling up the rocks around them from below.

There was a white flash to Groil's left and he nearly fell. One goblin toppled from the rocks, a smoking husk, another was thrown to his knees, and Groil saw the copper-haired jester gesturing arcanely with one hand whilst holding a rapier in the other.

The jester would soon be dragged down by the lurkers, so Groil veered to the right and jumped across a chasm alonsgide another goblin... the Axesian bowman launched an arrow and it intercepted the other goblin's face. It tumbled into the foaming whitewater with barely a splash, but Groil landed, raised his axe and plunged into the fray.

Seyja swept her axe, screaming and laughing in rage, so she scythed goblin heads as they scurried up from hiding below. Heilbutt held his spear high, tip-lowered in a one-handed grip, like a scorpion's sting, as he fell back to protect his master, the half-elf cleric Nestaron.

Weston was reaching for his sword when a goblin lept at him with its skull-splitting club. There was a yell and the goblin was chopped out of the air by Sergeant Almador's polearm. The older man's eyes met Weston's. Almador looked shocked. Not as shocked as the dead goblin scum.

There were goblins attacking on all sides, with creepy, white-ringed eyes, blue skin and flushed throats. Some had wooden, goblin clubs, but some had bearded axes of grey steel. Some of the headless corpses at Seyja's feet carried nets and ropes. That hinted to D that there was more to this ambush than met the eye, and either way, he wasn't fond of grinding melee. A goblin grunt hopped towards him, but suddenly D was a rapidly fading memory. The grunt blinked, gobsmacked and glancing around, sure that either his mind or eyesight were failing.

A deep, resonant voice in prayer rose above the clamour. Nestaron pointed an accusing finger up the slope to the trees, where the two hideous, goblin shamans had emerged, red-skinned, noseless and decked in macabre trinkets. A wave of power pulsed from the cleric, washing over his companions. They all felt as though someone, an ally, stood back to back with them, whether Nestaron, or maybe some divine agent they couldn't tell.

Some of the goblins were trying to reach Nestaron, but were held off by Jex and Heilbutt in bloody fighting.

Groil saw the armoured paladin fighting at Seyja's flank, preventing anyone netting the mad bitch from behind. A champion! Groil's favourite. Skipping over his dead brethren, Groil coiled.... He caught the paladin's golden eye -- Not a champion! -- at the same time his toes caught a fissure. The goblin ate rock, face first, his front teeth exploding as if struck by a hammer.

Zoltan didn't think much of it, lunging to intercept a different goblin that was about to bury an axe between Tindarien's shoulders. The tiefling barged the goblin aside, gaining a split eyebrow, but the high elf got away with a similar flesh wound.

Before Zoltan or Tindarien could say anything, something splattered them, hot, wet, and putrid. Seyja screamed in agony as raw pain shot through her body. Yellow puss dripped down her body. The goblin shamans further uphill, they chittered, clutching dark totems, before spraying puss from the noseless holes in their faces. The thick streamer landed amidst the melee in a grotesque splash. Seyja was already coated, and it carried some shaking curse with it.

Groil was dragging himself to his feet, cheering the shamans, when he felt a sudden weakness in his knees. Looking down, he saw the tip of a longsword protruding from his midriff. It disappeared again and Groil staggered forward as if pushed. He coughed blood and rounded on the paladin with his axe swinging.

So Zoltan was otherwise engaged, and Tindarien now faced a goblin grunt alone. It was no place for a sorcerer; he needed a better vantage so he could tackle the shamans. He could see D slipping between goblins, who ignored the dark elf like he wasn't there. Tindarien didn't have that trick but he did have tricks of his own.

The goblin grunt screeched and lunged, but the sorcerer vanished in a spray of dust, kicking up a similar plume as he reappeared some 20 feet away uphill. No sooner had Tindarien teleported than crackling lightning forked from his fingers and lit up the shamans. One deftly took cover behind the other, so that one took the entire brunt of the blast, skin boiling, eyes popping....

But the shamans weren't dead yet, the rest of the party were still occupied with the other goblins, and Tindarien could hear more, larger enemies crashing through the forest nearby.

[[
D HP: 21/21; Rec: 8/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9
T HP: 15/18; Rec: 8/8; AC 11+2, PD 12, PD 14; Init +3
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 26/33; Rec: 9/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2
S HP: 25/33; Rec: 8/8; AC 15, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2
Z HP: 27/30; Rec: 8/8; AC 20, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2 (Engaging Gb.Gr3)
J HP: 17/24; Rec: 8/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2 (Engaging Gb.Gr1)

Al HP: 27/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3
He HP: 23/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3 (Engaging Gb.Gr2)

Gb.Sc HP: 0/30 (5/mook); No. 0/6; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3
Gb.Gr1 HP: 22/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3 (Engaging J)
Gb.Gr2 HP: 22/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3 (Engaging He)
Gb.Gr3 HP: 2/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3; Staggered (Engaging Z)
Gb.Gr4 HP: 22/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3
Gb.Sh1 HP: 6/34; AC 17, PD 12, MD 16; Init +6; Staggered
Gb.Sh2 HP: 34/34; AC 17, PD 12, MD 16; Init +6
]]

[[ Just trying to be sure I understand all these 'features'. Doesn't "Deadly Assault" apply to the bow attack with an even roll on the to hit die? And what about "Second Shot"? I wasn't real sure when that came into play ]]

<Weston>

He smiled as his first arrow struck. As he looked again at the battle. While he would have liked to have had time for another arrow or three, there were too many foes too close for that now. He dropped his bow and reached for his sword and realized he was too slow.

He gives Almador a nod acknowledging his efforts as he finishes pulling his sword. "We have to keep killing the vermin", he said as he lunged at the nearest foe.

Seyja


Laughter disappearing, the barbarian woman screamed in combined rage and pain as she ignored the remaining goblins and lunged toward the nearest approaching orc.

"Die, you scum!"

Zoltan

The battle begins swiftly, as he has found they usually do. Never time to prepare as much as you would like. Still, a small smile plays over his face as he calls his Tiefling Racial power into play against the larger foe, who trips over his own feet.

Zoltan spares a quick glance for Tindarien, who is being attacked, and focusing his will he pulls some of the damage of the blow against the Mage into himself.

He then returns to the task at hand and before the large goblin can rise, he stabs him deeply in the torso with his sword, putting the righteous anger of his training into the blow.

He can feel the disgusting fluid spatter him from the goblin Shaman, but he cannot worry about that for now and focuses on killing the foe before him.

Stepping back, he takes a large backhand swing at the neck of the goblin who is trying to rise in front of him.

D

He slips from the day to the shadow, and begins moving towards his intended target. The goblin shamans would be very dangerous and deserved his full attention. He spared no thought to what was happening to his associates, that was their responsibility. His was to kill high value targets as quickly as possible, something he had done in multiple lives.

Tindarien

As always in combat, things happen too quickly to register other than as a general effect. He knows that Nestaron has helped as he feels the effect wash over him as it has done before. Instinct serves him now and he focuses his will to move himself elsewhere where he can focus on the shaman. These are the most dangerous foe that he can see.

He had hoped the lightning bolt would have taken both of them. No use dwelling over lost opportunities. He hopes D is going to tackle the other shaman as he sends a Chaos Bolt at the one he had already injured. Removing one spell caster completely is their best option.

Heilbutt

Bleeding from shallow cuts, the half-orc stood back to back with Jexric and fought the goblins with all his vigour. Despite this, the broken ground made his spear thrusts short and easily evaded by his notoriously fleet-footed foes.

"We must not get pushed back to the brink!" He yelled to the jester.

Jex had taken Heilbutt by surprise. He'd expected the bard to wave his rapier around fancily and either run off or get his head cut off.

Heilbutt hadn't expected dragon-blooded sorcery and charcoaled goblin. It made him doubly determined to prove his mettle to his companions, and so he lunged recklessly at a foe with his jagged spear.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

The cleric was glad to see Tindarien teleport away from the fray. He knew the high elf to wield a withering arsenal of magic, but breathing space and vantage was needed for good effect.

And needed they were. Nestaron recognise the red-skinned goblin for what they were immediately. Shamans. But they were too entrenched in their evil to be touched by his magic. Whatever dark and foul thing they prayed to, it was beyond Nestaron's ken. He didn't make a study of the idols of goblins.

Very well, he thought, narrowing his eyes and holding aloft his staff.

"Spirits of sword and clamour arise! Entwine our arms and guide our aim. Cool and calm, I call you life-takers!" He intoned.

[Casting Bless with Domain bonus, for broad effect on Jex, Weston, Zoltan, Seyja and Tindarien, granting +1 attack bonus until end of battle.]

Jex

He was singing the Song of Heroes under his breath as he drew his rapier and attacked the goblins as they pushed forward.

[ooc: Sorry, crazed at work...but better busy than bored!]

Sergeant Almador

"I've got your back, son!" He yelled to Weston, holding his partisan in a well-drilled defensive posture.

Indeed, the town guards weren't trained in anything but defensive manoeuvres.

Sergeant Almador stayed at Weston's back. He saw the half-orc on a narrow crease, struggling for an angle on his foe. The goblin was within his partisan's reach, so he opened up another flank on the creature, jabbing at it.

[Attacking Gb.Gr2]

GM

The goblins were hunched, wiry creatures with thin limbs corded with tendons. Their blue, pimpled skins and white-ringed eyes suggested a more northerly tribe, but there was something else to these goblins....

It wasn't so much the eagerness -- goblins liked killing but they loved murder -- it was the ferocity, the boldness. A daylight attack on an armed party, and where were the dreaded goblin archers? These goblinoids had rushed in, some with hardwood clubs, some with well-made bearded axes, but not one bow between them.

Jex stared at the goblin he faced. It had a long, beak-like nose and behind its lips were chittering, needle-like teeth. Under his breath, the bard was singing in a language that had been dead for two thousands years, and he tried not to dwell on where he'd first heard it.

But the song had power, felt by his companions, tempo tempo tempo, each individual's moves suddenly becoming more co-ordinated with the fellow next to them.

Jex thrust at the goblin with a loud battle cry, his rapier piercing its foot, while the grunt hacked crudely at the bard's exposed flank. Anticipating, one-two, Jex blocked with the quillons of his rapier but the goblin flung itself behind the blow, following the axe blade with its whole body. The blow smashed Jex's hilt back into his own face and he crashed to the ground with the goblin scrabbling atop of him.

Landing flat on his back, under the goblinoid, knocked the wind from Jex's lungs but not the song from the tip of his tongue. Grabbing the grunt by the throat, he bucked and rolling, reversed their predicament. Jex's left leg slid off the edge of the rock promontory, and glancing sideways he saw the chasm yawning only a foot away, whitewater below. Blood was leaking from his nose, spattering the goblin's chin. The bard was never very couth, so he cocked his arm and pounded the goblin in the mouth with the hilt of his sword, swearing bluely.

Behind him, another grunt leapt up and hefted its steel axe to split his skull like kindling. Before it could, it screached as Weston's lunge ran it through, above the hip, out through the groin and into its thigh. The goblin brought its axe down on him instead, the steel crunching into Weston's shoulder as he dodged. He felt sharp pain but could be grateful that the Order had reworked his armour with heavy spaulders.

Two-handedly, Weston whipped his longsword out of the goblin's trunk, wheeling the blade in a classic transition and cutting down across the goblin's chest, right to left, splaying its vitals.

The grunt collapsed like a wet sack. Weston was standing amongst its dead brethren; the once pale rocks were awash with their revolting orange blood. The young fighter was already favouring one leg from where a goblinoid had tried to break his knee but frankly it was amazing any of them where still standing. This was no goblin ambush, it reeked of...

Orcs! Seyja rampaged up the slope towards the trees and there she found them. Pine branches cracked and the orcs burst from the forest, roaring and slathering.

Whereas goblins were brightly coloured creatures, orcs were browns, blacks, mottled pinks. And unlike goblins, their features differed widely from one to the next, but they were all hairy, heavily built and fanged.

Two came straight at Seyja, orcs taller than Heilbutt and wearing wreaths of severed ears around their necks. They carried mauls with ironbound heads and the barbarian woman knew they were berserkers. Pink foam had dried around their mouths and flared nostrils. Seyja's nerves were still on fire from the shaman's curse, but hearing Jex's battle cries stoked the fire in her belly too. She would return the slaughter to its sender, a rejected gift from a rejected suitor.

Seyja screamed and charged both berserkers.

Heilbutt heard and looked around. He was bloodied from the fighting, but Sergeant Almador's polearm had allowed him to find better footing. The half-orc saw Seyja and the berserkers, was afraid for her, but there were more orcs uphill with Tindarien in their way. Heilbutt would have to barge through the goblins, and then to who's aid did he go? He turned to his master....

Nestaron cast his blessing and his companions could feel their presence, ancient spirits of battle, for whom death held no fear. They did not provoke fury, they instilled calm.

Loading a stone into his staff sling, the cleric took aim at a goblin shaman even as they were aiming their accursed gouts.

The lightning struck shaman sucked in its breath, ooze bubbling from its nose hole, but suddenly a dark elf stood behind it and plunged a dagger into its neck, sawing forward. Orange blood gushed down the goblin's chest and it toppled sideways, half-decapitated.

The second shaman squawked in alarm, flinching away from D and its streamer of slime splashed wide of the party, only a few spatters striking the Sergeant. Nearby, Tindarien the High Elf dug deep into his darkest knowledge and flung out his hand. From it fled a shadow, groaning, wailing, formless, streaking across the open ground and thudding into the shaman's breast, twisting heart, squeezing lungs and raking spine. The goblin wheezed but didn't die, and it turned a baleful eye on Tindarien, then D, and sneered.

Suddenly both elves were assailed by orc warriors, growling and wielding broadswords, edges notched and jagged.

The dark elf ducked and leaned, losing sight of Tindarien, who fended off the orcs with his own sword as best he could. The short, leaf blade was a poor defence and while the sorcerer was blocking an overhead chop from one orc, the other struck him under the ribs, carving four inches into Tindarien's flank. A mortal blow. Tindarien might have been concerned for the ferret, hidden, trembling in his pack. What would happen to Farvi?

About the hack the sorcerer to bloody chunks, the orc warriors were bowled apart as Heilbutt charged into their midst, spearing one through the stomach with such violence it lifted the orc off its feet.

Nearby, D dodged his orcish assailant with a butterfly twist and charged Tindarien's orcs, plunging his dagger into the back of the one Heilbutt had wounded. Tindarien staggered backwards, clutching his side but succored by the bard's obscene battle cries downhill.

Nestaron stamped his staff on the rocky ground, muttering to himself. From a well of life within him, the half-elf drew forth energy and moulded it with magic, golden light radiating from under his skin. Somehow he drove it across the distance, into his friend, Tindarien, and the same light bloomed in the high elf's flank.

Now the orc warriors were engaged in a fierce melee with Tindarien, Heilbutt and D. The afternoon sun glinted from the edges of blades, and the goblin shaman and the high elf sorcerer traded fell magics that made the greenery wilt.

Between them and Nestaron, Seyja was battered by the berserkers' mauls. She felt her limbs growing more leaden with every exchange, but the orcs were bleeding and labouring too.

A bellow.

Groil knew who was coming. Lermoriach, Chieftain of Bile and Spite. The adventurers were as doomed as he was.

Dying, the goblin grunt swung. It was so wild and without thought, it struck Zoltan upside the head with the haft not the edge, whilst the tiefling's own blade lopped the top off of Groil's head above the eyes. Groil flailed and spat, but Zoltan's next blow sprung the goblin's head from his shoulders.

Groil's parts toppled from the rocks into the river, and the paladin wincing, turned to survey the scene. He was likely surprised by the carnage. The goblins were fighting to the death, fighting like orcs. Like they were being pressed into a giant meat grinder by the ironshod boot of their overseer. What was worse, the meat grinder was starting to jam and the butcher's shop was still very much open for business.

Five orcs. Four goblins. Zoltan caught Weston's eye as the other man slew a goblin. Five orcs. Three goblins.

[[
D HP: 15/21; Rec: 8/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9 (Engaging Or.Wa1)
T HP: 12/18; Rec: 6/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3 (Engaging Or.Wa2)
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 26/33; Rec: 9/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2
S HP: 17/33; Rec: 7/8; AC 15, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2 (Engaging Or.Be1)
Z HP: 22/30; Rec: 8/8; AC 20, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
J HP: 7/24; Rec: 8/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2; Staggered (Engaging Gb.Gr1)

Al HP: 20/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3 (Engaging Gb.Gr2)
He HP: 23/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3 (Engaging Or.Wa1)

Or.Be1 HP: 20/40; AC 16, PD 15, MD 13; Init +5 (Engaging S)
Or.Be1 HP: 40/40; AC 16, PD 15, MD 13; Init +5 (Engaging S)
Or.Wa1 HP: 18/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3 (Engaging He)
Or.Wa2 HP: 22/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3 (Engaging T)
Or.Wa3 HP: 30/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3 (Engaging D)
Gb.Gr1 HP: 9/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3; Staggered (Engaging J)
Gb.Gr2 HP: 12/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3 (Engaging Al)
Gb.Gr3 HP: 0/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3; Dead
Gb.Gr4 HP: 0/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3; Dead
Gb.Sh1 HP: 0/34; AC 17, PD 12, MD 16; Init +6; Dead
Gb.Sh2 HP: 24/34; AC 17, PD 12, MD 16; Init +6
]]

Zoltan

He takes in the scene quickly, shaking off the smash from the haft of the Goblin's axe. He knows the remaining shaman needs to be taken down so he charges at it, shield leading to give him some protection from it's putrid attacks.

As he moves he can see Weston taking out his bow and he knows he will be targeting the Shaman as well, so Zoltan prepares to alter course and help Jex before he tumbles off the cliff if the Shaman doesn't drop from Weston's attack.

[OOC - Neal - Weston goes well before Zoltan so he should be able to see if the Shaman is still up after Weston's arrows fly past his head. Note he will use a second use of Smite Evil on the Shaman if Weston misses him.]

Seyja


She'd been roaring her rage, but now, as she began to tire somewhat, Seyja saved her strength a little, breathing in heavy gasps as she pressed home her attacks against her hated enemy.

D

His memory didn't recall any fragment of such a pitched battle. In point of fact most of what he could remember involved a single foe who didn't know the dark evil that he had been, was coming. But that didn't delay or slow his lightening fast movements as he adjusted for his opponents. He had too many foes close by to toss a blade to assist Seyja. If she could hold out, he would assist her, and he knew she could hold out.

Lining up his dark blade he aimed it for the back of the orc's neck in front of him. He would kill it as surely as his blade would split it from behind.

[OOC: Sure Cut d20+6, d8+4, miss d4+1]

<Weston>

With the closest threat settled, he grabbed his bow. They needed to get rid of the shaman and the apparent leader ... in that order.

Sergeant Almador

His eyes were wide like saucers, taking in every speck of light, every motion. The man-at-arms looked like he was on the verge of panic, but perhaps that was what battle was, perhaps if you were fighting for your life and not on the verge of panic, you were simply ignorant or misinformed.

Sergeant Almador was thankful for the cleric's blessing, the calming influence of the spirits he summoned. As Heilbutt barged passed the goblin grunt, Almador thrust his partisan at its legs, trying to trip or lame it.

Stabs of pain shot up the older man's spine from where the shaman's cursed puss had splattered him. He gritted his teeth.

"Kill the bastard thing!" He shouted encouragement to Weston. Someone had to kill that shaman.

<Weston>

Sighting along the arrow in his bow he grinned. "Working on it. Keep up the good work, you are doing great!"

He let his arrow fly at the remaining shaman even as he was pulling the next ...

Jex

It was going to be him or the goblin. One would die and the bard was adamant about it being the goblin. He continues to sing the ancient song under as he struggles to keep himself from plunging into the ravine with the goblin rolling on the ground with him. The hilt of his rapier created a moment of separation and he tries to take advantage of it and throw the goblin down. If that fails, his rapier was still in his hand and magic flowed through his fingertips.

Tindarien

Suddenly there are orcs, and ferocious orcs at that. Beset, he feels pain at a severe wound in his side. He does not want to end here. Not much in supporting his parent's legacy. Then he feels the balm of healing flowing into his side and knows who he will have to thank later as he has felt this boon before. And others arrive to assist.

Maybe not all is lost?

He knows the shaman is the biggest threat.. and then the orc leader. With these two gone, the tide could turn in their favour.

He reaches out a finger which is glowing red and a beam of red hot flame arches out towards the shaman.

Heilbutt

Every impulse drove him to go to Seyja's aid, but he'd seen his master look in Tindarien's direction and seen the high elf recoil, gravely wounded.

So fighting every urge, he barged passed the goblin and stormed the hill, cheeks puffing as he went to Tindarien's aid.

For once he doubted the power of the spirits, the gods, to protect the barbarian woman, but he had to believe Nestaron wouldn't fail her.

And then there was no time for doubt or any other constructed thought, only instincts. He hated orcs. Killing them was a cleansing act.

Pulling his spear from the orc, he pistoned in back at in again, yelling to the sorcerer.

"Fall back, Tindarien! We will hold them!"

With most of the goblins slain, Tindarien could fall back, downhill to Nestaron's position... if he could get clear of the orcish warriors.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He reached within himself, to the farthest, most remote corners, and found the light gathered there, growing, pure and positive, on the twilit roads to eternity. The fruit of life.

Nestaron knew Heilbutt wanted to aid Seyja, but Tindarien needed him more and so that's where he directed his disciple.

Well, if the half-orc insisted on calling him master, he'd better get used to following a command or two.

But Nestaron's mind was focused on someone else, there, he felt Jex's vitality, his life, and it was into the bard that he channelled the fruits he had gathered, a holy power, a healing force.

As he did this casting of his spell, his hand fumbled for another stone to cast from his staff sling. The shaman's time had surely come.

GM

Weston flicked the longbow up from the ground with the toe of his boot and caught it, snatching a fistful of arrows from his belt quiver. His eyes darted around the scene of battle, looking for an archery target.

The red goblin shaman was spewing puss from its noseless face, locked in a duel of magic with the high elf sorcerer, Tindarien.

Nestaron hurled a stone at the creature, thudding off of its hides but drawing its gaze so that it only saw Zoltan at the last moment.

It swung up its stone spear in defence, a clumsy block, but the paladin's blade hummed with a choir of seraphim, rending the spear into splinters when it struck and tearing the forearm to ribbons, as if the flesh itself leapt in all directions to evade the blow.

Then Zoltan had to lift his shield as the shaman burst into seething, spitting flames, shrieking curses at the top of its voice, boiling puss squirting from it. Smoke trailed from Tindarien's fingertips, as he sprinted downhill to join Nestaron, dimly aware that Heilbutt and the dark elf, D, had created an opening for him to escape the orcs.

With arrows gripped between the fingers of his draw hand, Weston pumped the string of his bow. One, two, the arrows launched at the goblin shaman, one sinking into its chest and finally silencing it. A third arrow, a third draw, Weston twisted at the waist and loosed an arrow at the goblin wrestling with Jex.

The two foes were bruised, bloodied, covered in rock dust from where they'd been grappling. The bard's arms were dead and his heart hammering. He didn't feel like he could breath fast or deep enough. The goblin grunt didn't look any better, its beak-like nose cracked and mashed against its cheek, blood smeared everywhere. But it had decided it was going to drag Jex with it, over the side of the rocky promontory and into the cascade. Jex was just driving the brass quillon of his rapier into the goblin's eyeball, when Weston's arrow thunked into the base of its neck and murked it.

Sergeant Almador also had a goblin problem. The older man-at-arms was wheezing as he staggered back from the grunt. Exhausted, he hadn't been concentrating during their last exchange and was suddenly alarmed by his slick grip on his polearm. He stared at his left hand in vague disbelief. It was missing two fingers; hot blood spurted from the stumps. His opponent gave a chittering laugh, its ear had been sheared off but it still hefted the steel axe with menace.

Seyja couldn't tell if she screamed as she blocked another massive, roundhouse blow from the berserkers. Her lips were blue, her eyes sunken and weeping blood, but her chipped teeth were locked in a vicious snarl. The orcs were relentless, untiring, their arms and shoulders working like terrible cranquins, winding up each attack with seemingly little strain.

Seeing the barbarian fading, one of the orcs growled "Lights out, little girl!" as it swung its ironshod maul up and over. With incredible ferocity the 'little girl' span to her off-hand side, her greataxe sweeping up from the long tail stance and slapping open the berserker's abdomen, spilling its innards. It roared and stamped on them, trying to retain its balance but Seyja struck again and lopped off its head, before the other berserker slammed into her.

Having poured healing magic into Jex, Nestaron the Half-Elf called upon the river gods to protect Seyja and she felt cajoled, as if some presence was pushing and pulling her out of harm's way. The cleric couldn't know if his divine magic would be enough to hold out against the orcs.

D might have decided that fighting orcs wasn't the done thing. Evidently he had no issue with killing them, but there had to be a more underhanded, blaggardly way of doing it.

The dark elf ripped his dagger from the neck of the orc warrior that had been harrying Tindarien. He'd created the opening that allowed the sorcerer to fall back, but was paying for engaging in the fray. Blood was pouring from a stab wound in his thigh and filling his boot. Alongside him, Heilbutt's armour was torn and glistening wetly but the half-orc didn't falter. The orc warrior dropped, clutching its neck and its feet kicking.

There were more.

One more especially.

With a crackling of branches, Lermoriach leapt from the forest, landing with a crunch on the burning carcass of the goblin shaman.

He stood amongst the black smoke, his amber eyes surveying the battle with unveiled disgust. He was a stocky, broad shouldered orc, with twin axes scarred into his face. The Axes of Impurity, marking his as a champion of the Orc Lord and a chieftain. He carried a steel boar spear and had a throat sac that trembled as a uttered a low growl. He saw Seyja. Lermoriach had been chasing her across the Dragon Empire for too long, every day a forced march, never able to pillage or plunder, and him, orc chieftain, answering to that dwarven abomination, the Iron Skull.

Lermoriach was going to kill every one of the adventurers, and then he was going to drag Seyja kicking and screaming back to the Orc Lord himself.

His eyes met Zoltan's and he recognised the zeal instantly. Lermoriach's growl became a roar, as he loped then charged towards the paladin who did likewise.

The two champions clashed, Zoltan's sword singing and tearing through Lermoriach's mail as they collided. The chieftain snarled and glared at the tiefling, showing yellow fangs and gold teeth. Without braggadocio, the paladin used his shield as a counterweight and wheeled his sword into a overhead chop. The blade struck Lermoriach in his forehead, but his skull didn't split. The Axes of Impurity sizzled and fumed, his throat sac swelled and then the chieftain bellowed.

All heard it, but Zoltan, D and Heilbutt, they felt it. The hatred, the revulsion for all civilisation, so overwhelming it could crush the life out of someone, as if a gargantuan boot was trodden across their neck. It was venom for the mind, a battle curse.

Lermoriach's orcs howled in reply, attacking with fury intensified.

Heilbutt staggered backwards, grabbing the blade of an orc's sword, as the tip was thrust into his stomach. D came to the Heilbutt's aid, burying his dagger between the orc warrior's shoulders, distracting it. But behind D, another orc attacked, striking the rogue across the back with its broadsword.

The first orc flung the dark elf over his shoulder like a ragdoll, a dead weight, then both turned on Heilbutt.

[[
D HP: -7/21; Rec: 8/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9; Unconcious, Dying
T HP: 10/18; Rec: 5/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3; Staggered
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 26/33; Rec: 9/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2
S HP: 3/33; Rec: 7/8; AC 15+2, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered (Engaging Or.Be2)
Z HP: 18/30; Rec: 8/8; AC 20, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2 (Engaging Or.Ch)
J HP: 4/24; Rec: 7/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2; Staggered

Al HP: 10/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3; Staggered (Engaging Gb.Gr2)
He HP: 9/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3; Staggered (Engaging Or.Wa1)

Or.Ch HP: 19/36; AC 18, PD 12, MD: 16; Init +5 (Engaging Z)
Or.Be1 HP: 0/40; AC 16, PD 15, MD 13; Init +5; Dead
Or.Be2 HP: 32/40; AC 16, PD 15, MD 13; Init +5 (Engaging S)
Or.Wa1 HP: 9/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3; Staggered (Engaging He)
Or.Wa2 HP: 22/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3; Dead
Or.Wa3 HP: 30/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3
Gb.Gr1 HP: 0/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3; Dead
Gb.Gr2 HP: 12/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3 (Engaging Al)
Gb.Sh2 HP: 0/34; AC 17, PD 12, MD 16; Init +6; Dead
]]

<Weston>

He grinned when the shaman fell and the grin widened when he managed to get a third arrow to hit, keeping Jex from going awol over the cliff. But then there seemed to be a whole flock of new foes coming from everywhere. It felt like they were losing ground! And that just wouldn't do!! He gritted his teeth and took a moment to survey. The big one fighting Zoltan seemed to be the leader. That seemed like the best target. Take =him= out and the others might break and run ... or at least be a bit demoralized. He sighted and let loose ...

Seyja


Breathing in deep gasps, Seyja gathered her strength (benefiting from Nestaron's help, but she did not know that) and roared victoriously when the orc's head left its neck.

Now back to the other. She swung her greataxe at it and even as she did so, she heard the dreaded orc chieftain roar. Even in the midst of her rage, she recognized that sound.

Jex

He could barely breathe, much less sing as he sang the last note he looked towards Seyja and she heard that note. Suddenly an arrow pierced the neck of the goblin and the bard watched it get silenced. Jex felt the grip loosen on him and he immediately clawed at the dirt to get away from the ledge. Once able to get to his feet and away from the precipice, he pointed a finger at the nearest goblin but if he managed to find a moment of safety, he looked towards the orc chieftan and targeted him and his nearest accomplices with a clap of thunderous noise which he hoped would harm and daze them for a befuddling.

[ooc: Soundburst Befuddle]

D

The dark elf didn't see the broadsword before it hit him. Yet as before he noted without surprise that it had happened again. Was this the only cruel certainty in his short lives? Was this the lesson? Had he learned how to die, yet? Only time would tell, as blood dripped down the orc's back like one last bit of defiant spittle.

Zoltan

Saving his divine energy for later battles would be pointless if he did not survive this one, so gathering himself he resumes his attacks on the Orc Chieftain

[Continue to use Divine Smite until I run out of uses. I should still have 2 or 3 left. Also note, Zoltan's PD is 13 not 12. He is still hit, but just wanted to let you know.]

Sergeant Almador

Coughing up phlegm, he tried to retain his grip on his partisan. If he dropped it, he was a dead man.

The disbelief at seeing his maimed fingers quickly dissolved into an adrenaline-fuelled excitement. He was shaking head to foot, as the full, staggering realisation that something was trying to kill him finally sank in.

"Bleeding hell!" He gasped, then yelled incomprehensibly and hacked desparately at the goblin grunt.

Heilbutt

He was glad to see the high elf fall back and surprised by the dark elf's gallantry. Heilbutt would never have expected such a thing from a dark elf, let alone from one with as dubious a vocation as D.

As unlikely as his brother-in-arms was, Heilbutt fought alongside him and fought for him, as if he were a clansman.

Sweat and blood beaded on the half-orc's skin, and the pain was like rivulets of acid, crawling over his body. But he was a crude combatant, making up for what he lacked in technique and wits, with sheer vigour.

Heilbutt roared in anger as the orc warriors cut down the rogue. He felt the first pangs of despair; the chieftain's battle curse threatened to bury him beneath its raw hatred and his vision was darkening. But he could not relent to orcs of all things, and he would never relinquish the rogue's body to them.

He interposed himself between the orc warriors and D's unconcious form.

"You will not." He growled at them, his arm thrusting forwards as they came, with haft, jagged spearhead and the promise of death.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

His hair was plastered against his forehead, as he delved once more into the realm of spirits and gods.

Nestaron wrung his staff in both hands, aware that many of his companions needed his healing power, though one more than any other.

He muttered a litany of phrases, trying to remould magic he'd already cast into shape. It could be done, but it would break the heightened awareness he'd invoked. How many attacks from behind had that thwarted? How many mortal blows prevented?

No, it was too risky. There were still orcs about, and he couldn't endanger the rest of the party for one man.

If he was to save D, he'd have to do it by hand, which meant charging into the fray, or....

Nestaron licked his lips and held up his hand to the sky.

"Madan!" He said, calling upon the constellation and the divine being that comprised it, "My power has failed me, O Glory, Mother of Dawn, I beg you find this man and cure his wounds!"

Too much malice, too much murderous intent. The cleric would target whatever foe looked most distracted or weakened with his next shot.

[Cast Cure Wounds on D]

TINDARIEN

Again he moves, avoiding direct conflict in order to provide the best attacks he could for the group as a whole. And he owes many of them for these chances, just now Heilbutt and D.

He spares one glance, a nod, to his friend Nestaron, another that has more than helped his this day. Then he is facing the enemy looking for the biggest threat. And that threat announces himself with a roar!

He stretches out his glowing finger again, this time the red line of flame streaks towards the orc chieftain.

GM

A dark, limpid ocean and an empty sky without colour or light.

The soul drifted on his back, face up and staring sightlessly, the water lapping around his ears.

He did not see, but he heard. Voices. A woman's voice. Chiding him about returning so late. Laughing uproarously as they joked about a rival prince's ridiculously long shoes. Then whispered words as they huddled together, watching the first robin of winter alight outside the window.

He heard children's voices, running a noisy gamut of emotion and event.

The voices were once part of his life, but his life was not his own.

A fog blanketed the surface of the water now, forming into figures and faces in a halo around his head.

He saw himself, standing in a circle, opposite him was the Baronessa in night robes; to his left was a halfling woman in buckskins with a mohawk and shortbow, her face painted black and white. To his right, a dwarf, naked but for a loincloth and his bristling, foot-long moustaches. His left arm is sleeved with a tattoo of a strange creature, the forequarters of a rampant horse and the hindquarters of a fighting cockrel.

In the middle sat an empty throne of shifting, flickering darkness.

Then the soul saw light, growing around him and could feel its heat rising from the depths.

With an explosion of sensation he was suddenly alive again, and soaring upwards, carried by a giantess. A woman with the lower half of a serpent, whose body was fire behind glass. Wind was rushing in the soul's ears, rippling his unsolid flesh and bones as he was born aloft, cradled in her mighty hands.

***

D gasped and drew breath, Heilbutt's sandalled foot stamping down near his face as he was fought over.

The half-orc grimaced, using the reach of his spear to parry one of his foes' broadswords. The other orc warrior leapt in with an overhead chop, thinking he was inside the arc of Heilbutt's longer weapon. But Heilbutt slid his off-hand down to the head of the spear and swung it up, piercing the orc through the cheek and out through the back of its head.

Jex had a more arcane weapon in mind, gesturing sharply with his hand and chanting an Unterseeic verse. He blew into his fist and then threw it at the orc's champion.

Lermoriach let out a strangled growl as a cloud of violet-coloured ink burst over his face. His vision swam and his movements were sloppy, drunken, as if he were unsure where his own limbs were.

Even befuddled, he was still dangerous, driven by instinct and reflexes alone, enough that he threw up his forearm and Weston's arrow thunked into it instead of his chest.

Zoltan wasted no time, following the arrow in with a fell sword stroke, that clove through the orc's mail and sprung half his ribs from his breastbone, staggering him. Lermoriach howled, and thrust his boar spear at the paladin, who shrugged it off with his shield in a shower of sparks. The chieftain glared at Zoltan with pure hatred, his throat sac ballooning.

"I will see goblins dance in your skin, demontouched!" He rumbled.

From the corner of his eye, the tiefling could see Tindarien flexing his fingers, that burned like red hot irons, and he lunged sideways as a beam of scorching white heat shot passed, yellow flames writhing around it.

It struck Lermoriach in the guts and he snarled, the scars of his face growing bright red and livid, but suddenly his talismans broke. Squealing like a pig, he staggered back as fire erupted from his mouth, nose, eyes and ears. His throat sac exploded and his head yawned backwards, turning him into a standing volcano....

Seyja ducked under the berserker's maul, and caught it with a glancing blow above its knee, sensing the orc cheiftain's fiery doom behind her. The berserker screamed and juddered in anguish, so frenzied, it tore its own lips off with its fingers and was spitting blood at the barbarian woman as it attacked.

The goblin grunt was not so inclined. Its wicked grin at overpowering the man-at-arms dropped into open-mouthed dismay. Suddenly that goblin shiftiness flooded back into it, and it was more concerned with saving its own hide than finishing off some porky old man.

Sergeant Almador's arms were so tired and numb, he could barely lift his weapon. His strength was spent.

[[
D HP: 8/21; Rec: 8/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9; Staggered
T HP: 10/18; Rec: 5/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3; Staggered
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 26/33; Rec: 9/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2
S HP: 3/33; Rec: 7/8; AC 15+2, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered (Engaging Or.Be2)
Z HP: 18/30; Rec: 8/8; AC 20, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
J HP: 4/24; Rec: 7/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2; Staggered

Al HP: 5/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3; Staggered (Engaging Gb.Gr2)
He HP: 9/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3; Staggered (Engaging Or.Wa3)

Or.Ch HP: 0/36; AC 18, PD 12, MD: 16; Init +5; Dead
Or.Be2 HP: 20/40; AC 16, PD 15, MD 13; Init +5 (Engaging S)
Or.Wa3 HP: 30/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3 (Engaging He)
Gb.Gr2 HP: 12/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3 (Engaging Al)
]]

D

Whatever the lesson, he clearly had not learned it yet. Aching all over, his body telling him that he should be dead, even though he clearly was not. His hand slipped to his belt and in one very smooth motion drew and threw a deadly flying black blade at the fleeing goblin. None would get away. He had said that and done that too many times to let it not be true. Here now on the threshold, back from the precipice of death, he would make it true again.

He rolled to his side and began to stand up. He would have to be more careful if he was going to hurt less. Clearly it didn't matter if he was to live, as he still existed. He would have to thank whomever was responsible when the time came.

What he knew now was that this group he had fallen in with, were extraordinary. They all had unique skills and abilities far beyond that of mere mortals. He knew why that demon cat had sent him here, at least in part, now.

[OOC: Flying Blade d20+5 (before escalation die), damage d4+4, miss 1, crit -4 daze]

TINDARIEN

Several of his companions had the same idea and the orc chieftain came under attack from several directions. And it took that concerted effort to bring him down. He is pleased he played a part in it and can sense that the tide has turned in their favour.

But some of his companions are still beset. Seyja is fighting hard but probably is in most need of help. He turns his glowing finger in the direction of the orc berserker.

<Weston>

He took a moment to survey the field, a battle could shift quickly. He was looking to see who most needed a helping arrow or two. It would quicker than running all over the field.

Sergeant Almador

He was done, he knew it. His arms were jelly, the small of his back felt like a ball of hot wax, and he had maybe one last swing in him, if he was lucky.

So Almador couldn't understand why the goblin was inching away, trying to disengage. His awareness of the battlefield was appalling. He hadn't even realised the orcs' chieftain had joined the fray, let alone been defeated.

It was time for that one last swing....

[Attack Gb.Gr2]

Heilbutt

He tugged his spear out of the orc's face as he dodged away from the other.

They'd slain the chieftain, these companions of his!! Seeing the dark elf roll to his feet, Heilbutt knew that his master's magic had to be involved and he felt humbled. The battle curses of the Orc Lord had failed and the day would be won, not by hatred, but by comradeship and selflessness.

The half-orc was only now beginning to understand the significance of these two things in nature's design. And perhaps there was more?

He spared a glance at Seyja, where again and again she'd clashed with the berserkers that towered over her.

Clansmen of the grim, rain-lashed Wake Island were not aspirational folk, but something akin to it was kindled in Heilbutt's heart. He counterattacked his foe, as ferocious as ever.

Seyja


Now there was only one of the despised berserker orcs in front of her, although by now, fatigue nearly crushing her, her eyesight red-tinged and dimming slightly, she sensed the brute as much as saw him.

Only her over-riding hatred for the orcs and their master (and Nestaron's help although she was still not aware of that) along with her rage kept her erect and fighting. She swung her greataxe again, determined her foe would fall even if the attempt killed her, too.

[OOC - Got on-line for a few minutes, so...]

Zoltan

He grins grimly as the Orc Chieftan goes down. That's both chieftan and shaman down, and he feels satisfied he had a role in killing both.

Turning to once again peruse the battlefield to see where he can be of the most help, he can see both Sergeant Almador and Seyja are fading. But he can also sense the Goblin fighting Almador is about to flee, so he charges the Orc on Seyja, striking it for behind.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

Even in the heat of combat and the afternoon sun, Nestaron shivered, like the onset of illness. But it was just exertion of his inner strength and he knew it well enough to know it would pass soon enough.

In the meantime, he focused on seating another stone into his sling. The Sergeant was on his last legs and Nestaron didn't think the goblin could resist an easy kill.

Jex
The number of foes was dwindling. If they could pare down the number even more, they might all survive. There were three alive and he targeted the one on Seyja. If he could free her up, she could help someone else. So he held forth his hand once again and he conjured a bolt of bedlam which he hurled at the orc berserker that was trying to kill Seyja.

GM

Having learned things from dusty tomes and shrivelled parchments in Drakenhall's legendary troves, things that would make a person's hair turn white, fall out, or even transform into snakes, the bard knew more than any bard safely should about magic. Because of course, bards to a lesser or greater extent, liked to show off.

Jex made a series of quick gestures with his off-hand, mouthing words and flicking his fingers at the orc berserker. A bolt of crackling energy shot from his palm and hit the berserker in the chest.

It exploded leaving a gory, fist-sized crater, but even after Weston's arrow thudded between its shoulders, the orc staggered forward, some how still alive, gripping its maul and driven by one, foaming impulse; wreck the barbarian woman. Wreck her.

Seyja came at it flying, greataxe raised high in an overhead chop as she leapt. The orc berserker roared but the her axe cleft skull, neck, right down to the brisket. Gore splattered Seyja's face, hairy lumps catching in her teeth.

That wasn't how the goblin foresaw his end. instead, the grunt feinted an attack at Almador and the men-at-arms was wrong-footed. Opening created, the goblin jumped backwards, straight into the path of a throwing dagger.

It screeched, a hilt jutting from its thigh. It couldn't flee? Trapped!? Better to take one of these adventurers to hell with it? It glanced at Almador, then with a crack, Nestaron's stone struck the gblin in the forehead and put out its lights.

Up the rocky slope, close to the forest's edge, Heilbutt was locked in mortal combat with the orc warrior. D had made his escape, but his half-orc saviour was wounded, tiring versus a dominant foe. The orc wielded its broadsword with brutal efficiency, hack, slash, hack, slash, the haft of Heilbutt's spear was notched and splintering. Heilbutt saw Zoltan pounding uphill towards them, sword and shield in hand.

Knowing he didn't have the reserves left to outstep his foe, Heilbutt lunged, thrusting his spear into the orc's foot and pinning it. Suddenly the tip of Zoltan's blade slammed into the creature's armpit. It staggered sideways, gasping, clutching at the paladin with one arm, its eyes-rolling in pain.

It stared Zoltan in the face, glancing at where the hated half-orc was stretched, regaining his footing from the lunge.

"For the Orc Lord!!" It hissed at Zoltan. Twisting on his blade, it screamed and with a terrible blow, struck off Heilbutt's head.

Tindarien and Jex were there, lightning and nega energy burning into the orc warrior as Zoltan held it in place. Its screams didn't abate as the flesh melted from its bones.

When its last, pitiful scream came, it was swept away by the din of the cascades.

The rocks were splashed with blood, some of it pooling beneath the corpses and trickling into the river.

Including your own, nineteen lay dead.

[[
D HP: 8/21; Rec: 8/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9; Staggered
T HP: 10/18; Rec: 5/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3; Staggered
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 26/33; Rec: 9/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2
S HP: 3/33; Rec: 7/8; AC 15, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered
Z HP: 18/30; Rec: 8/8; AC 20, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
J HP: 4/24; Rec: 7/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2; Staggered

Al HP: 5/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3; Staggered
He HP: 0/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3; Dead

Or.Be2 HP: 0/40; AC 16, PD 15, MD 13; Init +5; Dead
Or.Wa3 HP: 0/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3; Dead
Gb.Gr2 HP: 0/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3; Dead
]]

<Weston>

He grinned as his arrow helped take down Seyja's for. But his satisfaction was short lived.

"Damn" he said quietly as he saw Heilbutt go down. **too slow** he told himself. If he could have gotten just one more arrow away ...

And then it was quiet except for the water. But there was blood, there were bodies ... everywhere! But he couldn't just sit around. For one thing there might be more of them and they needed to pull themselves together.

He moved over to Almador and clapped the man on the back. "Not bad", he said with a somewhat forced smile on his face. The guardsman clearly needed a bit of a boost.

Seyja


Suddenly it seemed to be over and Seyja bent forward, her hands on her knees, breathing in deep gasps as her mouth filled with the coppery aftertaste of her rage. She coughed and spit out bits of nasty tasting orc.

After a moment or so, she managed to bring herself back erect and look around at her companions. They all seemed to be alright, but...

No... Heilbutt lay there, headless. Seyja shook her head slowly.

"He was a noble adventurer."

<Weston>

"He will be missed", he said agreeing with Seyja. "He deserves a decent burial ... if that was his way", he said looking to Nestaron.

D

He looked around for more foes. That he was now alive again crossed his mind yet they had lost one. The barbarian woman's words were true. What adventure awaited him in his next incarnation?

For a moment he only swayed on hus feet. His body trembled with the jitters of combat. He stepped lightly and recovered his blades. They hadn't even made their objective and they had nearly failed. This was a worthy challenge.

Tindarien

It takes a moment to realise that the fighting has stopped, so intense had the battle been. He takes a breath, thankful he had survived, something he owes to his companions.

That thought in his mind he does a head count, also checking that none of their foes are still moving. His eyes light on Heilbutt and his heart sinks. Certainly Heilbutt's earlier intervention had been a large contribution to Tindarien's survival. He had intended to thank him personally.

He heads up the slope to where his body lays and honours him in the best way he can, his voice lifting in light elven song as he sings his respect to a fallen hero.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He closed his eyes, threw his head back and felt the sun's rays on his face. Life.

The battle was won, but at what cost? Groaning, the cleric lowered and hung his head, gripping his staff with both hands and leaning on it like an old man.

"Heilbutt... I am sorry." He whispered.

Nestaron picked his way across the rocks, the blood and corpses to where his follower, his disciple lay.

"He was barely nineteen, but he chose to leave his people, dedicate his life to fighting the forces of evil.

"And so he did, and so it was."

The half-elf knelt beside Heilbutt.

"He didn't waver for a second...." Nestaron shook his head and rubbed his face.

"Very well," he sighed, "Heilbutt did not think much of himself, but I will hold him in high esteem."

"The Wake Islanders weight their dead and cast them into the sea by the shoals.

"Let's gather his remains, build a raft and let the river -- that he died to protect -- bear him home."

Seyja


Seyja moved up alongside the kneeling cleric and, head bowed in respect, waited for the elven song to be concluded before she spoke.

"I would be honored if you would allow me to help bath his body and brush his hair, Nestaron."

<Weston>

"A burial at sea sounds like a suitable celebration for a great man", he says as he begins to collect wood for the building of the funeral barge.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He nodded and smiled to Seyja.

"Heilbutt would have felt privileged indeed, Seyja, thank you."

Nodding his gratitude to Weston, he looked along the forest's edge.

"At least there is plentiful wood hereabouts." He said, lowering his gaze to the dead goblins and orcs.

"These were no pixie-poaching tribal goblins, they were armed with forged steel and fought like - like orcs." Nestaron noted aloud.

Sergeant Almador

He gaped and collapsed onto his haunches. He had no breath to reply to Weston. He put his head in his hands and took a moment for himself.

Zoltan

He looks around to double-check no more enemies might appear, then cleans and sheathes his sword. Grunting softly, he turns and notes Heilbutt's death.

He moves over to the group and looks sadly on the body. "Do the Wake Islanders place the bodies of the hero's enemies at his feet in the barge?" He'd heard of that practice.

Jex

The bard was happy just to survive the battle. He was battered and bruised and breathed a sigh of relief when the last of the goblinoids was dispatched. But once he realized that there was a casualty his heart sank. He liked the half-orc. He was brave and strong but he was also proud of who he was and was honorable. It did him no justice to just belt out a new tune now. Heilbutt would have a proper song written to honor him but it would take some time.

"We must search the bodies carefully. Perhaps there is a clue in a pocket," he called out. Jex moved towards the body of the orc chieftain and started to search him first.

<Weston>

He wanted to 'do right' by Heilbutt, he had been a good member of their team. But Jex made a good point too. They had lost quite a bit of time already.

"We should divide and conquer", he said. "We need some to help take care of Heilbutt. But we also need to see what we can learn from our foes." Looking at the dead, though, he had to wonder if they could yield any useful information.

Seyja


"He grew far beyond his heritage," she said soberly.

"I did not know him long but my respect grew the longer I did."

Seyja picked up Heilbutt's severed head, used her fingers to brush his hair back from his face and then placed the head carefully close to where it had sat in life.

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Nestaron

The half-elf pondered over Zoltan's question. He'd also heard of some tribes doing that, but Wake Island was a ruinous place. The people weren't much for embellishments.

"In honesty, Zoltan, they usually just weight the body with stones and sink it out by the reef after a short ceremony.

"They do value spear-fighting above all else though, so perhaps we can send that orc chieftain's boar spear with Heilbutt downriver."

He worked reverently with the barbarian, Seyja, wrapping Heilbutt in his sheets and blankets, so binding his head and limbs in place. He used the half-orc's own spear as one splint and Lermoriach's boar spear as another, so they could move the body easily.

Heilbutt's death nagged at Nestaron. Fuldroik had placed the Heilbutt in the cleric's care. Nestaron hadn't asked or wanted that responsibility, but at the time he'd told himself that it was their misjudgement, their folly; he wasn't some holy man to have disciples following him around.

Watching Seyja stroke Heilbutt's hair, and remembering Heilbutt's awkward fondness for her, he realised that it didn't matter if it was Fuldroik's mistake. Nestaron was still responsible.

D

He nodded agreeing with the sentiment being expressed. For his part though he moves to do a search of those foes that weren't already being examined.

Tindarien

Having finished his song, the last note hanging in the air, Tindarien sets to work on the raft. He sorely regrets the loss of their companion, maybe more than some of the others as he had travelled with him for longer.

Sergeant Almador

Wiping his eyes, the Sergeant blew out a breath and stood up with a grunt and one hand on the small of his back.

He was still awstruck by his first taste of savage bloodletting, and by the death of the half-orc.

Sergeant Almador hadn't really consider Heilbutt to be more than a two-legged mule. But indisputably, Heilbutt had given his life while on the quest to break Almador's family curse and save their home town.

Like the rest of the adventurers, Heilbutt had fought on the behalf of strangers. Sergeant Almador was still trying to understand their motives.

"I'm sorry." He said, apologising to the party. He picked up his partisan.

"I will stand watch on the surround. That at least, I know how to do."

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Nestaron

He patted Tindarien on the shoulder, after the high elf had finished his elegy. The two of them had known Heilbutt longest.

"That was well done." Nestaron said quietly.

Once Heilbutt's remains were arranged, he would help his companions with the raft if possible. (The half-elf had considerable carpentry and cooping skills but that didn't mean he knew how to build a raft.) Finally, he would carry out what funeral rites were needed.

<Weston>

He was about to say something encouraging to Almador, but decided to leave the man to his thoughts. He continued to search the fallen foes for anything that might be helpful.

GM

It was a beautiful late-afternoon in summer by the river.

Aptly named it was, the Scintilla. The reclining sun glinted and flashed off of the water, casting rainbows in the mist above the cascades. It seemed as though the surface gleamed and flecks of gold danced around its edges.

The sky was flushed, but the warmth of the day was soaked into the very rocks.

Sergeant Almador stood on the same promontory where Jex had wrestled with the goblin. He stood at attention, practised as you'd expect from a town guard. His gaudy, yellow and blue liviery was in sharp contrast to the natural tones around him, and those worn by his companions. But standing there in the wilderness, he looked like a small piece of officialdom, a representation of the town of Rosencliff.

Although Heilbutt considered himself no more than a peon, his companions, it seemed, were of a different mind, and none quibbled over the time taken to send him off properly.

It wasn't wasted time. A small, one-man raft was built with timber and some of the empty waterskins. What you learned from that enterprise would be useful later, if a raft was needed to carry you back downriver. Working together, Nestaron and Tindarien proved quite capable at it, with Seyja and Zoltan supplying the timber. There was no shortage of axes.

This was noted by those searching the bodies of their vanquished foes. Some of the goblins had the paddle-like wooden clubs favoured by the tribes, but several had bearded axes, with heads made from quality forged steel.

The orcs had broadswords, blades jagged and notched from misuse but of the same quality, and likewise with their mail and helmets

Now there was a perception amongst citizens of the Seven Cities that orcs smithed cheap, crude weapons by the bucketload. Unfortunately, the Orc Lord disagreed with them. He had raided and plundered elves and dwarves for decades, stealing their knowledge of arms and armour. He had taken elvish craftsmanship and dwarven ingenuity, and turned it into industry.

Whereas the backbone of the Crusader's army was its monied knights and nobles, the Orc Lord did not truck with civilisation. He didn't hesitate to share his spoils amongst his hordes, to equip and resource them. The Orc Lord was a general, not a king.

The Orc Lord's was said to be coralled in the north, beyond the Northern Colossus, but these were undoubtedly his goblins and orcs, south of Axis itself.

The goblins would have been pressed from local tribes, through sheer intimidation, to be used as scouts. The orc chieftain's corpse smoked, having been roasted from the inside out by high elf sorcery. The Axes of Impurity were scarred into his face. They marked him a champion, leader of his own band, and from his boar spear it seemed his forte was hunting.

Seyja recognised Lermoriach immediately, and she recognised the ornate glass bottle that Jex found in his belt. It was one of Lalleh's healing potions*. The old gypsy woman brewed and bottled them herself, and frightfully potent they were said to be. Lermoriach must have looted Lallah's caravan after the raid and stolen the potion. The chieftain probably assumed it was valuable but didn't know its contents, otherwise he might've used it after Zoltan whaled him.

Searching the rest, D and Weston gathered about 60 gp of mostly Dwarven or Imperial coins, and a plethora of foul trophies and fetishes, shrunken heads, wreaths of dried, severed ears, and such like.

D and Weston also find the goblins that had scrambled up the rocks from below had been carrying nets and lassos.... Now that it occurred to them, the goblin shamans had targeted Seyja with their curses, and then the orc berserkers had attempted to subdue her with mauls.

The impression was that these creatures were travelling fast and light, scouting, hunting, and none of you had any doubt who they served. The Orc Lord.

The question was, were there more of them? Where were they? And could they really have come this far south for one human woman?

[*Lalleh's Enlivening Elixir. Champion-tier healing potion. Grants spontaneous heal by using recovery, but at +2d8 hp!!]

Seyja


Seyja stood there and scowled down at Lermoriach's corpse, then spat upon it. She lifted her greataxe but, before she could sever the chieftain's head, she spotted the cut glass bottle Jex was taking from the orc's belt.

"Could I hold that for a moment, please?"

Her voice was unnaturally hesitant, nearly pleading in tone. When Jex allowed her to take the bottle (hopefully), she walked over to a nearby tree and sat in its shade, leaning back against the trunk and holding the bottle with both hands pressed against her chest.

Tears filled her eyes and then began to soundlessly roll down her cheeks.

<Weston>

"It is worrisome that so much of the coin is dwarven ... they do not easily part with their wealth. Then there is the fact that the leader didn't know what he had in the way of the potion. It all suggests that they may be working for someone else."

Zoltan

He examines the items found and nods at Weston's comment. As Seyja takes the bottle, seemingly with some unknown amount of recognition and moves off to a nearby tree, he waits a respectful amount of time and then softly asks her leadingly, "It seems you know what that is?"

Tindarien

He glances across at Nestaron as they work on the raft.

"The least I could do. I will miss him. And I owe him my life and also you my friend. I felt your healing touch when I most needed it."

He smiles softly.

"This seems to be a good group that we are part of. Everyone worked for the greater good, rather than self interest it seemed. We did well here."

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Nestaron

He sat back on his haunches and wiped his brow.

"Think nothing of it, Tindarien." He agreed, "You gave as good as you got."

Nestaron looked around at the party and nodded.

"Zoltan and Weston are an intriguing pair. Sent by the Order of Averness, I understand. Sir Edward the Red was one of theirs. But why send them two in particular? I wonder if one isn't meant to keep an eye on the other? Together, they are like earth and fire.

"But the Order are gallant, and I think we can count on Zoltan and Weston to help us with the river problem, even if they find Red Ed first."

The half-elf's eyes glanced over D and Jex.

"And those two, are as bound to the quest as Sergeant Almador is. Jex is obligated to the Baronessa and doubtlessly, to ending the story of Gorulon Gorehound.

"The dark elf? Well, he is not what he seems or perhaps, even what he thinks he is. But there is something between him and the Baronessa."

That left the barbarian. How dependable was she? Nestaron didn't look her way.

"It's obvious now that Seyja was not exaggerating; the Orc Lord wants her badly.

"They say the Orc Lord has no weaknesses, Tindarien. We may have just found one. If that is so, you know that the High Druid will want to meet her personally.

"For now, I hope she stays with us. Heilbutt would have wanted us to look out for her, I think. He died protecting her. That is a sentiment I can honour."

Jex
"Yes my dear," he said to Seyja and he hands it to her.

When he sees her clutch it and start to cry, he moves over to her and crouches down by her side. "Do you know what this is? I suspect that it's something rather special. It obviously means something to you."

D

Having finished his search the dark elf sits down to rest for a minute. He had barely escaped death because of the half orc's actions. He shared the thoughts and words though silently.

Seyja


The tears continue to slide down her cheeks, but she did not cry aloud except for an occasional sharp intake of breath. After a few moments, she lifted the bottle in front of her face and carefully wiped the dust and smudges from it.

"She was like a mother... or mayhap a grandmother to me, the gypsy elder woman who crafted this potion of healing." She held it up where Jex and Zoltan could see it and pointed to a small, illegible carved inscription.

"See... that is her mark."

Seyja held the bottle to her cheek for a moment and then handed it back to Jex. With a grunt and an obvious attempt to clear the concern from her face, she got to her feet.

"I would appreciate it more than you would know, Jex, if you would give me the bottle after the potion has been used."

Seyja smiled sadly and looked off into the distance.

"The Orc Lord's foul minions killed her and, for all I know, all of her small band."

GM

For all the beauty of that summer's afternoon, there was a sombre tone amongst the victors.

Using the two spears, you easily lifted Heilbutt onto the raft. After he was securely lashed to it, you lowered the whole thing down to the river's edge. The cleric had whispered his funeral rites, but did anyone have anything else to say?

Seyja had told you about the northern gypsies she travelled with, and Lalleh, the old wise woman, both soothsayer and healer. Perhaps the Orc Lord's minions would find more than they bargained for, next time they caught up with the barbarian woman? But if Seyja, if the party, were to defeat a foe like the Iron Skull, they would need to train, to re-equip, possibly even minions of their own.

For now, another life had been lost in the defence of Seyja's. Heilbutt the Half-Orc had fallen in battle, but you had slain nearly a score of the enemy in return and left none alive.

The dead goblins and orcs could stay where they were and bake in the sun. Orc flesh was poisonous to all but orcs, but the valley's scavengers were scarce anyway, if the lions you'd found were anything to go by.

Heilbutt looked stern, almost as if he were eager to be away. So you let slip the raft and it drifted into the main channel, gathering speed in the riffling waters. He disappeared around the bend of the river, carried northwards, down towards the sea. With him went his jagged spear, the orc chieftain's spear, and battle won.

The party stood on the pale rocks above. Behind them was pine forest, climbing steeply uphill, and behind that was the water-bored peak, the Titan's Elbow.

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Nestaron

He sighed and said a silent fairwell to the half-orc. He'd already spoken the funeral rites, such as they were.

Nestaron took a swig from his waterskin and repacked it. He was carrying all of his own gear now and certainly wouldn't complain.

Looking around at the distinctive labyrinth of rock that formed the cascades, he settled on a name for them.

"Heilbutt's Hallow, that's what we'll call you." He said softly.

Sergeant Almador

Having stood watch, the fire in his back had dampened down and some strength had returned to his arms. The Sergeant felt somewhat better. Very hungry! Starving!

He ate the rations that his wife had prepared, probably two day's worth though she'd prepared double that. It amazed him that he could look at the slain goblins and orcs, feel reviled in the back of his mind, while at the forefront, his appetite happily had him stuff his face.

However, having done so, he felt a lot better.

Heilbutt's Hallow. "We'll mark it on the maps, sir." He assured Nestaron.

"Looks like you were right then," he said, turning to Weston, "They were serving the Orc Lord."

Sergeant Almador shook his head sadly. "Bodes ill for the Empire, if his hordes can roam across its lands unmolested. And I thought demons would be the end of it, not orcs!"

<Weston>

He pulled his now clean sword from his scabbard and lifted it in salute as Heilbutt began his final journey. "A worthy fighter, a worthy friend. He will be missed", he said as he lowered his sword. "May the Great Gold Wyrm guide you to what is next."

He re-sheathed his sword and turned to Almador as he talked. "Wasn't me as made the call, but yes, it seems so. But I doubt the will be much danger for the town, especially in the short term. They seem quite fixated on us, on Seyja, at the moment."

Seyja


Seyja followed Weston's example, lifting her greataxe in salute to their fallen comrade.

"Heilbutt's Hallow," she murmured, then nodded and smiled bitterly.

"I think he would have liked that."

Tindarien

He nods as Nestaron comments on their companions, then helps carry Heilbutt to the water's edge.

He watches as the raft sails gently away.

"Well named Nestaron, I like it. Maybe we could carve a plaque here for him once all this is done."

D

He gave his own silent salute to the fallen half-orc. Almost under his breath he said "may we meet again, and fight side by side as well." He knew this go around was by no means the last, and he also hoped that it would be better for him that it had gone for the dark elf.

"Good name," he agreed to Heilbutt's Hallow.

Zoltan

He nods in agreement at the naming of the place and watches respectfully as Heilbutt's raft drifts downstream.

When Seyja returns the vial to Jex he notes, "Based on this fight, it might be best for Tindarien to carry that", he indicates the healing potion.

Tindarien

"Thank you for the thought Zoltan but you should know I already carry one. Perhaps someone else may also benefit. It is good if these things are spread around. Maybe D as he heads off on his own into danger?"

He smiles at the dark elf.

Jex

"Maybe I'll just hold onto it," he says as he tends to his own wounds. Jex has lost a lot of blood and is looking pale.

D

"I am open to carrying it, or someone else with more need. I intend to fight the next battle differently. To be fair I remember operating on my own, or in wildly different circumstances. I must learn to use this body in the way it was crafted."

[OOC: So sure, unless Jex wants it, as noted. Remember Jex is now healed, as we all are, or will be soon as we are talking during the rest.]

Sergeant Almador

"I hope you're right, son." He said grimly. To him, the Dragon Empire was solid rock edifice, the fortress of civilisation and bastion of life. Almador dreaded to think what would happen if it were overthrown.

The Empire was comprised of many kings, princelings, satraps and other lords, and they were fractious, but they all kowtowed to the Emperor's might.

Likewise, there were other great powers abroad in the Empire, powers that had threatened the Empire before. The Lich King, the Diabolist, even the Archmage could contend with the power of the Emperor.

There were demons and hellholes, that spread like wildfire, yet were contained by the zeal of the Crusader and the Great Gold Wyrm.

But who stood against the Orc Lord? Who lurked outside the borders of the Empire, building an army, well trained, well equipped, bred for war. It was said that the elves created orcs to fight against the Wizard King of old. The word orc meant "to kill" in Elvish.

Sergeant Almador chewed his lip, shrugging off his pack.

"I can only say thank you, to all of you, for this undertaking. I hope to prove worthy of it. Of Heilbutt, and the rest of you." He said to the party.

"This helm is accursed to my family, but perhaps one of you can use it? Let it earn its way back to the Titan's Elbow?"

He unwrapped the haunted helm.

Jex

"I'll hold on to it then. We'll use it when we need to on whomever needs it."

He takes the vial and stores it away. When he sees Sergeant Almador start to unwrap the helm he tries to stop him. "Might I suggest that you put that away. Forget that you even have it. I think the fear or what it is might we be worse than the item itself. If it is out of your sight your won't be fretting about it."

<Weston>

He looked to Jex and then to Almador and nodded. "I think Jex has that right sergeant. I do not believe that ... =thing= can help, only hinder our efforts.

Sergeant Almador

"As you will." He said, feeling a little embarrassed and quickly rewrapping the helm of Gorulon Gorehound.

He had hoped he'd had a good idea, but the man-at-arms was yet to prove his worth, from his point of view at least.

Tindarien

"Do we want to take a rest and a break for food - or is everyone ready to continue? I would feel better away from this place personally but I'm not sure if everyone is ready to move?"

At some point they will need to set camp and that might be better outside so they can rest before finding their way into the Elbow. However there is daylight remaining and they should make use of it.

<Weston>

"I would rather be away from this place as well", he said agreeing with Tindarien.

Zoltan

He nods agreement, but glances back to Segeant Almador. He had looked at the man consideringly when he offered the Helm. As he recalls the only thing that occurred when they had touched the Helm earlier was the Specter delivering a message and warning. No harm had befallen anyone. He plans to talk to the man at length once they stop for a longer break.

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Nestaron

He couldn't argue with the sentiment, and turning to look up at the Titan's Elbow, its relentlessly wooded foothills and slopes, he didn't think they had time to dawdle anyway.

Their next stop should probably be to camp for the night.

Nestaron stamped the butt of his quarterstaff on the rock, making up his own mind.

"Yes. Let's be away. Onwards and it would seem, upwards."

GM

Forming up in a single file, you left the river. The day was wearing on, and you wanted to be encamped at the foot of the Titan's Elbow before nightfall. This would give you some time to scout out the terrain.

Behind you, Heilbutt's Hallow was quiet, the enemy dead littering its marvellous cascades.

[Go to HHE8: Renn and Caeric]