DreamLyrics™ Play-by-Post Forums Hall of Fame - Latest Top 10 completed games HHE: The Haunted Helm HHE10: Bearkiller

GM

The length of stout rope was tied off either end. Armoured and carrying treasure packs, the adventurers jangled across one by one in a monkey crawl, except for Jex who sauntered across like a veteran tightrope walker. Others stood ready to fight, but the dragon didn't return and soon enough they were plunging through the night forest once more, following the halfling.

Muted trees, bushes. Branches whipping at you from the darkness as you ran. Somewhere far above, the dragon spoke, its voice making the night tremble.

"Skulk back into the shadows, like the knifemen you are!" It sneered, wheezing to draw breath, "Maybe it wasn't Old Goldie who sent you. Maybe it was the Three?

"Yes, you have that waft of treachery about you. But at least your friend might aid me with his healing magic.

"If not, I can watch him try it on himself, after I pluck his limbs off one by one.

"Sleep well then, slopers in the night. Tomorrow we will have our reckoning!"

Down and down the halfing led you; to one side the ground rose into a bare rock face. You could smell water even above the pine fragrance and felt sure you were approaching the river again. Then the halfling ducked left into a shadowy crease at the foot of the cliff, reappearing moments later when he lit a torch.

The red flames made his outlandish features seem even more wild. The flames also revealed a low ceilinged cave, disappearing into pitch black.

"Higher inside and dry. Shaped like horseshoe, two way in and out. Safe place." He said gruffly, then ducked back under, trailing the flickering light.

For anyone who followed him, it was a short crawl on four legs until the rocky, uneven floor dropped into a dry, sandy-bottomed gour that you could stand in. The walls were lined with dripstone and in places had formed into natural, floor to ceiling columns, a long long long time ago.

The halfling held up the torch to the ceiling, revealing countless paintings, crude colours artfully used to depict stories from the mists of time. By the torchlight, they almost seemed animated.

"Many picture. Make no sense." The tribesman dismissed them, walking over to a fire ring he'd built. He lit the wood stacked within and smothered the torch with sand. He had a pack and water stashed close to the fire, but the firewood was fresh, his bedding still packed. The cave didn't smell like it was lived in. It gave the impression that the halfling hadn't been encamped any longer than you.

With a mohawk and buckskins, you might have expected him to provisioned with 'nature's bounty' but he promptly drew and uncorked a labelled bottle of Green Star whiskey. Not cheap!

Few could decipher the meaning of the paintings on that low ceiling. There was no text, no pictograms. They were illustrations, dark, pointy-eared figures and wild animals living in trees that reached the clouds.

Some of the party had spent time exploring caves in remote areas of the world and could have seen such paintings before. But it was most likely Jex and Tindarien who recognised them for what they were.

They were not ancient. They were beyond ancient, beyond time. Tens of thousands of years before the Wizard King was born. They depicted the Sundering of the Elves from the Fey, when the elvish races were barely more than animal spirits themselves. Dragons were still elemental creatures, that lived only in the currents of magic, the ley lines flowing across the land. Before the Time of Legends and the First Age, these were stories that pre-dated civilisation or what most scholars would consider language.

<Weston>

He heard the dragon speak again. Clearly it was trying to 'provoke' them with a bit of name calling. He had to smile at the 'pedantic' nature of that tactic. But he was not a child so it was easy enough to ignore the provocation. It was =not= so easy to ignore the plight of their friend and the threats against him. But he knew well enough that he had to let go of that because they were in no shape to take it on tonight.

Unseen limbs swiping at his face, shrubs snatching at his ankles made the trip through the dark uncomfortable. So he quite welcomed the light from their guides torch. He followed the halfling as he traveled into the cave. The sandy floor of the gour seemed a comfortable place to rest and recover. He looked around at the pictures on the walls around them. When their guide mentioned the pictures making no sense, his scrutiny intensified. They seemed old, perhaps there was something important ... but failing that, they might prove interesting.

He looked around the place a bit. Perhaps the distraction would help his mind make sense of the pictures while he was 'focused' on something else. The look of the place seemed to suggest to him that it was less a 'living space' and more an emergency or temporary shelter. Perhaps for a 'border patrol' by the halfling's 'tribe'.

He decided that 'tribe' was probably an inappropriate label considering the libations he was offering. "A splendid offering", he said, clearly impressed. "Thank you. I cannot offer anything similar in response ... at this time. But I hope that at some future date I can repay the kindness."

Seyja


She felt nearly useless as she followed the Halfling and the others through the underbrush and into the shelter, glancing occasionally back over her shoulder... just in case.

It felt like she was abandoning Nestaron and Seyja was not one to abandon a companion but, for the nonce, she couldn't think of anything else they could that had any chance of saving the cleric.

"If the occasion presents itself, little man," she said to the Halfling, "I, too, would gladly buy you a drink."

Jex

"These are old, like really, really old!" the bard exclaimed as he started to decipher the etchings. "From before history almost. This is about how the elves and dragons came to be..."

And he started to explain everything that he knew about this. He did it by talking to each person, one after another, in rhymes delivered with a constant beat.

After telling all what he knew, the bard focused his attention on the drawings, studying them. He valued tidbits of knowledge like some valued diamonds.

Tindarien

Leaving the rope he followed the others down the slope, his thoughts though are with Nestaron.

"Stay well my friend.." he whispers into the night.

On entering the cave, the paintings provide at least a momentary distraction. Silently he studies them, nodding as Jex describes them as ancient.

D

He slipped silently through the night. Their guide had unerring steps and lead then to safety. Ensconced in the cave he noted the drawings out of curiosity. The past was a mystery to him and he was always interested in learning about it.

GM

Once upon a time, the elves were Fey creatures like any pixie, dryad, spirite or brownie. Over time they developed the tools of civilisation and were sundered from the Fey, a fate that befell other races such as gnomes.

The paintings were beautiful, and for Tindarien at least (and Nestaron if he was there), the cave had a sacred quality. It spoke of the Time Before Time. The world was more alive, wild and untamed, but it couldn't last.

To advance, people had to think beyond their own lives, pass on their wealth, both material and knowledge, to those who survived them. How could a town endure in a world where the mountains could stand up and walk away? Slowly but surely, these early cultures mastered magic and the roots of civilisation took hold.

The pictures of elemental dragons reminded the party of dragonkind's affinity to the elements. White dragons were atuned to the cold, having an aversion to fire and heat. That was a vulnerability they could exploit.

The first exploit was that they could venture out under the summer sun, whereas a white dragon wouldn't choose. The Beast was a white, a 'blizzard dragon' Jex would call it. Old and decrepit, maimed as it was, if it left its cave by day it might only have the vigour to crawl on its belly like a worm.

Weston had a flask of flammable Eight-Score rum, given to him by the carpenter of The Issitia. Could it be made into a fire bomb?

No, it was unlikely to slay the Beast outright, but smashed across its muzzle, with it only having one eye... the rum would burn clean and fast and might blind the creature.

Alcohol. The bottle of Green Star was passed around. It was too weak to ignite, but strong enough to put a fire in your belly.

The halfling watched you all. It was a curious one. Most of you knew halflings, and this one looked like he hailed from the agrarian peoples north of Amity Bay.

Those halflings grew their hair long and wore plain-weave cloth, beads, and flowers in their hair. They lived in tribes, in small idyllic settlements of turf-rooved cottages like Burrow, or tents made from skins in Twisp. They weren't generally well-travelled, indeed, they were best known for doing very little on an afternoon except lounging around, smoking a pipefull of weed.

The tribal halfling sat at the fire was high-strung, alert. His head was shaved into a mohawk, and he wore buckskins over his cloth shirt.

He reached into this shirt and pulled out a leather necklace, threaded with bear claws.

"I am Bearkiller," he said, then gestured to the empty air beside him, "and this is my dire wolf, He Who Sicks Balls."

Jex

The bard had studied the paintings for a while and then, when he was done, walked over to the halfling, knelt and bowed his head.

"We are indebted to you Bearkiller. You rescued us. Both you and your wolf will be remembered in songs I shall pen to honor your bravery. These songs will be sung for generations to come and recalled by our progeny like these painting tell the story of things that happened before time itself."

"The world is being poisoned and we are on a mission to remedy that. The great blizzard dragon may or may not be a direct part of the problem, but he has stolen from us a companion that we must rescue. As ancient as it is, the dragon knows that we have no choice but to try and rescue our friend. That is a core of who we are. We will not leave anyone behind. True, that is a weakness but it is one we must compensate for with our strengths because it is a bond we cannot break. A vow that is solemn. We would offer our lives to save each other. That is the way that things are with us."

"So we can do nothing now but turn our attention to that rescue and while I cannot speak for others, I nominate you now to become one of us. This would not separate you from others that you owe allegiance to. It simply adds you to our group. If the others agree that you are invited to become one of us there will be no ceremony but there will be an understanding that we will risk our lives to save yours as we will do next to save Nestaron. You have already demonstrated that bravery to save us, so you have already lived up to a vow you have not taken. All that we ask of you in return for this fealty is for you to continue to aid us. Do you agree?"

He stands up now and turns to the others, "And do all of you also agree that both Bearkiller and He-Who-Sicks-Balls is one of us?"

D

He listened to the bard's eloquent words and nodded. "I for one offer simply. I will kill that thing as it no longer should exist. Actions speak that is enough for me."

Zoltan

He had been aware of Nestaron being taken by the dragon, and while it was not something he liked, it was what it was. He'd never been one for groups, and believed very much in fate. Still, if the opportunity to rescue Nestaron presented itself he would not hesitate.

The talk of seeking the dragon out during daylight, and the heat of the day, seemed sound, so he simply nodded when asked if he agreed.

The cave paintings were interesting, but art and history were never his strong suit so he examined them for a bit and then left them to Jex, who seemed much more fascinated by them.

At the suggestion of adding the Halfling to the group, he paused. The Halfling certainly knew this area well, and as a guide could be invaluable. But he was not completely certain about having him about if it came to a fight. With Nestaron gone, other than the few potions they had accumulated, Zoltan suspected that he might be the only one who could offer healing to the others. Adding the Halfling would strain their limited healing if he was unable to hold his own in a fight.

But he pauses and waits to see what the others reply to Jex's question before commenting.

Sergeant Almador

He would have commented. It wasn't that the burly, greying man-at-arms didn't feel a part of the quest. He did now.

These adventurers had accepted him into their midst early on, but only after fighting the dragon had Almador felt worthy of that trust.

Nope. Simply put, this was the longest day of his life. He'd been awake most of the night talking with his wife and packing. He'd left at sunrise with the party and they'd hiked all day along the river valley. Up down, up down, up down. Climbed a waterfall, crossed a log bridge over chasm in the dark.

They'd run into Fey, orcs, goblins, a huge blizzard dragon....

Sergeant Almador took one swig of the whiskey and was almost insensible. Green Star wasn't stronger than any other whiskey, it was the drinker who was to blame.

Almador had already sat down on the soft sand and was slowly sliding lower and lower. The bard was parleying with the mohawked halfling and his, what, invisible dire wolf.

Almador chortled weakly, wrestling his eyelids, head nodding, but it was a losing battle and he soon fell asleep where he lay.

<Weston>

He thought about the idea of the 'elemental' dragon tied to cold being hurt by heat ... the heat of day, the heat of fire. He considered the possibilities. He had used fire arrows ... and Zoltan had shown he knew of them as well. But it seemed like such a small amount of flame for such a large foe. Then he remembered 'fire bombs' that he had seen some bandits use. That seemed like the right sort of thing. But they didn't have any oil and he wasn't sure that oil was the right answer.

He sighed as he thought of a possible answer.

But his thoughts were diverted when the discussion of inviting the halfling to join their group. It was not so much that he didn't want the fellow to join them. "It seems like there is a big difference between helping a stranger out of a tight spot and asking him to join what is most likely a suicide mission", he said seriously. Then turned to their guide. "Not that I wouldn't welcome you to our group", he added just as seriously.

Seyja


The Green Star whiskey burned going down and ignited a pleasant fire in her belly. She took a second swallow and passed the bottle to the next in line.

"Little man seems to know the area and I have nothing against wolves," Seyja said with a shrug of her muscular shoulders. She gave the Halfling a long, appraising look.

"What do you know about the poisoning of the area and what do you know about that white dragon who is holding our cleric friend?"

Bearkiller

He squatted on his haunches next to where he'd introduced his 'dire wolf'. There was only empty air, not even paw prints in the soft sand.

"I come from North. My tribe live on Harthorn, the Mountain That Stands Alone. Maybe one, two day journey from Concord." He explained to Seyja.

Corcord was one of the Seven Cities, fabled for the height of its spires and other wondrous architecture, an amicable fusion of elven and dwarven engineering.

It was farther away than Shadow Port, beyond Throne Point. The mountain Bearkiller described was distinctive, Harthorn could be seen from leagues away across the plains, a solitary sharp peak.

So the mohawked halfling had travelled a long way to reach Sword Point. But why?

"I search for my brother, the Red Knight, like you." He said, nodding to Weston and Zoltan.

"Last night I reach these foothills and by day, find sign of the white wyrm... further up, leaves are black, dead from frost... in middle of summer.

"Then I find you, follow, watch you pick over bones of dead dragon and make camp. Hear you speak."

Bearkiller appeared greatly impressed by Jex's speech, his eyes shone.

"I know your name, Jexric. You are one of the Bodejackers, bandits who preyed on the Quod Sheriffs." He said gravely, then grinned revealing a few missing teeth, "You did well!"

The halfling spoke soothingly to the air next to him, in a tribal dialect that even Jex couldn't quite fathom. Bearkiller listened, then nodded.

"We are honoured to accept your invite. You are noble and brave, and we share same goal, near enough." He said.

Casually he unsheathed his antler-handled knife. The grimy steel blade was etched with pictograms, but the edge gleamed. He drew in the sand with it.

"I have not heard of dying river, but maybe know how it happen.

"White wyrm fly from top of mountain, where hole in ground open into huge cavern. The dragon's lair. We need rope to climb down... straight into its jaws!

"But river flow under and through mountain. Where it flow through half-moon arch, I find another cave, secret way, up up, into dragon's lair.

"From this cave-mouth flow reeking foulness, black and orange. Flow straight into river. We must tread carefully, area around it treacherous."

<Weston>

He returned the acknowledging nod with one of his own.

He wondered about the wolf. Was it some sort of spirit companion or perhaps just a figment of the halfling's imagination. But it seemed pretty clear that there wasn't anything physical there.

It was great that he had accepted the invitation to join them. More importantly he knew a way into the dragon's lair that would allow them to sneak up on it ... hopefully.

And apparently taking out the dragon =was= their mission. But he suspected that killing it might be the easier part. They would also have to find a way to get rid of all that reeking blood and what ever else was mixed in with it.

Jex
He had made an impression, but it was easy. The halfling and his dire wolf were already impressed with the actions the party had taken. Still, they could have chosen to help now and part ways. There was strength in numbers and adding this pair could tip a battle in their favor. They had already lost the half-orc.

"That sounds much like a volcano - those are mountains that breath fire and ash. Inside volcanoes there is a great heat that melts rocks. But that makes no sense. Why would a blizzard dragon be inside a volcano?"

"Bearkiller, when you say black and orange, is it hot there?" The bard had heard that molten rock which is called lava might look like that.

Bearkiller

He nodded like he understood the bard, but shook his head at the question.

"I think, blood from dragon. When you wounded it, blood was orange, yes?" The halfling asked, "What black is? Hmm, maybe dragon filth?"

Seyja


She nodded, frowning, as she thought over what the others - and especially the Halfling - said.

Her normal, primary instinct was to attack directly, head on as it were, but it made sense to sneak up on the ailing, ancient dragon if possible.

"Is there any way we can use fire against the dragon?"

Zoltan

He listens, more impressed by the halfling than earlier. Perhaps the dragon blood is poisoning the river, but what is the 'blackness' the halfling speaks of?

D

As he was want to do, the pale elf sat on his haunches in the background and listened. He was learning and that was the immediate goal.

<Weston>

"Blood mixed with the dragon's excrement sounds like a plausible explanation for the source of the pollution", he said thoughtfully. "As to the fire question Seyja, I have some thoughts on that. Some of it depends on what we find when we get into the caves. I have", he said with a sigh, "a delightful dram that, unfortunately will do the job. The question is what sort of opportunities we will find in the cave. The best scenario would allow me to get into position where I could 'deliver' my incendiary gift from a position that would allow me to target it's head. That might conceivably blind it which would certainly help our cause."

GM

If the fire bomb were to be built, they would need the glass bottle of Green Star. The whiskey inside, alas, would have to be drunk or poured away -- a decision that might resolve itself -- as it wasn't flammable like the Eight-Score rum.

Hailing from Shadow Port, D would know that Eight-Score rum was often used as seagull poison and wasn't for drinking unless heavily watered down.

The fire bomb could be built, but who would build it?

Bearkiller's weather-worn features were stony-faced, creasing into a wide smile when something amused him. So he was hard to read. He didn't offer any help with the fire bomb, but that was likely because he didn't understand what a 'fire bomb' was.

For the pale-skinned dark elf, sitting across the fire from Bearkiller again reminded him of the vision he had during the Battle of Heilbutt's Hallow. D had been felled by an orc, his mind adrift until some god or spirit called by Nestaron brought him back from the brink. In that time he saw himself standing in a circle with three others, the Baronessa, a dwarf in a loincloth with a sleeve tattoo, and a mohawked halfling woman with her faced painted black and white.

If the mohawk was some tribal marking, was that facepainted woman from the same tribe as Bearkiller?

Jex

He nodded in understanding as the halfling made sense of the story. But he also understood that while Bearkiller had a good theory about the orange, he did not about the black. The black was something else. It wasn't just dragon filth, as Bearkiller wondered.

"Worse than filth to foul a river."

Seyja


Seyja sat back against the wall of the cave, hugging her knees against her chest and staring off into the distance, a far-off gaze, not focused on anything nearby. She spoke in soft, reminiscent tones.

"Weston, when my people held the winter solstice ritual of the Fire Dancers to celebrate the Great Earth Mother and the return of the sun to her lands, we used fire in a way that... well, it was almost like a bomb."

<Weston>

He nodded. "Yes. Apparently the key is in the choice of container. I witnessed some folks 'unhappy' enough with their lot that they decided to force a confrontation with the authorities on Axis. They used fragile bottles filled with fluids less volatile than this", he said as he pulled the bottle from his pack. "The key seems to be getting a vessel fragile enough to break on impact with the dragon's hide. There is a cloth that is inserted into the opening in the vessel, soaked in the flammable liquor and ignited before the throwing. In that state it is as safe as an oil lamp. When the vessel breaks, the flammables spread and the fire from the cloth will set it all ablaze."

Jex

"If only there was a way to keep the fire burning, to destroy it's environment. For instance, if we were able to start a huge fire with this, it could give us the advantage that we need."

"But killing the dragon is half the problem. The other problem we now have is rescuing Nestaron."

Zoltan

He nods. "Yes. We must be careful about throwing fire bombs around in it's cave if we don't know where Nestaron is."

Seyja


"My people used ceramic pots for the containers, pots made intentionally with a weak spot easy to break, but the rest sounds the same."

She looked at Jex and Zoltan and nodded.

"Yes, Nestaron should be our first priority, but the dragon needs to die."

<Weston>

"I do not want to seem 'unconcerned' for our friend, but I must disagree Seyja. No matter how we attack, fire or no, it will be dangerous for Nestaron ... unless you suggest we =not= confront the beast. But if we do not succeed, he is dead in any event, isn't he", he asked the group. "And many more, down stream, will also die. So does one of you have a better solution?"

Bearkiller

The halfling shifted, sitting cross-legged as he listened intently.

"Not forget, we search for brother too. Red Knight. Maybe he in cave with Nestaron." He said.

Anyone in the party who had spent much time in the Seven Cities knew of Sir Edward the Red. He was not a halfling, nor was he half-halfling (quarterling?). It was not readily apparent how he could be Bearkiller's brother, but perhaps it was a tribal bond. If Red Ed had somehow been initiated into Bearkiller's tribe, they might be brothers. Or it could be more personals, blood brothers maybe.

Either way, Bearkiller still held out hope of finding him. (You might question what condition the knight errant was likely to be found in.)

Seyja


The barbarian woman opened her mouth to answer Weston, but the Halfling then spoke and distracted her.

"The Red Knight is your brother? I did not know that he was..." she paused and shook her head, confused by a thought which occurred to her.

"Do you expect to find Sir Edward alive, Bearkiller?"

Bearkiller

The halfling bridled, glaring at Seyja fiercely. Whether she'd touched some raw nerve or not, it was unlikely Seyja would avert her gaze after what she'd been through, so it was Bearkiller who flexed his jaw and turned to gaze into the fire.

"I am sorry. My story make fool of own tribe. But you have right to know," he muttered reluctantly, "if I find Red Knight alive, I kill him."

Bearkiller sucked in a long breath.

"Red Knight come to our village, brave hero, slay the giants at Tall Stone Pass for the hand of chief's daughter. But he speak with two faces. Daughter tell him where to find tribe's sacred treasure, the Long Tears... Red Knight steal it and flee." He explained.

The halfling shook his head, any embarrassment having fermented into anger, "Red Knight give the Long Tears to Queen of Vorspring. In return, she give him key to old crypt under castle."

Silence. He took a swig of the whiskey.

Tindarien

He listens as the others talk, not contributing to the conversation other than a nodded agreement to the halfling joining them. He finds a corner, settles himself down, his mind on another tangent triggered by the paintings and the other things they have found recently.

There is something more to this place, some history or import that might be discovered but only once their current mission is concluded. He is intrigued. It also reminds him of the key they found earlier.

"Jex. May I borrow that key again. I have a substance that could bring out the features on the key more clearly."

He reaches into his pack and takes out the vial of aphronitre.

<Weston>

He listened, he considered. He thought about what was the right thing to do here. And he knew what =HE= needed to do.

"Since you have decided to help us in our endeavor here, perhaps when we are done with the dragon, we, or at least =I=, would be willing to help you recover the 'Long Tears'", he offered. "Unfortunately, I doubt that you will be able to extract your justice from 'The Red Knight'. From what we know, we believe that someone has already done for him. The most likely suspect is our foe the dragon."

Seyja


Well, everyone has their problems, was her first thought in response to Bearkiller's admonition, but, after a moments thought, she shrugged and nodded in response to Weston's statement.

"I too might join in to help recover your tribe's treasure," she said.

"What are the Long Tears?"

Bearkiller

Anyone promising help to reclaim the Long Tears was stared at hard by the halfling, hard and blank, like a stone wall.

But afterwards he nodded, almost shyly.

"I have heard you talk when you not know I listen. You speak with true heart. If I could return to tribe with the Long Tears...." Bearkiller trailed off, unable to describe the gratitude.

To Seyja he said, "You ever see Harthorn? It stand alone on the prairie. One mountain.

"Once, long ago, the peak was clouded, and in cloud live cloud giants. They live in peace with my tribe. We show them way of the wild. Teach them many thing.

"In time, giants were called back to Cloudhome by war. Before they go, they forge necklace for halfling tribe. They said, 'This is how we see you'. It is pure light, like - like frozen drops of spring rain, bound by magic. We call it the Long Tears. As long as it is with my tribe, we will forever be humble, but never forget our humbleness is our beauty."

From Bearkiller's faraway expression, it was obvious he had seen the treasure himself. It must be very beautiful, and probably irrestible to someone as bejewelled as the Queen of Vorspring.

Bearkiller didn't comment on why Red Ed did what he did. He more than likely didn't know, and had attributed it to a flaw in character.

Maybe Weston and Zoltan had a better idea? 'You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours' as the saying went. For some reason, Red Ed had wanted entry to the Queen's royal crypt, did she ask for the Long Tears in return? The Queen of Vorspring was very wealthy, still thriving off the plunder from her grandfather's sickening chevauchées. But she loved jewellery and fine clothes, not something that overly concerned her warmongering forebears.

Red Ed was a knight errant, agent of the Order of Averness. He would have been seeking something in the crypts, and based on his reputation, wouldn't have hesitated in sullying a tribal chief's daughter or outright theft to get what he wanted. The Order of Averness strove for nothing less than to protect civilisation from the world's most dangerous monsters. Often the ends justified the means.

<Weston>

As far as Weston was concerned, Red had let his greed get in the way of what he should have known was right and what was wrong. Oh, it wasn't a 'monetary' greed for coin and jewel. It might have been the greed of 'recognition' or some such. It was clear that he had bargained the Tears for something that he thought would help him in his quest and his need to fulfill the quest got the better of him. As far as =he= was concerned, the ends did =NOT= justify the means. It got him to wondering if the Order was really the right place for him.

Zoltan

He listens quietly. On the one hand, if Red Ed is dead (catchy phrase, that <g>) then his trying to offer other explanations to Bearkiller is pointless. The halfling would return to his home and if his people decide to try to recover the Long Tears from the Queen of Vorspring that is none of his business.

On the other hand, if Red Ed is alive...., well that could be problematic.

But no matter how he plays out the conversation in his mind, there is no way to put Red Ed in a good light. Even suggesting that maybe Red Ed needed to get into that Crypt for a noble purpose, like perhaps there was something there that would save other people from being terrorized or killed. And perhaps the Queen would only accept those specific jewels as payment. Even that sounds hollow to him.

In that case Ed had two choices as he sees it. Either convince the halflings to let him have the jewels to save others, or, if he thought that wouldn't work, then break into the crypt without permission. Stealing the prized jewels of Bearkiller's tribe was not a good choice for Ed to make. He can't justify it to himself, so he can't find a way to try to justify it to Bearkiller.

Jex

He listened intently to the tale that Bearkiller told. It was a classic tale, told over and over. From a storytelling perspective it could have a number of different endings. Choosing the right one involved a bit of thinking and proper judging. Although appearances usually told the full and true story, sometimes they were not reality or there were circumstances that needed to be understood before judgement.

"I hear you Bearkiller," he said.

"Surely Red Ed knew that to take the Long Tears would be his own death sentence and that he would be killed for doing so. I wonder what was so important to him to risk his life. It does not sound like he cared about treasure."

"Now that you are a friend, a team member, perhaps I can ask a favor of you? When we find Red Ed, before you kill him, may I hear his tale? I am a keeper of stories and as such I value the truth in history and the tales of our ancestors more than any item. It would be an unfinished tale if I do not hear his words."

D

He listened to the others and considered what they had heard before. At a pause in the conversation he spoke from his seated position "when I was most recently occupied with the spirits between life and death, in Heilbutt's Hallow, I had a vision. I saw the Baronessa, a dwarf in a loin cloth, and a halfling woman with a mohawk and her face painted black and white. I do not pretend to know the meaning of the vision, yet, if your hair is a tribal element, possibly you know something of the woman that was presented to me."

He wondered about the black flith and what it might mean. Something tickled at the back of his brain, but he couldn't be sure it wasn't just another figment rather than a real something he remembered. [OOC: Can't be sure if it isn't a different game. ;P]

Sergeant Almador

Goblins, orcs, dragon's teeth!!

He woke with a start, sitting bolt upright. All he wanted to do was sleep but maybe the day had been too momentous, or maybe somewhere in the back of his mind he refused to relax.

With a groan, the greying Sergeant of the Guard realised he'd been lying on his mace.

Wringing his eyelids, he looked around. The cave was bathed in the amber firelight. The painted ceiling seemed to crawl with scenes from time immerorial.

He was glad and greatly reassured to see his companions still with him and awake.

Sergeant Almador struggled to his feet and walked the length of the cave to find somewhere to relieve himself. Old age! The halfling was right, it was shaped like a horseshoe, with two very low entrances. It felt save, secluded.

Once he was done, he returned to the fire and saw the high elf was occupied with some task. Almador remembered with a rush of horror that Nestaron had been taken.

So Tindarien had lost two friends in one day. That was cruel fate, and the Sergeant went to sit with the man.

"How - how are you, sir?" he asked, adding quickly, "If you don't mind me asking."

Tindarien

He looks up as the Sergeant sits beside him, though his fingers continue with cleaning the key.

"I am well."

He nods politely in response but then guesses why the Sergeant might be asking.

"Hopeful that we might rescue Nestaron in the morning."

His voice is level but controlled.

"And how are you Sergeant? I suspect this has been very different than you might have expected. But you have done well to stay the pace."

Jex

He hands the key over to Tindarien.

[[ ooc: Somehow missed that request earlier. Sorry. ]]

<Weston>

He continued to think ... and to listen to the discussions around him. Most of this was new ... at least new in the sense that he was involved rather than listening to 'tall tales' around the camp fire of an evening. He wondered if his dismissal of some of those tales was a mistake. If he had heard this tale so far he might have dismissed it out of hand.

He was also thinking about what Red Ed had been about ... selling out these folks, apparently his friends, for the sake of some item that might have advanced some 'quest'. As far as he was concerned, the ends did =not= justify the means. Had Ed lost his way or was that what the Order had coerced him ... directly or indirectly ... into doing?

And he was thinking about the confrontation tomorrow ... how best to use their resources to defeat a legend. It seemed a tall order for the group. But he didn't doubt that they had to try. They had to try to save their friend. But they also had to figure out how to stop the pollution of the river ...

Sergeant Almador

Relieved by the high elf's amicable response, the Sergeant sat down next to him with a grunt.

"I'm tired, sir! But you know what, it is not an 'old' tired, it's a 'young' tired. And well, I suppose that makes a nice change!" He said with a wink.

He watched what Tindarien was doing, while formulating more words.

"Sir. It might not mean much, coming from an old codger like me, but um, I will not leave this benighted mountain without you, or any of our party. Not if it kills me, sir.

"After today, I realise that you don't need me here to save the town. Never did. But maybe I have a more important purpose? To help save you and your companions, and in doing so help save my town, and the next town, and the town after that." Said Almador earnestly.

Bearkiller

Rocking back, the tribesman cocked his head and looked at D as if the dark elf might be touched by the gods.

"Black above, white below. This is not war paint, it is the night mask, worn by those whose deed should not be seen by light of day." He muttered.

"When chief declare dark deed must be done, a warrior must step forward. They are exiled, they become a 'ghost'." Bearkiller explained, without relish, "They are feared by our tribe. Feared more by our enemies. And there is only one who is woman, Moonshadow. Did she step forward, or did she always walk that path? No-one know."

The halfling stared gravely at D.

"If you she see her in dream, bad omen for you." He said.

D

He offered the halfling a grim smile. "Many bad omens follow me. I stick knives in them till they regret it."

Turn his head he offered "for the fire bomb idea. That rum is also used as a poison onboard ships to kill seagulls and when very desperate thin with a lot of water to drink. It is very flammable and would probably work well for your application."

[Quickly edited your post to prevent confusion, Pandemonium. The Eight-Score rum Weston has is the seagull poison. (Which might tell you something about its suitability as a beverage.) Your original text is below:
There is this poison that we use onboard ships to kill seagulls and when very desperate thin with a lot of water to drink. It is very flammable and would probably work well for your application. It is far better than the liquor for such a task." He produced a flask of the oily substance.]

<Weston>

"It has also 'poisoned' many a sailor", he said with a grin. "The question is how best to use it. My initial thought was to cover the dragon ... throwing or pouring it ... and then igniting it. But there is another technique that involves putting it into a more fragile container than this", he said, holding up the bottle, "with a wick that is lit. I have never used the latter so would be more comfortable with the former. But I am willing to go with the consensus", he finished with a shrug.

Tindarien

He lifts his head from his careful task for just a moment to smile at the soldier beside him.

"Hopefully we will all survive tomorrow. At least we should think that way. We need to maintain a positive frame of mind. It helps our courage, to sharpen our minds and to aid us in working together. This has been a good group in that regard."

"And don't downplay your role here. Everyone has contributed what they can and that has been important. Besides, your presence here reminds us all just what we are fighting for. And that is invaluable. I would like to see you return safely to your family Almador. You have earned that."

He smiles again.

"And you have certainly earned the right to call me Tindarien. We are equals here."

"Now we all need to prepare as best we can for tomorrow. Get our rest, prepare our magics or our weapons, gather our courage and resolve."

It is not a dismissal, just a reminder.

"Weston."

He calls to get the fighter's attention.

"If the dragon wants your ring so badly, we should maybe try to find out why. It might be useful in the coming conflict. And be aware, it could make you a target..."

Seyja


The barbarian woman got to her feet, moved over to Weston's side and hunkered down.

"I never made the bombs myself... not by myself. But I watched and I helped. Together, I feel sure we could make one that should work."

Sergeant Almador

With Tindarien's heartening words in his ears, he prepared for whatever tomorrow might bring.

The fire flickered of the steel of the Sergeant's kettle hat, as he adjusted its leather chin strap.

He flexed his arms and shoulders in his liveried brigandine, then gave a few practice swings of his flanged mace.

Satisfied and with a flinty look on his face, he tied the pommel end to his belt with the lanyard, then lashed the business end to his thigh with some cord, to stop it pummelling his leg when he moved.

Growling with restrained bravado, he straightened up and "Ooof!", gripped the small of his back in pain and walked away from the fire looking embarrassed...

Bearkiller

Bearkiller's eyes were glazed as he stared into the fire. Shadows danced across his face. Daubing his fingers in wet ashes and grease, he painted black lines under his eyes with one hand, whilst toying with the bear claws in his other.

Finally, the drew his knife and tasted its edge with his tongue...

Zoltan

He's listened to the plans being made and they seemed the best as could be done. Beakiller's information about Red Ed was interesting, and he was curious what Ed wanted in the crypt, but that would have to wait. For now, he needed to prepare for the upcoming battle.

Falling into a familiar routine he sits cross-legged on the floor, going over his weapons with a sharpening stone, getting rid of any rust or nicks from the weather and the earlier fights.

As he works he hums a fanciful tune. He doesn't know the words, but the music caught his ear one day and he's found the repetitive melody helps him when he meditates or does manual tasks.......

<Weston>

He looked up at Tindarien. "Well we will have to stay alive long enough to find anything out. And I kind of had already figured out that I would be it's target. It can apparently sense the ring from a distance", he said thoughtfully. "We might be able to use that ... me coming in from the cave entrance up top while you all sneak in from underneath ...?"

He smiled at Seyja's offer of help. "Thanks, I have never done this." He worked to make sure that none of the precious rum as they transferred it to the more fragile glass ... a strip of cloth, but it was too early to insert that. That was for tomorrow. Satisfied that the fire bomb was ready, he set to work on his blades ... checking that the grips are tight, the blades are sharp and without nicks. He checked the bindings on his bow, waxed the bowstring, checking it for frayed threads, arrowheads were secure and the fletching straight and true. There was even a little time for a bit more food and drink before settling down...

Seyja


She gave Weston a brief, crooked grin, and settled in to assist him in the preparation of the fire bomb.

Once they were mutually satisfied that the incendiary device was as good as they could manage, Seyja attended to her weapons, sharpening the edge of her greataxe and oiling her sling to make sure it regained its former flexibility.

Then she checked over her armor, attending to any damage and oiling as necessary.

D

He sat and listened. Watching the progress with the fire bomb. He had not done that before, bit could see that it would be a good thing to know. Certainly he knee how to set a trap and use them to good effect.

As he sat there never looking at what his hands were doing, a small magic show seemed to be on display. A black blade would appear in one hand, be run along a honing stone, and disappear. This seemingly mundane little act occurred over and over. It was almost as if he was repeatedly sharpening one dagger over and over again. Yet if not surely there was some sort of magic involved. No one person could or would carry so many of the same obsidian colored blades, could they?

Tindarien

He raises an eyebrow at Weston.

"I was suggesting that you might like to experiment before going into battle."

He pauses then before thinking he should say more.

"I would think it is likely that it would be something necromantic or healing maybe given the dragon's intense interest. So maybe you could scratch yourself and see if it heals? Maybe others here have magic that might aid you in finding out."

<Weston>

"Oh", he said simply.

While healing would be nice to have, the idea of something necromantic did =not= sound appealing ... especially when he thought about the 'creepy' vision.

"Based on what I saw when I put it on, I fear it is more likely the former than the latter. But if someone with magical knowledge wants to take a look", he said holding the ring up and looking at it in the fire light.

[[ just to be clear, did W notice anything like 'special healing' after the fight? ]]

Jex
The bard started to hum in unison with Zoltan but he was planning to get some rest and let his wounds heal fully. It was a long day already.

[No healing noticed by Weston. Also, One Unique Things are never straightforward magic items, they're more like quest items. They will generally have unique story mechanics, rather than bonuses/abilities.]

[[ Didn't think so, but wanted to be sure. And ... based on the 'vision', I had gathered that the was going to be a 'process' to sort out <wink> ]]

GM

As the fire burned, it brought scenes bathed in wavering yellow light and red-tinged shadows. Zoltan didn't know the name but hummed the tune to the Taming of Stormmaker, and was joined by Jex, as they saw to their arms and armour. A suit of armour, forged in hellfire. A gleaming scimitar that was quick to violence.

The bottle of Green Star whiskey was drained and passed to Weston. On Tindarien's advice, he tied some of the high elf's storm matches around the outside of the bottle.

Seyja meanwhile decanted the Eight-Score rum into a cooking pot on the fire. When it was warm, she lifted the pot off of the fire and stirred in some whale soap until the mixture was frothing. D watched with interest, whilst toying with thin, obsidian blades.

Weston held the glass bottle. D held a funnel they'd made from rolled vellum, inserted into the bottle neck. Finally, Seyja poured and corked. One fire bomb, and with their combined resources, slightly improved over their initial design.

Now Tindarien crouched next to the camp-fire to check on his pan of water. It was simmering but he wasn't poaching eggs. He poured in a vial of aphronitre, stirred then lowered in the Eternal Alchemists' bronze key. Farvi, his masked ferret perched on his shoulder and provided a squeaking critique.

Fizzing and foaming, the aphonitre dissolved the rough minerals that encrusted the key leaving pitted metal. The sorcerer then fished it out, dried and polished it with a rag and held it up to the firelight. Jex squatted beside him and they both examined.

The symbol of the Eternal Alchemists, a steaming figure-eight chalice, was moulded into the bow of the key and very obvious, but now the finer, engraved details were decipherable. There were some dwarven runes, translated roughly as 'what follows follows', a dwarf phrase usually indicating a series of instructions. These took the form of raised sigils, the first of which was clearly recognisable as the crest of the dwarven fortress of Anvil. The others in the series were possibly markers, but the first step was certainly Anvil.

***

So it was, that in the cave from a time beyond time, the party prepared for tomorrow.

They did not know its name, the Beast of Titan's Elbow had for long ages been a folk tale. If it was the Master of Winter, it was one of the Primeval dragons from before the founding of the Empire, when dragonkind went nameless, bearing only a title.

If it was the Master of Winter it had defied the legendary Wizard King and brought calamity to an entire city. A fell deed that left it broken and maimed, and for three thousand years it passed out of history, becoming a resting malice that slept in the Empire's own neglected and forgotten back yard.

The Titan's Elbow became a cursed peak, but it was the creature living under it that claimed champion gladiators, swordmages and knights as its victims.

Tomorrow, you would either become its next victims, or you would finish off the ancient white wyrm for good. Tomorrow would be a day of endings.

[Go to HHE11: Interlude 2]