“Well, Sir” John hides his bitterness at the term with the practice of a faithful servant, “There’s no doubt the place is DANGEROUS. Terribly so. There’s hordes of greenskins on the way, the place is crawling with the walking dead, and there’s gods know how many deep dwarves. But the question is, is it worth it? And the answer is a resounding yes. The mineral wealth dwarfs anything mankind has seen in a thousand years. But more than that, reclaiming the delve is important to the dwarves. If we assist them, they will be forever grateful. And keep in mind that while the caverns are rich in stone, gem, and metal, they are bare of food. The dwarves will trade withthis house, and both parties will be made fabulously wealthy.”
Dur’dan is leaving the familial compound and returning to the commons a few hours later. His brother had taken the death of his son particularly badly, not that anyone could blame him. He had always lacked the mental fortitude of Lord Kalaz. Maybe all of Moziah’s boys do.
His children were happy to see him, his wife less so. He had loved her youth and her beauty and her energy, perhaps she loved his status, but the nearly twenty six years they’d been married had left their relationship cold and practical. Dwarves are hard and cold as rock, their love a more enduring if less passionate sort than the love of a human or hin.
Dur’dan stalks into the Kalaz compound entry hall, his ironshod boots ringing loudly with every heavy step. He points a mailed finger at a nearby guard. “You, Kholodro, is it?” The guard stands at attention, slamming his gauntleted fist against his chest. “Lord Kalaz has declared me warlord. Send the call to arms.”
Karikhan drives the tip of his spear into the shrieking coyote and its wild flailing ceases immediately with a sharp YELP. He rips the spear loose before tossing it to Jikhal and taking a knee beside the animal. He thanks the creature for its contribution and scoops it into his arms, hefting it to his shoulder. Three of its companions are scrambling toward the horizon, the sky stretching endlessly beyond, pale blue with early dawn light. Khan puts the body with the other he’s taken on the back of his horse and mounts up. He and Jikhal turn and make their way back to Platinum Falls, its fields of wheat barely visible in the distance. This is the first time the pair has been alone since they first departed for the city in the west and for a while neither has anything to say, letting the silence settle.
Midway back Jikhal finally speaks, using the words of their people. “Do you think the dwarves will be enough? The Sombilliga (People of the Rising Moon) doubled us in number and when they faced Bloodjaw on the field they were slaughtered.”
Karikhan replies to Jikhal in Shelic.
"Suppose I were to say ‘no, Jikhal. They are not enough. Bloodjaw and his horde will overrun us, and our people will be forgotten in a generation.’ If I were to say such, what would you do? Gather more allies? There are none.
With the dwarves at our side, we are at the peak of our power. To admit that we shall lose anyway serves no purpose, so I will instead say yes, Jikhal. We are not the Sombilliga. Our spirits are forged in fire and tempered in calamity. Bloodjaw is nothing compared to the trials even the youngest of us have endured in the desert. We are the land itself, and how shall a lowly orc defeat that which surrounds and engulfs him?"
Jihkal can not be certain which version of Karikhan’s prediction is the truth. Khan himself may not even know.
“I’m more worried about the lowly giant.” Jikhal grins over at his shaman.
Khan can’t help but smile at the pun. “Low indeed. But surely he can be made lower. Perhaps I’ll transform him into a halfling. Hmm…maybe he’s less trouble as a giant.”
Dur’dan paces back and forth thinking to himself, “Damn these soldiers are taking their sweet time to get here. Where is my damn army!”
“Oh, it was a horrible place, full of orcs, undead, and deep dwarves. There was even a giant, although he was actually the friendliest of the lot!” Hob’s breath has the distinct scent of booze on it.
“Do you want to know something? I didn’t actually defeat all those monsters myself…” He waits for a few seconds before interrupting… “only half!” and slaps his knee loudly. “Haha… get it?”
After the guard’s groans subside, Hob sobers up suddenly and gives his opinion on the value of the delve. (For he is not as drunk as he would seem). “But seriously, if you want to know my evaluation, as in value, of that accursed place, well, it is simply off the charts. I have not seen such a high concentration of precious minerals since my time spent working at the royal’s museum. Why, the mithril alone could make one rich beyond his wildest dreams…”
“But other than that, it’s nothing special.”
Everyone’s posted, the game is ready to continue and I won’t be long in posting. Thanks for bearing with me.
our fearless GM has goten a bad case of the stomach flu or something similar and is in the process of recovering. he’ll be posting soon… trust me… ive been bugging the shit out of him… almost quite literally…
Idling pigeons are sent scattered as the huge wooden gates of the embassy wagon yards are swung open by two pairs of bustling dwarven peasants, each pulling open their respective portals via thick chains set to yolks straddling their shoulders. Nearby loiterers, humans and dwarves both, clear the road and gaze over curiously. Three horses, one a magnificent paint, the other two smaller and leaner, carry their riders, a dwarf and two Shelic, through the gate and into the plaza. The ground stirs and loose stones clatter as a heavy wagon rumbles behind them in the wake of a pair of oxen, an armored dwarf pilot yanking at the reins and shouting in dwarven to the beasts. The wagon has twelve heavily armed and armored white-haired dwarves as cargo, each with beards hanging at least to the knees, in some cases wrapped repeatedly about the waist. The longbeards, elders of peasant clans all, are stern and stoic and already sweating without complaint beneath their steel helms and the beating of the sun. Barrels and sacks have been lashed to the sides of the huge wagon and a half dozen ponies follow along on leads tied off at the vehicle’s rear.
No sooner has the first transport crossed the threshold that a second follows, loaded with ten younger and more uniformly-equipped dwarven soldiers. A third appears, and then a fourth and fifth, all similarly laden. The dwarves of the sixth wagon to roll into view are lightly armored and equipped with crossbows and sidearms. The next three wagons are all piled high with crates, sacks and barrels of supplies. The train winds through the Crown District and eventually to the city core, confused human guards shoving hapless peasants aside as the host rumbles loudly by.
As the band enters Landfill they are joined by half a dozen variously armed and armored human warriors all astride meager and protesting nags, a pair of lizardfolk and half-elf-bearing camels interspersed among them.
“There is no water until Shali-shali.” Jikhal tells Dur’dan, describing the way from the Crookback to the People of the Voice’s encampment. The Ironbeard is confident he’s brought with him enough water, but dawdling in the sands would be unwise… for more reason than one. Every day the men are gone from Goldhelm is a day that Kalaz and its allies are undefended. A token force remains at the delve but it won’t be enough to ensure his family’s protection for long.
“I’m sorry they didn’t listen to you.” Jonathan Brenley is in his bed, above the covers. A peasant girl is on the opposite side of the bed as John Fredrickson, checking his stump’s dressings. “But I’m glad you haven’t been blamed.”
Fredrickson is standing at Brenley’s side, with Hob nearer the exit weighing the candlestick from a doorside table in his hands and attempting to gauge the purity of its silver.
“It’s a mistake, what they’re doing. We were there, we saw that place. There’s no telling what the dwarves will find. Mithril… gold…” The junior knight sighs and sets his head on his pillow. “No.” Fredrickson gives Brenley a strange look and attempts to keep him in bed when the noble starts to swing his leg to the floor. Brenley gestures for his crutches, John handing them to him reluctantly. Brenley gets to his foot and hobbles towards the door, shaking off John and the peasant girl when they attempt to help. “Bruce! Bruce!”
The door eventually swings open, Hob stepping aside as the large and elderly human enters. “My lord?”
“Raise my house guard.”
“Uh- my lo-?”
“Damn it, Bruce, go.” Brenley turns on John and Hob. “It isn’t much, but we might be able to salvage something from this. I’m granting you my levies: That’s at least a dozen men. Tell the dwarf he has the support of the Hadburgs. Don’t worry about Keethe, I’ll take care of him. We pull this off and we’ll all be rich.”
John is dubious. “And if we don’t?”
“Well…” Brenley thinks for a moment before tossing his hands in frustration. “You’d better just make sure we pull it off, then.”
John hesitates for a moment, but only a moment. He breaks into a wide grin, salutes his charge, and exclaims “Aye aye, sir!” Then, after a quick goodbye, he runs off to makebthe necessary preparations.
Brenley’s small home is located in the city core, technically making it a 'thumber residence, but it looks like it belongs in Whitewall. Indeed, the building is in the shadow of the great wall itself. The two-story home shares a courtyard with a cluster of similar residences all owned by other minor knights, most of whom spend the majority of their time at the Hadburg estate. Those that remain are the old and the crippled. The area is surrounded by a short perimeter wall: It’s enough to deter most potential trespassers but it would not stop a determined criminal.
Hob and John, the latter of which is now equipped with chainmail that jingles beneath his tunic and a longbow slung over his shoulder alongside his shield, head downstairs and into the courtyard to wait. Those few men living in the nearby neighborhoods that fall under Brenley’s control will need time to be notified, readied and to arrive. The two loiter the hours away as the morning sun rises and the first of the conscripts arrive. Eventually fourteen unarmored men, from red-cheeked teens to grey-haired elders and a single halfling with an eyepatch, are assembled in the courtyard. Most of them are wearing Hadburg house tabards, two claiming to have lost theirs. Thirteen of them are armed with spears, one of them has a short sword (probably an heirloom - the people here can’t afford forged weapons such as that). This is probably as many as will arrive. The group could wait for more to trickle in but risk lagging behind the departing warhost.
The party has successfully escaped from Nal Oddosk.
The party has successfully raised a force with which to wage war on the greenskins plaguing the People of the Voice.
Experience Award
All player characters are awarded five experience points to spend.When purchasing statistical upgrades with experience points remember that you must purchase them one rank at a time. So if you have a Strength of 2 and want to get it to 4 you must first purchase Strength 3 separately. Experience point costs:
[ul]
[li]Attributes - New rank x 5[/li][li]Skills - New rank x 3[/li][li]Skill Specialties - 3[/li][*]Merits - New rank x 2[/ul]PM me with details or questions on how you spend experience points that you’ve accumulated (please don’t share such information publicly).
Karikhan seems even more out of place than normal as he rides with the others. The massive barbarian is now clothed in a set of leather armor of his own making, crafted from the pelts of coyotes just outside the city. The beasts had become lazy and fat, feeding on livestock. The call of the wild was lost on such animals, who had become little more than pests.
They have lost their soul, Karikhan reckons.
The leather is not extensively smoothed and treated with fine oils and hardening agents, like the style of civilized folk. The fur is still intact, making the Shelic himself look more like a predatory animal than a man.
Karikhan has made his preparations. The shaman is ready to make war.
Dur’dan rides along pretty much in silence. He has his shield in his lap and he is staring at it. Running his hands over the Ironbeard crest. His fingers find the breach in the shield caused by the hobgoblins hatchet, dead center of the shield, dried blood running from the scar. They needed to be done with the greenskins quickly, The Ironbeards needed every available soldier and ally for the storm that was coming. It’s a terrible burden to hold: the fate of your family.
John tries to raise the spirit of his fellow travelers by singing. Unfortunately, John’s song selection is fairly limited, mostly to drinking songs. He varies up the lyrics, sometimes singing of comely tavern wenches and sometimes substituting his own lyrics, of slaying goblins and giants.
John Fredrickson, Hob Overhill and their small company, loaded into two wagons (one half-full of meager supplies) merge with the rest of the host on the road immediately outside of Platinum Falls. Pebbles clatter loudly amid the loose cobblestone as the heavy wagons roll by, their bearded passengers singing in dwarven. The sun gleams down on the warband, baking them in their steel and iron and leather. The dwarves are a disciplined lot and complain only occasionally, unlike Arrow’s longtime friend, the lizardfolk Kittix, whose bleating is constant. “Is more hot than Tartarus, Arrow!”
The two day journey to the Crookback passes slowly and painfully as the members of the host face a problem: Throw their covers about them and stifle in the heat or throw them off and burn in the sun. The group makes frequent stops to water the horses, the wagon pilots scrubbing them with soaked cloths to manage their discomfort.
Eventually the group is plunged into the welcome shadow of the Crookback and moves single file into the pass. Dur’dan is quiet during this leg of the journey: The pass would make an excellent defensive position.
The small army continues east and, after another day of travel, is stopped while Jikhal and Karikhan ride north towards a rock structure that vaguely resembles a stooped man. Khan and Jikhal spend a few minutes at the foot of the formation making prayers to the spirits they believe to inhabit it. Before long the host is on the move again and on the afternoon of the fifth day after leaving Platinum Falls they see grass for the first time. The vegetation here is much like the Shelic themselves: Rugged and adaptable. It gets thicker as the army nears an incredible rarity in the desert: An oasis. A lake spanning hundreds of yards with a green shore of reeds, ferns and palms. There are a few hundred flapping burlap and hide tents here, each flanked by clusters of camels and the occasional horse leashed to the structures. A hundred Shelic are outside going about their business, before all halting their daily activity to turn and watch the passing army in emotionless silence. These are a ragged people, pushed to the brink. Karikhan can feel the sloshing of liquid in his waterskin, taste his last meal upon his tongue, and perhaps he feels guilt.
The army finally stops and circles its wagons near the approximate center of the camp. A woman on horseback rides up alongside Karikhan, speaking to him in their tongue.
Karikhan speaks to the whole crew. “The Shelic war council will convene soon. This army’s leaders will discuss the battle to come.” To Dur’dan and John, Khan says “Both of you must attend, as leaders of your warriors.” To Arrow, Khan says “You shall also attend. Unless, of course, you believe someone is more suitable to represent the Yellow Suns?”
Dur’dan nods once and will follow Kahn to wherever this meeting is taking place.