Deals with Devils on the Eve of Battle

An ancient poem from the Druid scrolls of High Oak

Teuvdar studied the face of the young bard carefully. The newest member of their adventuring party, Logan was fresh-faced and excitable. And, like any Bard worthy of their stripes, he loved to tell exciting tales. But this time there was no exaggeration in his words, the fear was real and quite palpable. Even as Logan recounts recent events to the party, Dwarf Cleric Draven and stoic half-orc barbarian, Thokk, nod in agreement with his every word. The Bard may be prone to embellishment, but these other two were not.

Earlier that day, the party had split in two, each tasked with securing allies in the coming fight against the Sahaugin at their island temple. During their recent meeting with the village shaman witch, she suggested that two inhabitants from the island may be willing to help. Logan, Draven and Thokk went into the deep jungle in search of a race of insectoid creatures, while Teuvdar, Shadowfoot and Torrig would seek out the Dwarves of Torrig's home clan.

The Dwarf expedition was successful, but the request came at a high price. His clan would willingly assist them, but Torrig must never return to claim his rightful place as leader of the people. Without hesitation, Torrig agreed to the demand, perhaps because he sensed that without the help of the Dwarves, there was no hope for their mission to succeed. In renouncing his throne, Torrig had made a huge personal sacrifice.

Meanwhile, the second party found the insects, or rather it would be more accurate to say the bugs had found them. Before they knew what had happened, they found themselves surrounded by 6-foot spear-carrying mantid warriors. After considerable confusion and a struggle on the language front, the three were then escorted to the lair of the bugmen for a meeting with their leader.

Somehow, Logan had convinced them to give them an audience. No fools, the creatures demanded that the Bard go before the leader alone, and Thokk and Draven were held back. In what was both a feat of bravery and insanity, Logan climbed to the top of the treehouse and faced the hive leader. He spent the next ten minutes bartering for his life in a conversation that mainly concerned why the insects should not just eat them and be done with it. Much of Logan's gear and gold were handed over to the hive leader in exchange for not becoming their dinner. In the end, a deal was struck. The bugs would help, but it they demanded certain favours in return. Their own island to rule, the meat of the Sahaugin, and half of the treasure collected from the war. A steep price which seemed like a bargain at that moment--anything to get away without being skinned alive. Reluctantly, the hivelord then allowed the three to leave, and declared his warriors would await them on the beachhead on the day of battle.

Hiveleader of the Thri-Kreen

As their friends describe these creatures, Torrig nods in recognition, for his people had a name for them: Thri-Kreen. The revelation hits Teuvdar like a load of bricks. Thri-Kreen...of course! The hunter-harvesters. They were little more than a legend to his people, a boogeyman thing to frighten children. Teuvdar recalls a poem from his childhood, a tale that his brother Tenveren often tormented him with. Legends said in ages past these creatures came out of the deep desert, invading the forests and hills of the Midlands before being driven back. The ancient stories claimed that any and all humanoids were considered a source of food by the Thri-Kreen, and that Sylvan flesh was prized above all. They were alien to most humanoid sensibilities. Tenacious, compelled to hunt and feed with no evidence of compassion or remorse. A formidable ally, if they could be controlled, but a terrifying enemy to those who showed any sign of weakness. And their party had made a deal with them.

A pit formed in Teuvdar's gut, for he felt terrible at allowing his friends to approach the bugs alone without considering the dangers. They had made a tactical mistake that could have ended very badly, and may yet come back to haunt them. Thank the Gods they had not sent Shadowfoot with his tasty Elven flesh to meet with these creatures! (Teuvdar's skin crawls as he remembers his own Elven ancestry, and makes a mental note to wear a hood around the Thri-Kreen!) Had the party come all together as one, and shown strength, the Thri-Kreen may have perceived them differently. Now, Teuvdar was convinced they would be dealing with them from the perspective of inferiority, a deadly vantage point for contending with this race of beings.

They had been making many mistakes as of late, ones they could not afford. As the hour of battle drew close, they found themselves surrounded on all sides by allies that ranged from apathetic, to unwilling, to potentially hostile.

And then there were the true enemies, the Sahaugin, against whose vile cruelty all of the other's actions would pale in comparison...

Run for our lives and Damn you father.

The Gates of Zamora, closed to Redemption for at least one year...
or until we grow strong enough to oust King Ozerick, the Usurper.

I should have known that the plot to eliminate the Yuan Ti temple would end in disaster, as it came from shadowfoots conections with Ma Baker. Oh how a hate to run, my legs will only carry me so fast and am sure that Elf knows this and has us running from trouble so he can laugh at myself and Draven as we lag behind. He must still be smarting because i shot that manticore in the heart from over 300 feet away (with a normal short bow) its not my fault that I am a better with a bow. Anyway we must have looked like a right bunch of Thieves, running for the sewers carrying all those sets of armour, most made of steel, that huge Glaive, a bunch of scimitars and such.

Back in the relative safty of the strong house outside the city Zhed brings us the news that I just knew was coming, we had been spotted and now we are being hunted. We now have to decide to what to do and its is finally decided that we should go south and try and find this Shaman, to tell us what this statue thingy is that we have and nobody bloody wants. The journey downriver is uneventfull until myself and that great lump of an orc Thokk go to pay our respects to Kord. Here we learn that they are moving the temple to Shade as a messanger has said that the weather will be unusually cold this year?

We arrive at the coast in a town whos name i cant recall, and Teuvdar shows us one of his new tricks, how cool it must be to be able to lick your own balls. He turns himself into a dog and goes searching around. Teuvdar comes back all excited but I am not sure if it was because he could lick his balls or that he had found this mysterious crate with some sea creature in it, anyway that Elf goes off and does some sneaking around and finds out it is an evil creature whos race have overtaken the temple of umberlee on one of the islands, by this time I am getting a bit apprehensive and excited as we will be heading in the direction of my Clan. My father always side tracked the issue when i asked him about our homeland and our clan, and mother told me bluntly to shut up and dont ask about it.

So we find passage on board a ship that will take us most of the way to where we need to go, we stop at a couple of islands to trade some goods that Shadowfoot thought might help us get information and grudgingly I must admit that it is working. Now I dont like boats if Kord wanted us to be in the water then he would have given us gills. but this passing between islands was not that bad until one day we hear this huge splash nere the boat, Then I hear Draven shout something like "you could not hit my arse with that rock if i was 10ft away from you, your mother was so ugly that she wanted you to be an ogre or a troll you are not fit to be a tall kin." But it is hard to translate the talk of Giants back into the common tongue, the insult was a grand one and I would have been proud to shout it myself. That seemed to incite the Giant and 3 more of those big ugly beasts started to throw rocks at us.

Stone Giants of the Craggy Rock Isles attempt to sink our transportation by
tossing a few friendly stones. In response, we gave these ugly buggers
a volley of arrows, which (frankly) did not amuse them. Truth be told,
the dwarven insults hurled from the boat probably hurt them
more than the arrows.

"Quick, quick get all those tower shields ready to deflect the rocks" the captain shouts, and Draven,Teuvdar, Thokk and a couple of crewmen react. I string my fine new bow and take aim from a good 600 feet away my arrow flys true and hits one of the Giants, "Grrrrrrr not hurt" he shouts and launches a huge rock in our direction, Splash, missed by 40 feet, another mighty insult from Draven and more rocks come in our direction. "Cant you stop insulting them" wimpers Logan the bard as he takes aim with his xbow missing by 50 feet or more " are you joking " says Draven "I have not had the chance to insult a giant for years this is so much fun" I had to agree. Shadowfoot strings his bow and lets fly an arrow that sails wide of the target, "Ha once again a dwarf is shooting better than you friend Shadowfoot" as another of my arrows finds its mark. "Grrrrrrr still not hurt" shouts the giant " Thats only because you are too stupid to feel the pain, you ugly son of a trolls dinner that my your mother would not even eat" I shout back. Then the rocks start to get close to the boat and Thokk deflects one safely away and Draven does the same, more rocks appear and Draven manages to take it full on the sheild which shatters and the rock ends up in Dravens lap "See you are that bad a shot your mother gave you a slap because you could not hit a boat or a dwarf no matter how stupid you are, and so i can catch your puny rocks who are you anyway a midget" Draven calls as the barage continues, Shadowfoot takes another shot misses again by a long way and unstrings his bow muttering something about saving ammo. The next volly of rocks come our way and Draven is muttering a spell, just as the huge rock is about to hit him full in the chest it suddenly turns to clay and splatters the deck "See you cant hurt me you pathetic piece of crap" Calls Draven. Shadowfoot reacts by pulling this funny looking fan out of his pocket, "what you going to bash them away with that?" Thokk asks "no watch" says the Elf as he activates it and a huge gust of wind takes the boat out of the reach of the giants.

The Shaman Witch's hut, deep in the island jungle...

The Shaman has some troubleing news for us, the statue we hold is bringing unwanted foes against us and tells us we need to retake the temple and place it in a room that faces the sea. She also tells me that my grandfather was the chief of the dwarven clan and that my father had been banished because he was in love with the thief that is my mother. You have a lot of explaining to do next time i see you father no changing the subject this time. We dicide to ask the insectoid creatures and the dwarves for help in retaking the temple. Logan comes close to being eaten by the insects but manages to convince them that we can find them a new home. I travel to my homeland and look upon the great gates for the 1st time, now this is no Foxton or Hammerhome but it is my clan home, i walk up to the gates and introduce myself as a Thunderaxe and the guards look baffled and angry but they go fetch the chief of the clan. He gives me a huge embrace and then asks what i want, some of your finest warriors and clerics to help my ride the temple of umberlee from the evil that lurks there i reply. Well you can take 16 of my men as long as you tell me that you will never again set foot in these moutains. What can i do? damn you father for not telling me of my heritage, my group of friends are relying on me to get help so i grudgingly agree.

It would have been nice to one day come home and challenge for my right to be chief of the clan but I guess that Kord has other things planned for me.

Now wheres that flask of fine dwarven spirits i got from hammerhome ah there you are, "i am going to spend some time with myself and any of you try to follow me or talk to me and you will feel the sharpness of my axe"

Flight from Zamora

I. Marshal the City Guard!

All over the Great Crossroads, on every street and in every tavern, rumours were brewing of trouble in the city, and the appearance of reward posters only confirmed what many already suspected. The King's guard was in a lockdown mode, searching buildings all over town, and interrogating people left and right.

Just yesterday, the King had announced that a treacherous attack had been committed on one of the city's temples, and that many innocent members of the congregation had been murdered. The perpetrators were still at large, and known to be armed and dangerous. During the investigations, the King further revealed, it had been discovered that dozens of townsfolk had gone missing in the days prior to the incident, almost certainly the work of these diabolical criminals. Fear was creeping into the minds of the townsfolk, and many had taken to hiding out in their homes until the troubles blew over.

But the King soothed their fears, assuring them that matters were well in hand, for one of the victims had survived the attack and had identified the attackers: Six men, known by many in the region as Redemption...

A Yuan-ti warrior on the prowl...

II. A Clandestine Farewell

Just a few miles from Zamora, the hunted party and their Guildmaster, Zhed, sit in quiet conversation in a corner of a local safehouse pub. The Nightwatch leader appears weary and a bit aggravated.

"When I heard about the attack, I suspected Ma Baker was involved. Her grudge with the snake cult is well known. I did not expect to find you in the middle of this," a smile appears at the corner of his lips, "but I am pleasantly surprised to discover you survived. The Yuan-ti are not something to tamper with at your young age...you are quite lucky to be alive. While I admire your bravery, it will come at a cost. A reward has been posted for your capture, and the city militia pursues you."

"You must leave the area immediately, and not return to Zamora for some time...I cannot say how long...perhaps a few months, perhaps a year. The King has some personal connection to this cult you have insulted, and he is the type to hold a grudge. And, my spies report that Yuan-ti agents are even now expanding their search beyond the borders of the city. You must flee, and there is no time to waste."

He unrolls the crude map and motions in several directions.

"You could go North to High Oak, but Ozrick knows there are elves among you and may suspect you will head that direction. He will not expect you to take the road south. It is less well known, and more lawless. There are a few settlements of note in that direction, and I should be able to contact if need be. I will send news when I can. Until then, stay clear of Zamora."

With that, he grabs his pack and weapons, then stands to depart, turning once more to deliver a final warning, "Be on your guard in the Southlands. There are pockets of civilisation, but much of the region is primitive and shrouded in mystery and superstition. Pockets of Shadowlands are known to be soutwest of Timora. And, if you hit the coast, you are at the edges of the world...go any further and I cannot help you."

From a dusty scroll in the library of Zamorra

The dwarven order of the Sunsworn is not unlike those of the legendary Paladins of old. Like them, the Sunsworn warrior-priests work to do good for their race, and indeed all the civilised races. And also like them, the Sunsworn are ecouraged to turn their backs on comfort and monetary rewards, focusing instead on what can be done for others. The Sunsworn priests leave behind the underworld where most dwarves live, and venture out into the world above, doing such deeds as are required.

Philosophy

The Sunsworn see the rightful place of the dwarves as being underground, but know that there are some evils that lurk in the land above. They believe that by placing themselves in the way of such evils, they preserve the dwarven way of life for those that they have left behind, even though they can no longer enjoy that way of life themselves. This kind of self-sacrifice is rare in all races, but more understandable in dwarves, as they tend to have a stronger sense of community than humans.

Choosing

Most of the Sunsworn priests come to the order from the clergy of Moradin, Him being the most martially inclined of the dwarven gods. The rest come from mixed sources - some may never have been in any other clergy before joining. The choice to join the Sunsworn is not made by divine inspiration in most cases, simply by realising the desire to do good, and the need to do so in the surface world where dwarves do not by nature belong.

Training

All Sunsworn priests learn to use the various weapons favoured by the dwarven race, and most are comfortable in heavy armour. They often find the laws of Zamorra quite difficult to work with, given the ancient prohibitions against such equipment. They are also often taught the languages of various surface dwelling tribal monsters, such as goblins or orcs. The main focus of their training, however, is on the priestly arts of healing and battle-magic.

Rites

Upon joining the order, the initiate undergoes two days and two nights of fasting, to focus the mind. Fasting is not uncommon in religious orders, but the dwarven fast tends to be longer than most (c.f. Waukeem's initiation ritual, and that of the priests of the Trinity, both of which last one night). This can be ascribed to the fact that dwarves like few things better than showing how hardy they are, and often try to go one step further just to prove that they can. At the dawn of the third day, the initiate leaves the temple of the Sunsworn, and steps into the light of the rising sun, and speaks the following prayer.

"Forgive me, my ancestors, for turning my back on you.
I do as I must.
No longer will I dwell in your hallowed halls.
The deep darkness shall not comfort me, nor the silence sooth my heart.
Into the light of the Sun I step, to face what evils may be found.
Harsh and unforgiving...
The Sun shines on us all!"

Many of the Sunsworn never return to the caves of their people again, except in death, to be buried there. Others view their exile as more of a practical matter, and if evil arises beneath the ground, then they will return there to fight it.

The Sunsworn make their daily prayers at midday, with head bowed but uncovered. On cloudy days, the ritual must still be performed, though it is considered a bad omen if there is not at least a glimpse of the sun.

In the writings of the Sunsworn, the word "sun" always has a capital S, being treated linguistically as the name of a god, even though they do not worship it as such. This has caused some confusion among scholars, some writers believing that the Sun was their god. For this reason, many have assumed that the Sunsworn are always allied with the priests of Lathander. The truth is, the Sunsworn may be allied with the priests of any of the goodly gods, as and when such alliances suit their purpose.

Relationships with other dwarves

Most dwarven institutions recognise the usefulness of the Sunsworn order, and will work with them when their goals coincide. However, dwarven society is very internally cohesive, and views with great suspicion a group that is devoted to leaving their homes, no matter how good the goal or purpose. Since they rarely return to dwarven society to raise children, they are seen in some ways to be running away from their responsibilities. The most extreme anti-Sunsworn views see them as childish, in a sense - abandoning their duty to future generations to chase around the world having adventures and seeking glory. An obscure song, "Mama's don't let your babies grow up to be Sunsworn", about a dwarven woman losing her only son to the Sunsworn order illustrates the sense of bewildered pride combined with loss that the Sunsworn inspire in those they leave behind.

Calm Before the Storm

A shadow moves through the catacombs of Zamora

Teuvdar feels the sharp edge of his new scimitar with satisfaction, then looks over to his friend Torrig sheepishly. "I thank you, Master Dwarf. Now the blade might actually manage to cut an adversary."

Putting away his sharpening tools, the dwarf grumbles slightly under his breath, then looks up at the Druid. "Hrrmmph...You should have come to me to begin with to have a weapon crafted. What do you know about working with steel, eh? Nothing, I venture. Lucky you didn't completely ruin the blade with that pitiable attempt at sharpening! Why would ya want to muck up a beautiful masterwork weapon like that, after you had paid all that money to have it made? For that matter, why do you need a silver weapon anyway? Expecting werewolves?"

With his last sentence, Torrig looks around and into the dim woods beyond the village, then eyes the Druid's new wolf companion suspiciously. Zephyr remains motionless, seemingly asleep. Closer examination, however, would reveal one eye slightly open and watching every move of her humanoid companions.

"No werewolves," Teuvdar laughs,"at least not the I am aware of." He holds the blade up, pointing at the moon. "It is a custom of my people that when the time comes, we must bless a silver blade under the light of the New Moon. The weapon may be crafted by another, but the initial rites of consecration must be done by none other the the wielder. This is more than a weapon, Master Dwarf. It will become a part of me. It is also representative of our order--the tasting of life and death each in turn. For this same blade that severs the regenerating mistletoe and tastes the sap of the Alder can and will draw the life blood from living creatures. For that is what it is to be a servant of nature, always riding the razor's edge."

"But why silver?" asks Thokk, who had been sitting to the side in silence up until now. The half-orc barbarian , normally someone of few words, suddenly appeared interested in the conversation.

"Ah, yes...well, the choice of the material is tied to age-old rituals and tradition, designed to bolster the defences of the world against dangers that other faiths have all but forgotten. It is a symbol of purity. And, in my family, silversheen has always been an integral part of our weapons. The reason is beyond my knowledge, for that tale is older than the ancient forests. Perhaps in some distant age, my ancestors did indeed meet shapeshifters with silver in hand. In time, I may come to understand it better. You see, my weapon is not yet complete. There is much to do, but for the next stage I will need the help of an Elder. With their guidance, I will be able to draw power from the cycles of the seasons. At the next solstice, if the rites are performed correctly, the weapon will grow more magical. It will be tied to the ebb and flow of the moon. Approaching a New Moon, it will gain in power, and with each waning, it returns to normal. Just as it draws strength from luna, it will also transfer that potency to my earthly magicks. I have seen such weapons in the arsenals of Elder Druids. They are both beautiful and deadly to behold."

Torrig looks profoundly unhappy, "Well, it sounds like a bunch of Druid nonsense to me, but I'll take any advantage we can get.' he gestures towards Zamora," If that snake cult doesn't spell the end of us, then these premonitions we've all been having are next in line. I say bring 'em on and let's be done with it! I prefer a straight fight to all this sneakin' and waitin'. Ahhh....but tonight, I'm tired. Wake me if Shadowfoot or Draven return."

With a yawn and a stretch, the Dwarf stalks off towards the nearby inn, leaving Druid and Barbarian to ponder their situation. It had been over a week since Shadowfoot had gone undercover, in search of information about about the mysterious serpent sect that had sprung up in the city. No news had come from him so far, and everyone was starting to wonder if he had met an ill fate. And meanwhile, their Cleric had become more and more concerned with the recent visions they all shared. Signs and portents were everywhere, and Draven spent large amounts of time consulting his fellow priests of Moradin in an effort to decode the meanings.

A series of events had been set in motion, and it was unclear where they were being led. What was certain was that they were no longer entirely in control...

Battle in the Skies

The Manticore swings about, a bit unsteady from one too many wounds. He growls in rage, slashing claws flailing about to strike at the approaching Hippogriff. His attack misses, instead passing through a harmless cloud of vapour as the horse-bird disappears into thin air. The summoned animal cannot help them any longer, he thinks. It’s time had come to an end.

The presence of the Hippogriff had been unexpected, and had nearly cost the Manticore the battle. The Druid will be the first to die the next time, I will make certain of it. I will rip his flesh, and those of his friends. I will feed on their bodies for days to come. I will chew on the guts of the Dwarves, and tear the arms from the Orc-man. And the Elf…the Elf I will keep alive as long as possible to relish the delicious and savoury Sylvan blood. Then, I will slaughter the people of Bingley who dared send these interlopers to hunt me.

But first he must escape, to lick his wounds and regrow his tail spikes, the same ones that would pierce the hearts of these foul man-things. He swings about, aiming to slip through the narrow gorge and make his way to safety. He glances at the adventurers, cheering and shouting from the edge of the cliff. Enjoy your brief moment, you pathetic worms. I will be back, and I will strike at you from the darkness of night. Your bodies will be picked from the cliff face, and dashed to the rocks below. He marvels at the arrogance of the man-things, who seem to be dancing in victory. Their celebrations are premature at best, for this beast is not dead yet.

Abruptly, the Manticore is slammed from above by something massive—another Hippogriff! The meddling Druid had called another one! He spins out of control, barely maintaining his flight as the horse-bird veers away. Blood flows freely from a deep wound on his back. Fear and alarm enter the mind of the Manticore, for he is now the hunted. He must escape to fight another day. His only hope is to outrun the winged adversary, for the man-things could not follow him and this summoned helper cannot last long. With a final resolve, he spreads his wings and heads for the open sky. In moments he would be clear of the gorge and away from the scene. I will come back and kill all of you...

On the cliff edge below, Torrig pulls back his bowstring, grimacing as he stretches the weapon to it's limit. At this range, a hit would be a miracle. The arrow launches through the sky and high into the air, sailing across the void towards his chosen target. Like a death knell straight from the heavens, the projectile pierces the heart of the Manticore! The scourge of the forest gives one final howl of pain and defeat, then falls in a tailspin to the valley floor below.

Sleeper awakes

An inky and impenetrable darkness begins to fade, the light of the outside world streams in to ignite the fire behind a pair of golden coloured eyes. The cold subsides, bringing a tingling sensation to the body and awakening muscles that have lain dormant for many years. The sound of cracking crystal and smashing glass carries through the frozen air to ears that have waited ever patient for the tiniest sound. The taste of bile in the mouth and the smell of fear are reminders of what has gone before. Change has come to the world again.

I have listened for hundreds of years. Waited for the time when I can be free, a time when I can bring all of them back. Someone has broken my prison and now I can see. The darkness lifts and a new age will begin. The hammer has been found and the land must be ready for another war, for I am certain they have not finished with their petty disagreements yet.