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Earthday, Fireseek 20 CY 593 - Hildae the Wit-Tongued
Life in the whirlwind of the Furyondian front lines
continues to be a challenge. A few days ago, the grand lot of us took it upon
ourselves to venture to a keep, the map of which was purchased from an unseemly
dwarf. We believed the location to be of good strategic import (near the
shore of We go, and find another group! And, the keep
itself was infested with humanoids - goblins, orcs, maybe worse. We agreed
to an uneasy alliance with a brutish half-orc (I have my doubts!) and his
comrades (Kwog and company), and our lack of strategy almost spelled our doom. We were cut
off and surrounded and had to retreat. A few ogres were especially
daunting. While recuperating in the woods outside the keep, we were beset
upon by a messenger from Greatwall - apparently carrying a letter of great
importance. The message urged us to come to Greatwall at once. I make a note right here, that sometimes it is
worth planning an assault, rather than just trying to sneak in. We didn't
get a second chance to infiltrate the keep, not due to overwhelming defenses,
but from a slight lack of planning. I hope that barbarian has his wits
sharpened for our next encounter with evil. Our scouts must do a better job
of assessing the situation and planning for contingencies... We do however manage to get the keep’s deed.
The city government purchases it, and offers it as a base of operations
if we can only clear it free of humanoids. Before
however, we are summoned for more important tasks… Thus begins "The Silver Key..." I have become what I despised! How could I have
consented! May the Brighthammers never know of this! The hand that
scrawls this is mine, but tainted - it is warted, greenflesh, and hideous.
I live out a daily agony with only a far distant consolation. I have been
ensorcelled by the tricksy chicken-witch who claims that we do great good by
consenting to live in this form and perform her foolish errand. I begin to
doubt my loyalties. My companions almost readily agreed (especially that
hulking madman from the north). May Fharlanghn and Moradin forgive my
soul. I am all too ready to shed this cursed ruse. It has fouled my
beautiful voice - a damned shame! It mocks my abilities. I must act
that which I am not - Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! I must compose myself. We find ourselves on a fool’s errand. I am disgusted by the company I keep – my clan’s enemies for some time now surround me (at least in their guises), and there are many questions left unanswered. How we will return to our form? Even if we manage to recover the Key and rescue the noble, what then? We make a few hundred mile trek back to friendly lands, only to find that we are treated as the enemy and slain on sight! It is from the frying pan to the fire. I've managed to calm myself since the last entry 2 days ago. I fear, as well as the other must though some do not show it, that we may very well turn into orcs permanently. Circumstances certainly carry that threat everywhere we look; in every action I carefully watch myself. The others have become more barbaric since the change though, and it would be a terribly disturbing fate should it come to pass. I find a darker place within me that craves release, now awakened by the brutish words and actions of my companions. They slip...and I have too... There was a skirmish today - between a horde of orcs and a score of well-hidden archers - elves, I believe. They struck from the forest, and the orcs charged, killing a number before the attackers retreated into the woods. The orcs lost at least twice the number they killed, but came back with fresh elf for the clans. I was disgusted as I watched from a distance. We have managed to stay hidden, following this great force headed for who knows where. Soon, we will have to join, since there will be no more places to hide. The journey is long and laborious - we're left to ponder our predicament. Were I not traveling for the horizon and accompanied by friends I would most assuredly go insane. The form brings with it savage impulses I must control or lose myself. We enter Readying nearer our goal - it has been five days of solid travel. I've tried to pass the time by keep my skills sharp and entertaining the others with drum and song. Hawk in particular seems unnerved by the ongoing pressures of the change...He has muttered on a number of occasions about orcs being his clan's historic enemy... We approached an encampment of orcs today. Magnor, in a rare act of compassion, rescued an half-orcish woman who would later prove to be helpful. Imagine that, a kernel of wisdom in his skull. Hard to, I know. His bluff failed, and he was forced to buy the ugly lass. We've now been drafted into Red Tusk's battalion / caravan. Red Tusk is a hulking orc, with more pig to him than most. He's accompanied by a loyal lieutenant of sorts, Urluk, another piggy one. Urluk demanded Catena, the female half-orc (Magnor's bitch - sorry, an OP I know), and Magnor discovered what happens when two orcs in the Red Tusk clan disagree about something - ! Ka'chok ! A brutish game that seems to stir Magnor's fancy - Ka'chok is a game of little skill and much will. A pig bladder is bounced, and then a punch is given to the opponent. Then you must catch the bladder. If you drop the bladder or get knocked out by your opponent you lose. Later, Al-Hasma masters this game of high tactical strategy (yeah, right) easily (Kachok). We forget our troubles momentarily as Al-Hasma makes short work of his opponent, tumbling behind him and levelling him with a well-placed dagger thrust. The crowd is dumbfounded. Meanwhile, Hawk almost gets his arm bitten off trying to feed the giant lizards, or was that Magnor? Al-Hasma continues to be a source of crafty ideas. He approaches things with foresight. We'd do well to follow his advice often. At last the burden I bear of wise leader can be lifted for short times, and I can return to observer. I haven't had much time to write of our events lately, because I'm adjusting to this new form, and orcs are very suspicious of my composing. I must hide my scribblings, lest they discover us. The orcs stole our characters to use in their filthy language, and any literate one (which I know must exist, but have yet to see) would detect the dwarvish nature to my writing. Our party grows smaller. If I dare attempt a metaphor (such trying becomes harder against the call of my new physical form) I'd say the appearance of new friends and the disappearance of old ones is like the waning echoes of the forge. Each new face is hammered into memory, and then, through distance traveled and the raising of the arm, it drifts to a distant, and then silent, place. I often wonder what has happened to those who I first met at Border Post Four before their daring foray into orc-infested mines beyond Barduk. Aliyah, Seraphina, Basil, Darley and even the enigmatic Kanok. Were Aliyah, Basil and Darley successful in returning Forestthorn to the elves of Celene? What has become of them? Have they made contact with the Knights of the Hart? And what of Bioth as he tends the keep...? Captain Gillmore must be marshalling the forces and training them for an assault should we fail. A lot rides on this bold ploy of Celandra's, that little witch crone. Today we ran into some trolls and ogres - it was quite a battle, one that we tried to stay clear of. They wanted some slaves to eat, but Red Tusk was not in a generous mood. The ogres were killing orcs left and right with their mighty clubs. Bodies were flying. Red Tusk and Urluk however, were taking care of the enemy. Al-Hasma was firing crossbow bolts into the trolls, slowing them down, and Magnor charged and took out an ogre or two. Carnage was created. Many of the Red Tusk tribe were slaughtered. But we prevailed. We are obviously making our way northward to Izlen. It's unclear how far we are behind Sir Jalahandar. The city if you can call it that, comes into view. It is situated atop a hill with a river flowing through and around it on the east side. And the stench! Entering the city with the caravan was easy enough. We then split off right away and began to do some reconnaissance. Catena mentioned she had a half-brother who may help. We believe that Jalahander would be taken to the inner Keep as prisoner. As for the Silver Key, it could be with him, or anywhere else. Magnor is thinking of ways to gain power in this city, and isn't above splitting some skulls. We have taken the guise of the Broken Dagger clan in our town dealings. I'm off to gather some more information about the city. My writings become more frequent and urgent to preserve my dwarfhood. There are daily assaults to it. Our quest takes on a sense of epic desperation. We, surrounded by thousands of the enemy, are our only hope. I've gained knowledge about the arena... firsthand, actually. Al-Hasma and Hawk decided they would sign up for an arena match, hoping to get recruited for guard duty. Meanwhile Magnor travelled to see Catena's brother and make some arrangments. We had to change clan names because we didn't want the Red Tusk clan to know of our whereabouts. Al-Hasma suggested Skull-Splitters and it stuck. We won our first few battles, and then they brought out a nasty troll that almost did us in. We downed it though, rather triumphantly, and the whole arena was yelling "Skull Splitters" repeatedly. [ Insert more details about heroics in Krimba-Hai ] We pulled off the heist! It went better than expected. We managed to get assigned to guard duty in the temple. Now we're running for our very lives, as the entire population of Izlen (Krimba-Hai in orcish) has emptied out of the gates after us, including a huge ettin, and a few wyvern riders. Many, many days journey later... (Here ends THE SILVER KEY and RumbleFest CY 593 begins) We plead for our lives in front of the gate while the Orcish hordes march swiftly behind us under a white flag. The captain, wishing to avoid a battle, asks to hear the Orc Commander speak. It is Red Tusk himself! Imagine our disdain to see him. He demands that Greatwall deliver the orcs (us!) back - that we are deserters of the clan who need to be punished, and that the hordes will leave if they get them. Somebody talks quickly. Was it Al-Hasma, or myself - we were certainly panicking, and attempting to make our story sound true to the ears of Guard Lieutenant Trivain. Something we said must've been convincing or luckily the Lt. Trivain is at at least somewhat informed of Celandra's scheme. He asks us to wait outside the wall while a message travels through the city. Red Tusk is impatient and sternly demands our return. We are caught between the anvil and hammer. Desperation sets in. Close to a half-hour passes. Meanwhile, the orcs look to be preparing for war. We spot two siege engines rolling into focus, and a large throng of humanoids following behind in the distance. Apparently Iuz is serious about retrieving the key, and not letting us return to safety and with word of Jalahandar's treachery. [ Insert details of RumbleFest™ 2003 here ] Battle-weary and exhausted we fall to the earth, to be carried by women and children inside the city. Tyrbog carries me (imagine my surprise, being lifted off to some giant lair...) We find refreshment and clean beds in one of the barracks and sleep off our fatigue. It is late the next day when we wake to the sound of trumpets. (Thus ends RumbleFest CY 593...) As life springs anew this season, the week of Growfest nears. Ah Growfest! It couldn't be better timing for the Greatwallers, who desperately need to plant seeds of hope. Second only to Brewfest as my favorite holiday, Growfest is a time to sow anew. I sense Magnor in particular may seek the sowing of certain seeds soon enough. We have been summoned to Jakartai to conference about a few items of note. First, the reconstruction of the city and the labors involved after the decimation. Jakartai asks if we would spend some days amongst the cityfolk and speak heroically of Greatwall's fallen defenders. It would improve morale and probably boost productivity among the workers. We agree to do so for a few days; and get to see the destruction first hand - especially of the East Gate. Our next summons are for discussion of the keep - the retrofitting and expansion of Defender's Hold, as I'm calling it. Apparently there is a sum of coin available for its improvement and a monthly sum for upkeep and caretaking. We’ve made a
trip to the keep and will head back to Greatwall shortly for another summons. Bioth
seems to have scouted the place pretty well and has made note of most items of
importance. I have a few goals here. We've hired an engineer from Greatwall (Rosen “Razorwit”) to construct our suggested improvements. The engineer (who will be paid 10gp monthly to oversee the construction), imagines it will be near Ready’reat before the construction is finished, given the labor shortage – that’s about 8 28-day months, plus Richfest and Brewfest, two one week festivals, for a total of ~ 238 days, he surmises looking thoughtfully into the sky. Later… I've managed to establish a sort of roadside shrine just outside the new keep - it blesses the travelers who may pass by. I spent the better part of a week consecrating it. I know that the cleric Bioth frowns upon such mundane tribute to a deity, but hey what does he know or believe? His boots are not as worn as mine. Besides, this shrine is mobile, unlike the sedentary halls he haunts. Meeting Jakartai again, we are relieved to find things calm in Greatwall, and reconstruction happening at a steady, if slow, pace. The Count (Paladin of Heironeous) is pleased to see us, and asks if we are ready for another assignment. The wizened man speaks softly in a deep voice of word from Duke Tyneman of The Duchy of the Reach (renowned for its hedonistic ways and self-indulgent lifestyle) of the Growfest festival happening in Baranford. The halflings of Moonfoot Shire are preparing to regale revellers in entertainment, games and acrobatics, among other festivities. The population in the city should near double during this time (close to 5,000.) The Count expresses his wishes for us to find merriment and rejuvenate ourselves in Baranford. He has a proclamation for us to post at the adventurer's guild in Baranford once we arrive. It mentions that followers of Trithereon are greeted with open arms in Greatwall, and that there is work available for strong young men and women at competitive salaries. Acting as emissaries of sorts, we are asked to attempt a recruitment of hopeful souls, while at the same time enjoy ourselves ("within reasonable limits of course", he says and winks, looking up at the lightning bolt in the hand of Heironeous, as if to remind us of inner discipline)... After securing supplies and making arrangements, we will ride for a few days, south past Spinecastle, and passing just west of the Capital City of Chendl, beyond to Baranford. Travelling by horse for 5 days and over 120 miles, we should arrive in the middle of Growfest. Magnor, grateful for a respite from fighting Iuz’s hordes (“I’ll never forget when I was just a lad (CY 582) when “Vatun”, really Iuz, swept in with his forces and corrupted Sevvord Redbeard with his ensorcellments – I fled the Hold to the cold hills, and found warmth among the dwarves in the Griffs.”) is looking forward to a little revelry and entertainment, as is Hildae. “Sure will be nice to tell our tales for coin, and swap with other minstrels in the city. New audiences, new minds to shape, new legends to build. We are quite due for a vacation, and another chance to wander the horizon…” the dwarf bard/cleric muses to nobody in particular, even though she knows her audience. The party looks forward to some much-needed rest. Meanwhile, in a dark alley/beautiful temple/lavish tower/barracks/copse outside the city, another adventurer waits to be called forth…
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