Fairy Folks: Revolution, a D&D PBEM. CHAPTER 1 - The Ogrin invasion The carriage has been clattering along for days now, part of a larger caravan including two others of its kind. Six weary figures sit inside, shackled in the steel-reinforced cell built in the back. They have no possessions, nothing apart from their fetters and tattered, makeshift clothing. On every side walk their captors, the Shogh Nageel - ogres and ogre-kin who recently burst forth through a rift in Attria's east. Though the language spoken by the humanoids is one unknown to any from either Eltis or the Northlands, their captives are fairly aware of their grim fate: ritualistic sacrifice or torture. Little else can come after the "preparations" they were subjected to before leaving town - covering their skin in black tattoos, bathing them in strange liquids and hanging by their feet in a large room full of incense. Five of the six - consisting of two humans, two ukkers, and a halfling - grew acquainted with one-another. The sixth is female, very short (most likely a halfling) and has kept to herself. But now she stirs as if responding to some unseen signal and pulls down her ragged hood, revealing a haunting image: in the gloom, her face seems wider than a halfling’s, her eyes very large, her ears pointed and also of exceptional size. She whispers, "Try not to be alarmed, friends. I am Ravaat the Traveler, and I have been waiting for you all." Though she uses the local tongue, her accent is quite thick and unusual. "I’ll first need to get you out of this mess. We must meet with the King as soon as is possible." Sitting on the bouncing floor, back to the wall and shackled hands in his lap, the ukker shaman seems little more than a large pile of dark furs and greenish skin. After a second to consider, he leans forward, concerned. "Are you light-headed? Faint of blood?" His own accent is less thick, merely a different rhythm behind the words. "Food will do you good." An open palm offers crumbs from their last meal while yellow eyes search the air around her for the spirits that steal thoughts and cloud the mind. But his hand is turned aside gratefully, along with his concerns. "I'm fine, my friend. It may sound foolish, but I truly intend to help you escape." She winks at the shaman, and taps her left wrist. Vermatejouack shrugs, looks down and begins to speak to himself once more in some unknown toungue. He's been doing that a lot on this trip. "Well, lass," interjects Artasi the halfling, "intentions are good, but perhaps you have some way of removing these shackles? I'm not exactly an escape artist, you know. And what do you mean, 'waiting for us'? Last time I heard somebody say THAT I spent the next six days hiding out from about twenty wanna-be assassins." He pauses thoughtfully, then adds, "Although that would be an improvement over our current situation, eh?" Ravaat smiles confidently and agrees, "Indeed, sir. And as for the shackles--" she cuts off, again staring intently outside of the carriage, but eventually calming and returning her attention to the other prisoners. Before she can pick up where she left off however, a *klink* is heard followed by a gruff chuckle. The prisoners look over in the direction of the sound only to see the ukkerin shaman nodding thankfully to the unlocked manacles sitting in his lap. "Well," says Ravaat, who seems not at all surprised, "That would be a start." Zhug, a big, muscular ukker, looks at Vermatejouack with respect and asks, "Well done. You think you could teach me to do that?" He has a Mongoloid face with intelligent orange eyes and dark green skin covered by a liberal amount of black hair, soft on the top of his head and his beard, corser from the neck down. "The path of the shaman is hard. If we live to see sunsets, I will teach you." A pause, yellow orbs clicking through those present; settling on the woman. "If we are to see sunsets." "No guarantees, sir," says Ravaat, "but that's what I'm here for. And if all goes according to plan, I'd say we all have half a chance to see plenty of sunsets." Vermatejouack keeps looking, waiting for the rest, but the girl is once more peering at the outside of their prison. Trying another approach, Axelbred asks Ravaat, "I think that magic is behaving strangely here." A typical Battanic male, Axelbred is a very tall, solidly built and quite handsome, with hazel eyes below sandy blonde hair. His beard actually grows in light brown, and would normally be neatly trimmed, but after days of travel as a prisoner, it has grown out somewhat and looks more ragged than the norm. "What do you know of this, and how will it impact your plans to escape?" The mysterious young woman raises an eyebrow, "That's right. Though they may not seem the part, the ogre-kin are skilled with magic, most of all the distortion and negation of it. I'm not sure exactly what they have done to our prison, but from what I know, any magic that might be used in here will likely fail or backfire." Her facial expression suggests that she has learned this first-hand. "I find it hard to believe that they can completely cancel the spells that I have been granted by my God." states Axelbred. Vermatejouack holds out a greenish, leathery hand, palm down. From it comes a solitary flake of snow, followed by another and another until the hand shelters a miniature snow storm, all of three handspans high. The snow, however, quickly fades from sight and the tiny blizzard ceases. There is no evidense of it ever having existed. "...Yet it seems they can." The shaman is clearly dismayed. "Strength of back seldom fails, if you have enough of it." ponders Zhug after that graphic demonstration of the Ogres' power. "I can't open up this cell by myself, but with some help...", he says looking around at Axelbred. "We must find the right time, is all. And we must leave no one." he says vehemently as he looks back toward the other prison wagons. "Strength of back indeed, Zhug, but also strength of spirit. Even the strongest must sometimes look to that which is beyond his means. I am here for you, as is the Lord of Battles-- and I agree, none should be left." "Your legs are too short for the steps you take." cautions the shaman, looking up from the place where snow should be. "Before the cell and before other cells, there are manacles." Zhug quietly says, "Wise words, indeed. Let us hope that my legs grow quickly, though, for I fear that come morning your lack of shackles will be noticed and what would come then would not be very pleasant. And if you don't need them, might I borrow your manacles? I could use them as a weapon." A spark of amusement twinkles deep in Vermatejouack's eyes, "It is a day for sayings, it would seem. Do you know this one: An ukker without arms cares not for lack of gloves?" He points to Zhug's own manacles, which somewhat restrict his weapon skills. "Now long have I worked to convince my own pair and doubtfull the same arguments would convince twice, much less six times. But my arms are free and my legs are -" He is cut short by a prompt "Shh! Hold on..." It is Ravaat, who now stares out the window behind her. After a few seconds, she adds, "That's the signal, fellows," and proceeds to remove her own manacles. Whether they were locked or unlocked to begin with is entirely unclear. "Master... Vermatejouack," she says, as though she were recalling the name from something she read, "I'll need you to take the lead while I make contact with some friends. Stay in or around this carriage until I return." With not a single word more, she pulls open a crudely fashioned trap door on the floor of the cell, and slips out gracefully. The sus-mentioned master blinks like a surprised owl, then quickly bows to peer below the iron gates at the back. He does not see Ravaat on the road behind, only the legs of the ogre walking there, so he heads to the trap and kneels down for a look. Nothing but ground, and, looking behind and to the sides, more ogrin feet. "A strange one, I think, and stranger these changes to our cart." he says, sitting back and bringing the trapdoor nearly down to the floor (lest it be seen or their voices sound differently to those outside). "Do any know of her or of her king?" "Never heard of them, but I hope king implies army, it would be nice to have some help", says Zhug looking at the not-very-big trapdoor. "I can only hope he is less fey and foreign than that one." Axelbred nods to the trapdoor. "You say that like being different is a bad thing." exclaims Elleshar the Bard, silent till now. "Unless she's a Dreolre in disguise or something similar, I doubt what she has planned for us is any worse than what our oh-so-nice escorts intend. She's certainly a lot nicer to look at than you people." He himself is handsome almost to the point of being beautiful, with hair of a dark coppery red falling down a little past his shoulders and bright green eyes glittering with almost constant amusement. "I said fey, not ugly. I don't like inscrutible people. And who exactly would 'we people' be?" Elleshar stares at Axelbred for a moment, snickers, then leans back and smiles enigmatically. "So she is not known." concludes Vermatejouack. A short silence as they all settle for a long wait... but almost immediately there is a distant shout, likely from an ogrin guard. The prison wagon halts. The carriage guards speak urgently to each other. The ogre and one of the half-ogres run toward the rear of the caravan, the attention of the one remaining guard switching between the carriage and something in the distance. The smell of smoke can now be detected in the air... *Twack* Without warning, one of the drivers falls, pierced in the gut and chest by two arrows. The guard quickly unsheaths a massive two-handed sword while the surviving driver pulls out a large, round mace, then coughs blood and looks wide-eyed at the sword impaling his chest. Behind the sword is a man who looks to be a low-ranking Attrian footman. At least, his weapon bears a White Sea Serpent, the Attrian royal emblem. He runs around to the back of the cart and strikes the prison's lock with his longsword, destroying the clasping mechanism and causing the outer door to swing wide open. He attempts to strike the lock on the inner door, but is tackled by the half-ogre guard. The sword misses its mark and is stabbed into the inner carriage door. The voice of the Attrian soldier is heard from outside the prisoners' vision, "Take the sword! Get yerselves out o' there!" There is much worry in Vermatejouack as he hastily pops the dislocated thumb back into place, using perhaps more force than necessary. "There might be swelling." he warns. Axelbred nods, closes his eyes, and crosses his arms in front of him, his fists clenched. "Lord of Battles," he speaks firmly, "grant us strength!" The prison wagon shudders a bit, but there seems to be no further effect. Axelbred is clearly disappointed. The shaman did not wait and has begun to climb out the trap door below, though Artasi and Elleshar did seem to want to adress him most urgently. Fortunately, the ukker is less bulky than most of his kind, but even so he just barely manages to squeeze through (banging a knee, scrapping a shoulder). He crawls in the dirt below. His expression is grim, his heart beating fast against his ribs, too fast. Words spill from his mouth, forceful whispers where "Hahgwehdiyu" and "Har" have an important place. A little ways to his right, the half-ogre guard has slit the human's throat after having overpowered him. As Vermatejouack scrambles past, the guard swings his sword outward with only one hand (and thus rather inaccurately), and misses. Not looking, conscious of the urgency, the shaman pulls himself up into the light and the noise of battle. He grabs the Sword in the Door and attacks that which confines the others, hitting but failing to destroy it. The half-ogre guard now rises to his feet, and lunges at the ukker with his huge right fist (lacking the leverage or the balance for a proper swing with his two-handed sword, which is held in his left hand). The punch connects with Vermatejouack's face. He staggers back a couple of steps... then voluntarely adds two more steps before steadying himself, drawing the guard's attention in that direction. "You," he says, a cold glint coming to his eyes, "will SUFFER! Spirits that tear, spirits that rend, come to me! Come and eat. Eat the flesh of my enemies! Kayshta ma ya houkt shakkak!" Cold envelops the shaman, bitter and bitting. Ice crackles as it forms on him, powdering his hair and freezing his face into a demonic mask; frigid air takes form around him with eary purpose, shaping a savage beast whose limbs are his limbs, but whose head towers far above his own. Its jaw sprouts a dark forest of icicles, its claws gleam out of the paws of a bear. In its eyes is hunger, bottomless hunger. The guard seems on the edge of terror, a step away from flight, but he maintains his ground. Almost as if nothing had happened, Vermatejouack is again the ordinary ukker he was a minute ago. As the seconds pass, memories of the horrific images begin to subside as dreams do, and soon it is difficult to tell if anything had happened at all, let alone remember the details of it. The half-ogre guard, having snapped out of... whatever just happened, lifts his massive sword and bellows something in the now familiar tongue of the Shogh-Nageel. He lowers it slightly behind him, and swings his weapon at his opponent with fury. Vermatejouack, however, manages at the last second to hop backwards and avoid the attack. Meanwhile, Zhug lets out a roar, his orange eyes becoming bloodshot. He smashes into the remaining door, causing it to creak as his large body hits the wood. Zhug bellows out, "Axelbred, Together the door!" Axelbred looks to Zhug, who seems on the verge of boiling over with agression, and says in a solid tone, "When the gods will not serve, mortal strength must suffice!" In unison, the two, now both positioned next to the door with one foot braced against a bench, hurl themselves against the reinforced door. There is a deep lurch following their crushing impact, but the door, though clearly damaged, remains in place. Artasi, still beshackled, hops toward the trap door with surprising grace, and slips through, disappearing below the prison carriage. Elleshar follows, crawling through awkwardly in his shackles. After the dusty trip underneath, Artasi emerges first and, overcoming the ensnarement of his manacles as best he can, leaps toward the Shogh Nageel guard. Elleshar is next. Scurrying from underneath the wagon, he heads to the back where Zhug and Axel are having at the door, and patiently awaits their escape... The guard swings his greatsword at the halfling as the latter draws close for an attack, but swings high with a blow that would have easily cut down a taller man. Artasi uses this opening to his advantage, and hops upward, pulling up his legs in order to facilitate the swinging of his arms (to which they are attached by manacles). In the same motion, he jabs his right elbow swiftly to an apparently sensitive part of the guard's gut. The rather large fellow keels over, simultaneously cursing the halfling and gasping for breath. Vermatejouack hesitates, surprised... then aims the flat of the borrowed blade at the back of his opponent's head, weilding his sword like he would a more familiar club. The guard manages to stumble with the blow, causing the blade to hit his shoulder and slide off, twisting and cutting on its way down. The wound is shallow at best. Nevertheless, the guard roars in pain, and it is plain to see he may be on his last legs. "Together!" yells Zhug, as he and Axelbred once again hurl their combined weight against the door of the prison wagon. There is again a great crash, accompanied by the groaning and snapping of planks. The door, however, remains in place, though its condition has by now deteriorated significantly. The top of the door's three hinges has broken as well. The half-ogre guard, surrounded by assailants, looks past the carriage behind him, and hollers, "Ghouva!". The shaman follows his gaze, fearfull of more trouble. Much of the vicinity has been abandoned of Shogh Nageel due to an indiscernible commotion toward the rear end of the caravan, beyond the nearby hill. A black cloud can now be seen over that hilltop, wood smoke by the smell. Of more immediate concern are a few remaining guards (an ogre and three half-ogres) heading toward the commotion. They will pass close. The guard swings his greatsword desperately, taking advantage of the ukker's distraction. There is a rush of wind, then pain as sharp steel bites deeply into the shaman's chest and left shoulder. Artasi hollers at the half-ogre, "Hey, Guard!" The brute, still wary of Vermatejouack's attacks, turns his head reflexively. "Yer momma wears pretty white dresses!" shouts the halfling as he throws a handful of dirt in the guard's face. The guard coughs violently while wiping the dust from his face with one hand, now even more distracted than previously. Elleshar makes a conscious effort to stay out of he way of the combatants, and peers past the carriage at the approaching Shogh Nageel. They have stopped, and they seem to be arguing over something rather hurriedly. He then hears shouts from the forest a ways from the road (and to the left of the hill concealing the rear of the caravan), and turns in that direction, spying two humanoid forms with swords and shields running in the direction of the prison wagon. A hoarse cry is wrenched from him. It dies, ground to shreds between his teeth. Fear - dark, oily fear - wells up once more and once more the young shaman attempts to shape it with anger and with reason... and fails. He slashes wildly, great arcs more like prayers than attacks. And yet there is impact, penetration. The guard's hand falls limply from where it was wiping his eyes and his whole body slumps. Vermatejouack feels his sword grow heavy, pulled downward by the weight of an ogrin skull, and he sinks with it, down till his knees touch the ground. There he breathes, heavy gulping breaths as the red of life drips down his shoulder. Axelbred and Zhug, the latter now steaming from the ears, hurl their weight one last time into the door of the prison wagon, this time destroying another hinge and smashing the door itself into more manageable pieces. Zhug breathes very heavily, staring madly at each companion in turn, and then calms himself down. Axelbred gives Elleshar a grin and says, "Thanks for the support." Zhug meanders over to the shaman and the corpse before him, and, as sensitively as he can manage, says to the group, "I'll feel much more comfortable" - he grabs the hilt of the longsword and, bracing his right foot against the half-ogre's bloodied face, yanks the blade from his skull - "with a weapon in hand." He weighs it carefully, and proceeds to wipe the sword on his rags. "Would that we had a few more of those." says the voice of Axelbred. Vermatejouack looks up. Why would Zhug choose... oh. He reaches down, green fingers closing on the leather grip of the greatsword. "We have met already, haven't we?" His other hands presses the edges of his wound together as he stands, shaking himself awake. Three guards are still ambling in their direction, shackles are still in place - the battle is far from won. The two figures Elleshar spotted emerging from the forest have now come fairly close. They are clearly Attrian soldiers, one of them bearing a shield with the Bentsham coat of arms, who, as they arrive, speaks to the group, looking nervously at the ogre approaching in the distance. "I am Sir Pandon of Bentsham," he announces, "and this is Thomas of Atterton. We are working in conjunction with the Royal Attrian Guard, and, unfortunately, we bear bad tidings. Lady Ravaat has been captured by the Shogh Nageel." "Unfortunate. I will sing for her." comes the distracted grumble from the shaman. Instead he nods respectfully to the small figure of Artasi, "I can carry you as we make our way to the woods, warrior." BREAK "Please," says Thomas, urgently, "We really mustn't leave Lady Ravaat in the hands of those beasts! Why, she sacrificed..." "Sir Thomas!" interrupts Pandon, "our orders were to secure the safety of THESE MEN ONLY. They are under no obligation to..." "But Ravaat..." "Thomas!" "Please listen, Lieutenant! Ravaat is crucial to our operations in the western..." "But to risk the lives of these five captives? Hm..." "At least," says Thomas, more calmly, holding up a finger to ward off further interruption, "we can take them to our hideout, yes? It's safer there than here, and we won't force them to help us, of course!" "... and I am Axelbred Skjoldlondlanner Amolbred Amnabraden. Before we show our backs to the battle, are there any hopes for a rescue?" BREAK to the party: "... and now I wish we had a few more of those --" nodding to what weapons they have, "-- all the more." Vermatejouack trusts the greatsword's hilt at the blond human. Though he feels forced to remind him: "Legs and steps, stumps and gloves." Axelbred nods, holding the blade comfortably but unreadied, and makes a quick scan of the group and of the location of the Shogh Nageel... Finaly, his eyes settle on the shaman's wound. "Hopefully you won't mind a favor in kind." *quietly and to himself* "Lord of Battles, look down upon this -" Vermatejouack grips the priest's upraised wrist, stopping him cold. "Yanulnoha's teeth are sharp," a ragged intake of breath "quite sharp - but he shall not drain me this day. Keep your god's favors for those who need them." The hand drops, oddly uncertain all of a sudden, then his expression firms as he faces away from Axelbred. "The warrior (he means Artasi) can take the dead one's dagger and you" he points to the bard "gather the maces of the two who lead the wagon and we are armed as you wished, Axelbred. Now let's run." Elleshar looks at the maces for a moment, then turns back to the others. "Well, I'd be glad to. But I don't suppose someone could help with these first?" he asks, jingling his shackles. "I would prefer to have my full range of movement available." Axelbred hefts the large sword decisively, "I can give you your full range of movement, just put the chains against the ground and make sure the keep your hands and such out of the way..." "Ah. Of course," the bard says, looking nervously at the sword. Kneeling down, he stretches the chains out, then closes his eyes. Pandon looks nervously to the approaching ogre and half ogres. "The enemy approaches! Quickly, Thomas, the shackles!" Each throws his shield to the ground and, grasping their swords in both hands, bring the blades down upon the Zhug's and Axel's manacles after waiting for the beshackled to hold their fetters low and steadily. Thomas proceeds to break Artasi's manacles." Each in turn takes up his shield. Meanwhile, the ogre has ordered one of the half-ogres to cut across toward the distant commotion in the back of the caravan. The ogre and the remaining guard charge toward the newly freed prisoners, letting loose a barrage of gutteral gibberish. Pandon and Thomas charge in opposition, shouting from the depths of their hearts, "In the name of Truesdale's Wisdom!" Elleshar curses and hefts one of the maces. He plants his feet, and assumes a defensive stance, watching the ogres carefully. Sir Thomas, meanwhile, charges the half-ogre aggressively, and stabs his sword into the beast's gut. The half-ogre buckles over as Thomas withdraws his blade. It begins to cough up blood, and curse violently at both knights. Artasi Oneshot looks around quickly but not hurriedly, removing a dagger from the nearby corpses of a half-ogre and a human. One of these he hurls at the guard battling Thomas, but in an effort to avoid hitting the Attrian footman, he likewise avoids hitting the half-ogre. Meanwhile, Sir Pandon of the Guard charges the brutish ogre. He closes and attacks, but doesn't seem to be fighting very aggressively. The two exchange a few uncritical blows, and Pandon's manner of fighting reveals him to be a seasoned combatant of ogre-kind. None of his blows are especially whole-hearted, though - he seems to be setting up for a very precise maneuver. The ogrin guard snarls at Pandon, and hefts his huge club into the air. The swing, however, goes wide, and Pandon easily ducks the blow. The half-ogre continues to reel from Thomas's attack, and flails wildly at the soldier, catching him off-guard, and delivering a deep wound. Thomas chokes on his own blood, but manages to push himself away from the half-ogre before a lethal blow can fall. Axelbred closes his eyes and focusses, and pronouces for all to hear, "Lord of Battles and heroes before us, stand witness to our battle this day." The prisoners' spirits raise, and all save the Shogh Nageel feel strengthened with courage. The ukker shaman limps forcefully to the remaining mace, feeling each impact in his shoulder. Maybe pain clouded his being, maybe this strange land had customs to explain this or maybe, just maybe, this was truly the most senseless battle Vermatejouack had ever participated in. "Zhug! We charge the small one, all right? His human is in trouble!" and so they charge, weapons held high. ~~Mace, you are now mine by conquest. I say to you that blood is blood and I say that the more fearsome the opponent, the greater the glory... and ogre's are fearsome indeed!~~ Vermatejouack's mace collides with the half-ogre's arm, while Zhug's sword cuts open the brute's chest, felling it instantly. "Forgive us, warrior of the Shogh Nageel." Elleshar bravely stays out of the way. Thomas, meanwhile, begins to breathe heavily, and, in spite of the horrendous gash in his side, works up a jogging pace. He begins to speed up, his eyes clouded with blood (figuratively! :), and, sword held high, releases a shout mingled with blood and bile, "Sir Pandon! NOW!" Before either of the warriors can react, the ogre spins out of Pandon's way and brings its enormous club into a wide arc. Thomas now lays limp in the dirt, nearly twenty feet away from the monster. Artasi, anticipating decisive action on Pandon's part, bolts toward the ogre as fast as his short legs can carry him. He approaches it directly, hopping and rolling out of the way of its wild swings, and, with hopes of distracting it from behind, dives straight between the ogre's legs and rolls through to the other side without more than a scratch. Pandon, having found the opening he needed, runs toward the ogre while Artasi distracts it. Rather than attack, however, he plants his blade in the ground, lowers his center of gravity, and, first feinting to the right, turns to the left and smashes against the side of the beast's right knee. Now against the back of the ogre's leg he presses, and, by pulling its lower leg up from behind and shifting his weight entirely forward, takes it off balance and brings it crashing to the dirt. Almost in the same motion, Pandon grabs his weapon (which, in his new position, is within arm's reach), and swings it at the ogre's other leg, injuring it notably but hardly debilitating it. It seems quite evident by the skill and precision of Sir Pandon's movements that this is nothing new to him. Axelbred, infuriated at the ogre, charges it at full force, easily bringing his greatsword down upon its prone target. The ogre roars as it feels cold steel cut into its back, and lifts itself to its feet, bringing its club around and whalloping the young priest of Krossonet. Numerous bones can be heard snapping, and when Axel falls to the ground, he doesn't get up. Vermatejouack raises his arms to the sky in utter disbelief, "Humans." Then he starts hobbling away, his teeth showing in what is most certainly _not_ a smile. "Zhug, if you could help the warrior! I'll be there as soon as I can... YOU, bard! help me with this one!" He settles near the man calling himself Thomas of Atterton and quickly patches the downed soldier, extracting the man's own tunic from the big tear in his armor and cinching it tight over his open wound. "Ancestors of... this man, I ask that you fight for his life as... ardently as he fought for you this day." A grimace flitters accross his rough features, "That will have to do." He then addresses Elleshar as he pushes his weary self off the blood-stained grass and back to an upright position, "Carry him towards the woods. Cut off his armor if you need to, but hurry! We will join you if we yet live." The yellow, bloodshot eyes looking down on the bard look grim indeed. Elleshar nods and begins dragging Thomas to cover in the forest. Meanwhile Zhug reels a bit, trying to manage the fatigue which has begun to sweep him. He nevertheless follows the shaman's advice and moves toward the ogre, at a less than spirited pace. The black orc makes his way to the ogre, but swings quite poorly from exhaustion. He has clearly depleted most of his adrenal reserves... The intrepid halfling maneuvers slightly toward the ogre's right flank, and, with Pandon distracting the ogre from the other side, manages to reach up and slip his dagger between the its hip and leg bones. Pandon begins to bring his sword downward for a low strike, but, noticing this opening, instead swings his sword once around again and upward. He leaps, dropping his shield, and drives his blade two-handed into the ogre's chest. He pulls himself upward by the hilt, and, as the ogre crashes backward, shifts his weight onto his right knee, which ends squarely pinning a collapsed ogrin neck to the ground. Sir Pandon's breathing is forced and irregular. He holds still for a few moments, staring into the blank eyes of the ogre below him. Holding his position on its neck, he calmly draws a knife from a small sheath on his boot, and, with some great effort, manages to pry a lower canine from the ogre's mouth. "That is one more..." he mumbles to himself, wiping his bloodstained hands on the ogre's clothing. Vermatejouack does not slow his advance. This confrontation might be near its end, but he felt sure others were not far behind... Axelbred's clothes ripped easily, uncovering a massive bruise already forming and so the shaman begins to sing, bloodied fingers tracing the path where bones should be. "Ehya AAra shaa! Oha ehya kaa!" His breath condenses, the air becomes chill. One by one, the bones set themselves in their proper place, as painful a healing as was the breaking. But the patient does opens his eyes... and shivers. "The cold will fade when your bones are no longer made of ice. Now lean on me and we will limp away together." he offers his arm for support and for warmth. Axel accepts it wearily, and is lifted to his feet. "Thank you shaman." Axelbred says quietly while shivering. Pandon, also on his feet now, surveys the area and then jogs toward Elleshar and Thomas, who are at the edge of the woods. "All of you, follow me. We need to take cover before more of them arrive!" The shaman's eyes narrow, but he keeps silent, only Axelbred being near enough to hear him growl. Grabbing the other priest around the back, they both start to hobble accross the open area leading to the forest. Finaly tears, he tears his eyes from Pandon's back, shakes his tired mind back to the present and then addresses Artasi, "My children thank you for your help, Warrior. Without you, they would never have been born." Artasi snaps back, "Don't count yer kids yet. We might get out of this hellhole somehow, but I'm sure that Lady Luck has something else in store for us. If there's one thing I've learned..." With that, he trails off, then starts up again, "Let's get out of here before any more show up, ok?" then launches off on his own towards the nearby woods. Vermatejouack almost smiles. Artasi's roughness brought to mind another who had walked with him... They would have liked each other. Speaking of which, "My thanks as well to Zhug, for making the folly of others... smaller." His eyes have returned to Pandon's back. Zhug says nothing, but nods gravely to the shaman, keeping a pace with him and the wounded one. He looks to Pandon in the distance, back to Vermatejouack, and once again to Pandon, and, with a pensive frown, runs back and fetches Axelbred's dropped greatsword. Axelbred mumbles something to himself, only the last part of it intelligible even to Vermatejouack, "...I think I see it's meaning... Thank you," Axelbred says, eyes skyward. He pulls himself from his reverie, takes his blade from Zhug, and focuses his attention on the task at hand: walking. "Visions?" asks the wounded ukker, the exertion of their trek keeping his words short and breathless. "Something like that..." Axel shakes his head again. A few steps with only the sound of breathing, then "Should discuss... local spirits... you and I." The shaman looks back towards the smoking caravan, "When time allows." "Certainly." agrees Axel. "When we have time." El leans non-chalantly against a tree as the others approach "Well, that was certainly a rousing experience," he exclaims, smiling brightly. "I don't suppose one of you would help me with our injured friend here? He's a bit heavy for me to be dragging around by myself." "Aye, I think I can help with him." Axelbred breaks away from the shaman and begins doing so as best he can. As he walks away, Vermatejouack notices for the first time that the priest is carrying his own broken handcuffs, along with Vermatejouack's complete set. Noticing the shaman's attention to the manacles, the human explains. "I was planning on repairing them." The ukker nods, winded but most pleased. "They are commendable... people? - loyal to their homeland. See how they parted before the sword of their kin? Such sacrifice should not go unrewarded." El gives the Verm a sidelong glance, then blinks and shakes his head. BREAK Thomas awakens groggily. Though he is still wounded, he is, after a short while, fit to walk again. Pandon, after a long silence, addresses the group, "Now that we are safe, for the time being at least, we would explain ourselves. Ravaat, whom you met in your prison cart, is a Traveller from the Realm of Simmeralhel, if you have heard of such a place, and a trusted ally of our great King Truesdale. She somehow knew of your capture, and wished urgently to free you, for reasons I can't imagine. My soldiers and I were under the command of Sir Elwan, a captain of the Royal Guard, but he has fallen in battle." He pauses for a moment, clutching his sword. "Ravaat was captured a short while ago, and we were ordered to rescue you in her absense. You are free to do as you please now..." "Sir Pandon!" interrupts Thomas, "But..." He turns to the group, and continues, "My friends, we can remove your manacles at our hideout and supply you with food and equipment. It would be best to go there before considering our next moves." He begins walking deeper into the forest, motioning for the rest to follow, but without looking back at them. Pandon nods in confirmation, and follows Thomas. Vermatejouack walks after them. He needs rest and there are rituals to attend to. Tomorrow - tomorrow is soon enough to worry about the rest and so he walks, the sureness of his steps a clear sign these are familiar surroundings to him. Elleshar turns and follows the Pandon and Thomas. After a short while he begins softly singing something. CHAPTER 2 - A clearing After some travel through the woods, the group approaches a dense ring of trees. As Sir Pandon runs ahead, Thomas says to the others, "We need to stop here until Pandon has cleared us with the guards." After a minute, Pandon appears from between two trees and motions for the rest to enter. Upon entering the ring of trees, it becomes clear that its growth was somehow engineered. The trees which compose it all grow very closely together, with only a single gap allowing entry. They all lean inward, forming a solid canopy above the clearing. The branches are likewise carefully arranged, forming something of a second floor and creating easy climbing access to strategic lookout positions. There is a standing stone in the center of the clearing, which glows with a cool, natural light, providing ample illumination (which, it might be noted, was not visible from outside). Past it, Pandon can be seen handing a small wooden object to and speaking quietly with an old fellow in robes who doesn't seem to be part of the Attrian force. Twelve others, all of them Attrian soldiers, lounge about the area, some in vine hammoks. Thomas runs off behind some branches and returns with two large waterskins. He gives one to Elleshar and one to Axelbred. "You must all be so thirsty! Drink all you like; we have as much as we need here. Food is not so abundant, but I'm sure we have something here for you." Artasi waits his turn for the waterskin, then wets his cracked lips. "Ah, the nectar of freedom. No draught is as good as the first out of bondage." Vermatejouack turns away from his rapt examination of the clearing long enough to ask, "Have you had other experiences of bondage, Warrior?" Artasi sighs, and says, "Yes, I was enslaved and sold to a fagin at a very young age. Happens all the time, nothing too unusual." "Frequency has little to do with right and wrong." interjects Axelbred. "but it is understandably an unpleasant topic. I will leave it be." Yellowed eyes blink at the human. Was this a message to him? 'I will leave it be and so should you.' Peering down at the halfling, Vermatejouack could see no anger, annoyance perhaps (though the small jaw and rounded forehead of non-ukkers always made emotion-reading uncertain). He chooses to continue, "Is it so? Are slaves that common? The land of your birth must be one of plenty." Artasi snorts, then says, "One of plenty to those with the money to buy it. For the rest of us, you might as well spit on them. What good is law, when the law is bought and sold like a commodity?" "I do not know the values of laws that they may be bought or sold, but should food be given away? I serve my tribe and so I partake of the hunters' kill." Memories flitter accross his gaze as his toungue picks at the forgotten remains of meals long past. "Though not the tenderest morsels." he admits. Artasi snaps, "Ukker, your people may be blessed if they know not 'civilization' - for the curse of Law which comes with civilization is that people use it for their own selfish ends." Axelbred shakes his head sadly. "You have been ill used. I hope the poison in the hearts of the men who allowed this has not found its way too deeply into yours. Perhaps someday I can convince you to fault that poison more than the men, or the cities." Ignoring the balm in Axel's words for the whip cracking below Artasi's, the ukker sits abruptly (wincing a bit at the unexpected reminder from his shoulder) and snap back, "Tell me then. Tell me the story of this curse in your life that I may learn from it. For right now I agree with the human." There is sullen silence from the halfling. The shaman smiles and nods to himself, then moves on to other things. Seizing the near empty waterskin, Vermatejouack gulps down a generous amount before pausing, having caught sight of Zhug and truly looking for the first time since they left the wagon. "These markings do not inspire trust." he states emphaticaly. Water is splashed on his face, quickly followed by vigorous rubbing. But the black lines do not fade in the slightest... Maybe something more abrasive is required. But the floor of the clearing is as the forest floor - mostly a bed of soil (beaten flat in some places, covered in plant matter in others), with patches of grass here and there. No sand to be seen so he turns to the human priest, "Your thoughts?" "I will pray to Krossonet in the morning, and with any luck, he will help me remove them. If not, it may not be his will that they be removed yet. Even Shogh Nageel sacrificial tattoos-- or whatever they are-- sometimes have a purpose." The shaman's hand dips below his furs, scratching forcefully. "I agree," he says "and that is the source of my worry..." BREAK THOMAS But I'm sure you have many questions," he sits down on a conveniently located branch, "and you may or may not have much time left to seek answers." Artasi looks around the camp, then asks, "What did happen to Ravaat, anyways? She sure did seem in a hurry to get away from us all. I'd sure be interested to know why she thought that a scraggly bunch such as ourselves were important enough to rescue from a slaver's caravan. As for the food situation, give me a bow and arrows, and I'll solve that problem right short. If the problem comes from a lack of arrows, I can solve that problem too." "If it were only that simple, my friend," says Thomas, who seems to be thinking about where to begin in his explanation. "The Shogh Nageel... well, we have discovered something interesting about them. It seems that animals can sense their presense... for they always either flee or, if restrained, become terribly violent whenever an ogre is within half a mile or so. They have tried to hunt in our forests, and have found it nigh impossible. That is... unless they come upon another's prey..." he trails off, reaching for a segue that just isn't there, "We... have discovered another interesting thing about the ogres. They sense death. We don't know how, but they can track down corpses very quickly and accurately. And there are many roaming these woods, I hear. We dare not hunt, lest we be discovered." The ukkerin shaman sits in the dirt at the feet of Thomas, an attentive expression on his leathery face. "I am called Vermatejouack and I ask: what do the animals say of this? Why do they run?" Thomas, who seemed to digest the ukker's introduction well enough, becomes speechless and perplexed at his query. "I... the animals? I don't think they... well, you'd best ask Master Birchwood," he says, gesturing toward the robed man, "when he has time to speak, that is. I am sorry, I did not realize you were a druid yourself." "The trees of my homeland do not care for hugging." He looks toward the man named Birchwood ('Another with sense in his name. Good.'), marking his likeness on the skin of his memory. The human stands in a shady corner, speaking with one of the soldiers. His robes (which include a hood) are simple and dyed dull green. Other than this, it is difficult to discern any specific features, due to poor lighting. BREAK "Unless they sense the death of plant as well as animal, we can probably still forage up enough edibles to help us last a short time." remarks Axelbred. BREAK "But about Ravaat, I too would be interested to know of what interest she has in you five. Not to offend, of course, but it seems strange that... SHE would risk herself for you. As we mentioned to you, she was captured. The Shogh Nageel seemed intent on capturing her in particular, and soon after she left your cart, they converged upon her, backed by some very unusual magicks. I'm sure they know more about her than I do. In fact, the only one of us who knew anything at all about her was our captain, Sir Elwan. He made it explicit that she was an important lady, but told us nothing more. Sir Pandon believes that there is something afoot far beyond a simple invasion, if you could call this invasion simple, but I don't know what to think..." "Was Kaptin Elwan the human who gave himself so we could have the Sword in the Door?" "Sword in the door... oh, yes. No, that was not our captain. Fate forgive me, I've forgotten the name of the man of whom you speak. He was just a low-ranking footsoldier, but he may have done more good than any of the rest of us. When this is over, I will personally visit his family and tell of his deeds." The shaman nods, the human climbing slightly in his esteem. "My companion carries that sword still... I know not the way of your kind: would he rather be homebound or fight in the hands of one known to him?" Thomas looks quite confused, once again. "Your companion....? Well, you should..." He goes over Vermatejouack's words one more time, and finishes, "Excuse me, but I don't follow your meaning." "...The bearded ukker to my left, he with eyes of dying embers - yes, him." comes the slowly and clearly enunciated reply. "He bears the Sword in the Door." The human seems entirely non-plussed. Ummm. "What would the... Huo. Ancestor? What would the Sword Ancestor wish done?" Thomas considers these words for a bit, and being as diplomatic as possible, replies, "I'm afraid I don't know of the desires of the Sword Ancestor." There is the thoughtful gnashing of teeth: humans could be frustrating creatures. "I would ask directly but I know not the name nor the ancestry so I ask you instead... What is the custom when one is dead and once cherished belongings are no longer his? Would he be angry at a weilder not of his kin, not of his tribe?" Really straining to be thoughtful, Thomas continues, "If he has not yet exacted his ill will upon you, I should think he bears you none." He smiles, apparantly impressed with himself. "Helping and belonging are not as one." contradicts the ukker before letting the matter drop. If the humans saw nothing amiss, then their dead would probably think the same. BREAK Axelbred shrugs, "As for Ravaat, who can say? Certainly no-one here, at least not until we find a way to aid her and can ask her ourselves. Still... How was she captured, this time? When last we saw her, she seemed quite bound, and was nonetheless quite adept at slipping her bonds." "Yes... honestly, all I can say of Ravaat's abilities is that I know not their bounds. I know little of her place in our operations up til her capture, so I cannot say how she may have slipped her bonds and escaped unnoticed. As I said, the Shogh Nageel captured her with magic, and I would presume she is similarly retained." Taking a long drink from the skin before passing it on, Elleshar quietly scans the encampment. Returning his gaze to Thomas, he clears his throat. "Sir Thomas, while I'm certainly not complaining, why exactly did you rescue us? No offense to the others, but this seems like a great deal of effort just to recruit a couple of extra swordarms and a musician." "I don't claim to know," says Thomas with timid uncertainty. "But those were our captain's orders. We had intended to outnumber the ogres and free you painlessly, but over half of our men were part of a different unit... which did not arrive. That is why we've been forced to flee here." To the Humans of the clearing, Artasi says. "So, nobody has any idea why we're so important that our savior had to get captured in the process. Well, if you wish, I can at least restock your ammunition stores while we figure out what to do next. If somebody would help me gather some branches I can get started - and it will give me a chance to make myself a replacement for my bow." Pandon, now finished conversing with the robed man, joins the group. "Please excuse me, friends, but I must speak further with my men. Thomas, if our guests would like food, take as much as you need from Temmon." He bows hastily to each, and then climbs to the circle's upper "floor". Thomas gestures for the others to wait, moves off to another corner of the circle, and returns with a sack. He opens it and empties from it some dried meats, nuts, cheese, as well as some fresh apples and blackberries (picked nearby most likely). He picks up an apple and continues, "In any case, most of us will probably accompany you to Jandast, where Ravaat had intended to take you. Sometime tonight, part of our unit plans to infiltrate the ogrin caravan and rescue her. But as we had no particular orders apart from freeing you, you may go where you please from here. I nevertheless hope that you will wait until tomorrow and travel with us." Axelbred pauses before going for the food long enough to say, "I think my position has already been made clear: I am at your disposal." Vermatejouack scoops up a palmful and tosses it between the sharp peeks of his powerful teeth. "The wishes of dead friends lie north and east," he says as he chews "but I stand free where I did not before and would repay what I can." Meanwhile Sir Pandon scurries down from the top "floor" and quickly exits the circle. Finishing his share of the food, Elleshar pipes up, "Ah, if it's not too much trouble, perhaps we might visist the armory for some equipment for tonight... and maybe some new clothes?" Turning to the rest of the heroic band, he continued, "And if we're to be any use in Ravaat's rescue tonight, we should probably try to get some sleep before then." Another palmful crunching between his teeth, the shaman turns to look steadily at Thomas. He too was curious about the Attrian's plan. But as Elleshar finishes speaking, Pandon re-enters the circle. Whatever occupies him seems fairly urgent. He whispers something to another Attrian, and approaches the ex-prisoners. "Everyone, there has been a change of plans. A scout has been sent by our missing contingent, requesting our assistance. They require as much help as possible, and so I'm afraid we must leave this place." Thomas nods, and stands up. "I'll gather our supplies, sir," he says, leaving quickly, as though there were nothing unusual happening. Pandon finishes quickly, "You are not to join us. We have made sacrifices to free you, and would rather not make more. You may take what you like of the equipment we leave behind - there should be plenty. Master Birchwood has agreed to keep you here for the night, and will travel with you to Jandast tomorrow. Whatever plans Sir Elwan had for you, you shall discover there." He and the last few soldiers head for the exit. He leaves... strangely, without Thomas, who now approaches from behind some trees. Looking again to the exit, and back to the group, he mutters, "I'll catch up with them. Ah, yes, but first..." he motions to the druid, who now draws near, "allow me to introduce you to Master Birchwood, of the Terria." "Stands on Ice." annonces Vermatejouack. Somehow, it seems more polite to translate for one whose name he understands. "Are you the one who speaks to Those who can be Eaten?" "Anyone, my friend" mentions Birchwood, pulling back his hood to reveal a smirk, "can be eaten." He speaks in a voice thickly accented, but very clear and understandable. His skin, now visible, seems darker than most Attrians', and his short, wavy hair is gray with age. "But to answer your question, I am, among my other roles here. I have heard that you can do the same, Stands on Ice." "You eat... non-animals?" The ukker sits up and raises both hands while lowering his head, "I... I offer greetings, ijuuk." "Not I, though to others, we may not be considered any differently than 'those who can be eaten'." When it seems the shaman would perhaps question that statement he adds, "But now is not the time for technicalities... your greetings are accepted. You are welcome in this sacred place." "My own understanding is faulty and I am a stranger to this land," demures Vermatejouack, "but it is truth that I can hear when the spirits talk with a strong voice." His yellow eyes look intently at the old man, unblinking. "This one (he gestures to Thomas) has told us what he knows of ogres, of death and of the link between them and so I respectfully ask Birchwood what can be known of these subjects." Axelbred sits back unobtrusively to observe and learn, periodically casting about for the equipment which was mentioned. "I understand your meaning now. You wish to know why animals run from ogres. Those I have spoken with tell me that their fear is inexplicable - a natural drive to escape. I have my own theories, but I cannot know for sure until a contact of mine returns from a... trip. As to their death sense, I have no answers for you." There is a slow answering nod, "What is death that one can sense it? I asked myself and I answered: death is a passage, a change, a freeing, an absence. To travel the Broken Land, to block the flow of spirits, to sense death, all those things are Abscence... or perhaps it not the passing but what remains. Perhaps it is simply what draws your hooked nosed bird to a feast of dead flesh. Those are the thoughts in my head." Vermatejouack had other thoughts, thoughts of crying Umatur (the god who refused to be reborn) and of cowerdly Kargeras, both Missing... but of those thoughts he didn't speak. Master Birchwood bares another wide smile, "Your mind follows paths I've many times trod. I can only warn you not to find yourself lost when you have wandered too far." "A guide could be most useful... but in his abscence, perhaps these markings could be of some help." He gestures to his tattoos and those of the others, rather puzzled that none of the humans have mentioned them so far. Some form of polite avoidance, perhaps, or... "Have you seen their like before?" "Markings... Hold a moment, please." Master Birchwood raises a hand and moves to a far off corner of the circle. Looking in his direction, nothing can be seen, despite his having merely stepped behind a tree... His interlocutor waits with eyes unfocused, or perhaps focused on some inner thought. He lets the dull beating of pain in his shoulder be his drum, the rustling of leaves his song. He is already tired, on the edge of Vision, it is simple work to sink softly into the trance. Simply a matter of melting into the beat of his own heart... Elleshar stands watching where Birchwood disappeared for a moment, Then shrugs and wanders off to see what equipment he can scrounge up. Especially pants. He really needs a new pair of pants. A bath would be good, too. And maybe a crossbow, and perhaps... BREAK "If I could, I would ask Birchwood what the Unmoving have to say. The... plants? And I must say my admiration for this clearing. It is well done and the spirits look pleased with their new form." "The plants here perceive the ogres as they would any other predators. As for these ancient ones that surround us, their line has been allied with the Terria for ages. They have grown into this shape of their own will over hundreds of years... we have simply supplied them with the group awareness neccesary for this... collaboration." "Have you?" says Vermatejouack, though his tone is far from assured. "I... would be most interrested to meet this... group, if I could." "I would introduce you, but this fortress has no name for itself. You may address it by your own means, though." "I thank you." FINAL BREAK ---------------------------------------------------- PERSONAL NOTES Current time: 67 YC, Late autumn (winter approaches), Middle of the afternoon The forest: Mostly conifer, but not too dense, and otherwise similar to the forests of the Pacific Northwest and southern Alaska. Attrian royal emblem = White Sea Serpent IN THE FUTURE: - Try to remove the ceremonial tatoos, at least over his belly * Is there a need for ancestors to inhabit their belongings in these soft lands? - Recommend Zhug find more about the wielder if he is to keep the sword * What is death that it can be sensed by ogres? - Ask Artasi to tell the tale of his enslavement by fagins - Discuss local spirits with Axelbred - Talk to the local elder tree to get info and (possibly) a quaterstaff - Have ceremony to defend from the spirits of the two slain ogrin In Vermatejouack's case, the manacles are in good condition and unlocked. Axelbred's handcuffs are intact, but his footcuffs are broken. MUSINGS - What is death that it can be sensed by ogres? If we consider it as a passing, a leaving of the flesh, could there be such a thing as a god of death in the traditional sense? Would he rather be linked to Wind and Rivers instead, a god of Travel or maybe Change. The association with despair and undeath would be our own, the influence of Crying Umatur. He follows death but does not participate in death itself. A carrion eater. Add that to the travel of Rifts and Ogres would seem to have strong connections to Travel/Change. Wind spirits? As a rule they do not scare the living, but maybe strange spirits from beyond the rift... Then again, maybe it isn't death they track, but the dead. Bodies without spirits. That would link with their null magics and form a strong connection to Crying Umatur. Could Cowerdly Kargeras have hid near Umatur's unmoving body and enfolded (part of) it in his blanket? The animals would respond to a lack instead of an hostile presence. Do they do the same with Umatur's other sorrows (undead)? - After the day: Even after so much fighting, it seemed he did not understand the ways of warriors and battles. One moment the ogre stood strong, dominant, then he fell - without any outside intervention or deep realisation by the combatants... Vermatejouack begins to wonder just how embelished the Old Stories are. maybe things are different when the battle involves awakened spirits - buth then, how would he tell that tale to (say) Har if she were here? How would it sound? The ukker stands amid the swirl of dark furs and pauses. In his mind's eye, the empty clearing fills with the assembled mass of his tribe, dark shapes lit by the bonfire of festivals. He begins. "Their shackles hugged them close, draining their warmth and sapping their will to escape. Outside, walked the beasts... "...I cannot free you, said the spirit calling itself Rav, but you have given of your food when I needed sustenance and so I will help you. She gestured and the ground melted, forming a door framed of wood and branches, for that was the power of her kind. Below could be heard the angry growls of the Guardian. As Rav faded, she... "...Down on the ground was the one that had held them these many days, felled by the Sword in the Door - the result of Hum's noble sacrifice. As he died, so did the dark magic that had imprisoned them in the Drifting Cage. The Door shattered and dissapeared: The companions were free! Or so it seemed... "...Shackle sacrifice OGRES: Half-ogres are referred to as such due to their close-to-human-sized stature and less-beastly appearance, not due to any mixed genetic heritage. Also among the ranks of the Shogh Nageel are ogres (of course - see MM description) and Shognachts (called "great ogres" by most non-ogres), the hairless ogres of great stature and sharp intellect who seem to lead the hordes. CARAVAN: The caravan of which your carriage is part seems, from what you all can tell, to be a supply contingent, sent from Atterton to aid the Shogh Nageel occupying your destination (wherever that may be). Aside from your prison wagon there are two other prison wagons (occupied by prisoners unfamiliar to your group) and four supply wagons (each manned only by a single half-ogre). Everything is drawn by oxen, so the caravan's pace is fairly slow. No Shoghnachts accompany your caravan. Each prison carriage is driven by two half-ogres. Additionally, an ogre and two half-ogres guard the rear and sides of each. Your carriage is of simple but sturdy design, the main chamber made of reinforced wood, with barred windows on each side. The exit is in the back, and consists of two separately locked iron gates. (The back end of the carriage essentially consists of two doors in succession, sort of like an airlock. The doors are reinforced wood with barred windows. The outer door is hinged at its base, while the inner door is hinged at the carriage roof. Both doors open outwards.) You are seated on benches running along the sides of your chamber, which is about five feet wide by ten feet long. There are also a number of ogres and half-ogres walking along with the caravan, acting as guards and scouts. TATTOOS: The tattoos are not exactly permanent. They're more like semi-permanent body-paints (or those rub-on false tattoos). They are all black, though the composition of the pigment is unknown. Each of you, having discussed the matter or listened to other characters discussing the matter, has come to the understanding that your tattoos are identical, save for your chest markings (for the Preparation was done individually, and you have been clothed ever since). Two pairs of parallel lines are drawn down your cheeks, originating at either end of either eye and extending to the jaw line, which is also traced with a black line (from the bottom of one ear to the bottom of the other). A snake is drawn within the bounds of each pair of cheek lines. On each forearm is drawn what looks to be some kind of anthropomorphic snake, and on each shoulder is drawn what appears to be an octopus with only four legs (a tetrapus, if you will). Three horizontal lines circle your waist - one just below the rib-cage, one in the middle, and one at the hips. Your chest markings are all different: Vermatejouack has an image of a human and an anthro-snake facing each other. Zhug has an image of an anthro-snake drawn within an image of the sun. Elleshar has an enlarged, more detailed image of the head of an anthro-snake. Artasi has an image of an anthropomorphic squid surrounded by flames. Axelbred has an image of an anthro-snake and a large human holding hands. ---------------------------------------------------- DM, "Mark Triant" Artasi Oneshot, Halfling rogue - "Thane Walkup" Artasi is slightly annoying, gruff, has a mild case of foot-in-mouth disease, and tends to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. He doesn't seem to trust large organizations either, but has not explained why to anybody. He is possibly the most amazingly dextrous fellow you have ever seen - you have never seen him stumble, trip, or otherwise drop something. Even in chains he's hard to tripup. He also seems fairly intelligent - just slightly lacking in tact. You've heard him asking for help from Alin-Mon a few times in the wagon, but nothing that sounds like a formalized prayer - more like "So, how are you going to get me out of this one" -style comments. Axelbred, Human priest - "Lorcan Murphy" Axelbred Skjoldlondlanner Amolbred Amnabraden (that is to say, Axelbred, of Clan Skjoldlond, son of Amolbren, son of Amnabran), Battanic human priest of Krossonet (aka Balletar). Axelbred is a very tall, solidly built, handsome (by human standards) Battanic man in the prime of life. What this means is that he is quite broad of shoulder and heavily muscled, standing in the neighborhood of six feet tall. His hair is sandy blonde, and ordinarily cut short to allow a mail coif to be comfortably worn. After days of travel as a prisoner, it has grown out somewhat and looks more ragged than the norm. His beard actually grows in light brown, and normally also would be neatly trimmed. It has deteriorated similarly. His eyes are hazel. Aside from our ceremonial markings, he has no obvious major scars, nor any tattoos. He isn't really the standard cleric you might think of, nor is he going to require that you use any more of his full name that you can handle. He's moderately tall, but mostly is just extremely solid, with sandy hair and hazel eyes. He usually wears a suit of scale mail that he keeps meaning to replace, carries a very big sword whenever it is appropriate or even justifiable, but manages not to be scary. He's actually a rather friendly guy, with certain exceptions. Professionally, you might think of him as a bodyguard. He will arrange a contract for protecting someone, and then does so for the term of the contract. Axelbred, or Axel, is foremost an honorable man, at least from his own conception of honor. He believes in the power of his words, oaths, and agreements, and simultaneously can be counted on to follow an arrangement to its full conclusion, as he sees in, come hell or high water. That's the good part. That bad part is that he is already very careful about what he agrees to do, who he attaches himself to, and such. He recognizes that there are evil and manipulative forces in the world, and that he wants no part of them. So far, he seems content to avoid them and act on his code of honor, which seems relatively limited compared to what you know of Krossonet (Bellatar). This is probably why, unlike most clerics, he is not at a temple, working with his temple, or anything else. He certainly prays to Krossonet for spells and for strength, but you would be just as surprised as his superiors in the church to see him progress much further in the church hierarchy. Overall, he is a pleasant person to deal with, if you can handle his hang ups about giving his word and executing agreements. He laughs, drinks, and enjoys himself just like anyone else. If nothing else, you can usually count on Axel to speak his mind. Elleshar, Human bard - "Taarkoth" Lierian human bard, our resident pretty boy ;) El is generally a friendly and optimistic person that's fairly willing to trust people, though he won't reveal much about himself, beyond being a traveling entertainer. It's quickly apparent that it's hard to make him angry. Elleshar muchs prefers making fun of the people who irritate him. He seems fairly intelligent, and has a warped sense of humor that unfortunately is backed up by an overactive imagination, prompting some truly bizarre comments at odd times. Though not overly muscular, El appears to be almost as agile as Artasi, and seems to have a fairly high endurance as well. Elleshar stands a little under six feet, is well-toned but not muscular. His features are handsome almost to the point of being beautiful (As Mark said, he's a pretty boy). His hair is a dark coppery red, and falls down a little past his shoulders, and his normally clean-shaven face now has a sparse red beard. Bright green eyes glitter with an almost constant amusement at the world in general. He appears to be about twenty winters old, though the stress of the imprisonment is making him look older than he really is. Vermatejouack, Ukker Shaman - "Frederic Fleury" The ukker shaman is tall - taller than most here - his hair dark and unkept, his skin tough, seemingly wrought from greenish leather, his skull powerful in its architecture. He wears furs, dark in color and short of hair, leather-wrapped around the limbs, loose and flowing over the body. In short a fairly average ukker, although he seems to lack some of the musculature common to his kind. Though far from hostile or threatening, Vermatejouack doesn't seem inclined to volunteer information on his own. Wheter this withdrawal is his normal demeanor or a consequence of the present circonstances (imprisonment coupled with the loss of his friend Hahgwehdiyu) is hard to say. He often whispers to himself in an unknown language, sometimes breaking into what might be chanting, and the markings on his belly seem to bother him overly much. He scratches at them like he would a particularly nasty rash. Zhug, Ukker Barbarian - "Ric Rogers" Black orc barbarian (black orcs, by the way, are a sub-race of orcs, aka ukkers, who populate the great western peninsula of Satalnara), from the lands just south of the League of the Black Moon. Zhug is big, standing 7' tall, somewhat muscular, but not extremely so. He has a Mongoloid face with intelligent, orange eyes. His skin is a dark green and is covered by a liberal amount of black hair, soft on the top of his head and his beard, corser from the neck down.