[D&D] Zwischenrunden - Ersatzrunden

[musquetaire]

Liebes Tagebuch,

habe (hoite) Heute zwei nette Männer getroffen: Corian und Shabouuo. Sie sind ziemlich hilflos und suchen starke Männer. Ha! ich würde sagen, sie haben ihn gefunden.
Zuerst dachte ich, sie suchen Spaß mit starken Männern, so, wie die anderen Seemänner aus dem Hafen, die mich dumm angepfiffen haben und nachher schwimmen mussten. Sie quasselten etwas über einen Schatz, fast hätte ich sie auch schwimmen geschickt, wer, ich, dein Schatz?
Nein nein, hat der komische Glatzkopf Shuhbbaua gesegt, es geht um Gold.

GOLD! Klar, dachte ich, da bin ich richtig, sie brauchen mich um etwas einzubuddeln, weil sie zu schwach dazu sind. Ich bin dabei, werde mir aber die Stelle merken, wo wir das eingraben :)

Sie müssen beide von sehr weit weg kommen, und ziemlich unerfahren sein. Sie kannten mich nicht, hatten noch nie von meinen Heldentaten gehört! Es ist erfrischend, mit Leute zu verkehren, die mich nicht ständig bitten, denen alles über die Schlachten von Omero oder Willip zu erzählen, oder wie ich die Drachenschwänze verknotet habe.

Andererseits bietet sich für mich auch die Gelegenheit, ihnen alles vom Anfang zu erzählen, ganz so, wie sich das ganze ereignet hat, ohne der Verfälschung die durch Mund zu Mund Übertragung eintritt. Und wie aufmerksam mir Schababa zuhört, und mir jedes Wort von den Lippen abliest...! Ich hoffe, er versteht Common.

Ich bot ihnen meine selbstlose Hilfe für ein Goldstück am Tag. Sie hatten keine Ahnung, daß ich ihnen auch umsonst geholfen (hatte) hätte!

Die Wirtin hier, die ständig Goldstücke im Mund steckt, schickte uns zu einer Bleibe, wo eine andere Frau uns einige Zimmer gab.
Ich bekam selbstverständlich das beste Zimmer, sie hatte gleich gemerkt, wer hier der Chef ist. Sie hatte Angst, das wir keine Läuse mitbringen, kann mir aber nicht verstehen warum, das ganze wimmelt hier vor Läusen wie in allen anderen Kneipen wo ich war und eigentlich wie überall wo ich war.
Die wollte vorher auch unsere Münzen abschlecken und abknabbern. Hmm, vielleicht schmeckt es ihr, oder man ist hierzulande wirklich Gold!

Habe noch nie Gold im Mund gesteckt, vielleicht schmeckt es wirklich? Moment, bin gleich wieder zurück.

Pfui Teufel, komische Leute!

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Liebes Tagebuch,

die Besitzerin der verlausten Schlafhütte bat uns, den Namen der Bude nicht zu vergessen.
War zur schmutzigen Feder oder so etwas.
Muss jetzt den Namen ständig im Kopf (rezitaren) wiederholen, damit ich ihn nicht vergesse.

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Liebes Tagebuch,

Der eine, Corrian, der ist vom Beruf Ornitotologe oder so, schaut sich immer nach Vögel um, er steht besonders auf Raben.
(Ich habe Verständnaß) Mir ist es egal.


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Liebes Tagebuch,

heute nichts zu berichten.

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Liebes Tagebuch,

heute nichts zu berichten.

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Liebes Tagebuch,

der andere, Shebaua, der Glatzkopf, der, der meinen Geschichten so aufmerksam zuhört, der ist sehr gut mit Waldbeeren, er kriegt davon nie genug. Ist ein witziges Kerlchen, wie er sich die Beeren so um die Nase schmiert.

Muss auf beide aufpassen, ich habe sie liebgewonnen. Ohne mich könnten sie kaum überleben...! Stell dir vor, ein (Orniololo...) Vogelforscher und ein Beerenpflücker alleine hier!

Und die sind auch sehr schwach in der Birne, jedes mal, wenn ich ihnen meine Heldentaten erzähle, sind sie unkonzentriert und fallen mir ins Wort oder fangen was neues an. Wie Kinder halt.

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Liebes Tagebuch,

was hatten wir gestern für eine Schlacht!! Es war fast wie damals, bei Omero!
Leider hatte ich gestern keine Zeit, alles im Tagebuch (einzutr) zu schreiben, jetzt aber schnell, bevor ich die (Einzehlhhe..) Dinge vergesse:

Ich hörte Schreie im nächtlichen Wald, ich rannte hin, der Vogelmann und der Beerensammler hinter mir, und unseren Augen bot sich ein entsetzliches Bild:

.. war eben ein entsetzliches Bild. Ich griff mir die ersten zehn Drachen, und kämpfte mich durch Säure und Feuer und Kälte, in der verzückten Rufe meiner Gefährten.

Ich packte deren Anführer, der riesigen Kobold von rechts, und warf ihn gegen die anderen Orcs, die mit einen Seufzen wegschlängelten, - oder war das ein anderes Mal?

Scheisse, nächstes Mal muss ich (den Ablalauf) Alles sofort niederschreiben!!

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(Tagebucheintrag: eine Zeichnung, die einen Totenkopf ähnlichen Felsen wiedergibt, und eine Karte mit ein fettes X drauf)

Hier mit einer Armee zurückkehren, und gucken, was drinnen ist!

Der Vogelmann fragt ob wir uns den Felsen anschauen, oder weitergehen wollen.
Ha! Ich schaue mir den Felsen an, SO, jetzt gehen wir weiter!

[kubelick]

It was a warm late summer afternoon, on which Corian set out once again to Reme in search of willing assistance for his quest to uncover the treasure in Eralion’s Keep of which he learned in the brief tête-à-tête with Feriblan the Mad. In spite of his misgivings of a possible encounter with Vortigern, Feriblan’s nasty apprentice, Corian set out with a pack mule, following the trade road.

Just short of the city, Corian spotted a most unusual looking traveler ahead of him, heading in the direction of the city. The traveler hiked on the side of the road, keeping close to the wood running parallel to the trade way. Clad in earthen-colored garb, he almost blended into the surroundings.

Corian quickened his stride to catch up with the slender and sinewy vagrant, eager to engage in a conversation with someone other than his pack mule. His warm greeting was met with a suspicious reticence. Corian continued chatting gingerly and the two soon entered the city.

The new companion, Corian noticed, was clearly unsettled by the flurry of activity and the bustle of peddler traffic. They quickly agreed to make to the harbor and retreat into a tavern, as both were famished, hungry and tired. Ssha'buho, Corian’s shy companion, stuck his nose in the air and guided the sorcerer and his donkey expertly through the web of tiny streets, bringing them directly to the town’s wharf.

If it was the streets’ hustle they sought to escape, the harbor district overwhelmed them even more so. Brawny sailors shoved passed them, pushcarts and buggies seemed to waltz out of nowhere. Rolling, pushing tugging and hauling. Packing, unloading, stacking, throwing. The place reeked of the sea, labor and a sweaty urgency.

Ssha'buho pressed to find a quieter place. They skirted the commotion as best they could. Shops and taverns, alehouses and stinky dives lined the opposite side of the piers. None seem to satisfy Ssha'buho’s taste. Alas they found an inn promising to suit them both. Ssha’bohu signaled Corian to wait outside and take heed of the pack mule. A withered wooden sign above the door read »The Merry Widow« who welcomed Ssha'buho as he entered.

»Meat,’ he said. »No fish.«
»Well, son, you just sit down first and show me if you have money to pay for it.«

Ssha'buho obeyed the widow’s assertive hospitality, pulling out his coin sash.
When she returned with a pitcher of ale, the druid asked if his friend could tie up the donkey, away from the calamity of the wharf. Distressed of having left his friend outside and eager for a customer, Martha darted out. She ordered Corian to take his donkey out back where Bavor the drudge would care for it.

After polishing off the generously portioned meat and potato stew, and having thereupon switched to wine, Ssha'buho’s inhibitions were elbowed out by inebriation. He told of his heritage and Corian related his plans.

»Treasure. A great treasure is for the taking in the keep.«
»All right. I come with you,« replied Ssha’bohu.
»But don’t we need someone else? Someone big and strong and experienced?« Ssha’bohu was impassive. »More wine!«
»There seem to be only sailors and fish peddlers here. Maybe I should put up a sign? I’ll ask Martha, she would know.« Ssha’bohu shrugged and drank.
»Martha, I’m looking for an adventurer, who would come along with my friend here and myself. Where would I look for him?«
»Well, you’re a day late, kid. Yester night I saw my son off, the last of the five. Now he is an able warrior, if I ever saw one. But do not you worry. You just stay put, drink some more wine, and someone is sure to come around in the course of the evening. This I promise you, or my name isn’t Martha, and I wouldn’t be the merry widow, who knows just about everything there is to know of this stinking town. And let me see your money again?« She gave Corian a hearty pat on the back and went to fetch more ale.

As the evening progressed, the tavern filled with a colorful folk, who all seemed to know Martha and she them. Corian scrutinized every visitor, growing discouraged as yet another fish dealer and sailor filed in. Yet, just as Corian’s hopes were to be puffed out, the doors opened and a stalwart figure entered, stopping dramatically to let the doors swing to a close behind his beefy back. The man proclaimed to be the famed Bastian the Intrepid, Bastian the Daring, Bastian the Glorious.

»What’s all this yelling?« asked Martha from the back. »Sit down and be quiet!«

Faced with disinterest, the fighter proceeded to comply with Martha’s candid proposal. He found a table and ordered a pitcher of ale.

»Look, Ssha'buho, that’s not a sailor. That’s a fighter! Go talk to him!« Ssha’bohu shot Corian a glassy-eyed glance, grabbed his wine pitcher and made for Bastian’s table.

»A TREASURE?«

Corian gestured erratically for the fighter to keep his voice down. Then joined the two to curb his companion’s frankness. Martha sailed by with a wine pitcher. »What did I tell you?« her eyes seem to say to Corian.


Later that evening.

Once it was settled, that Bastian was to accompany Corian and Ssha’buho to uncover the dubious treasure, the former related at length of his epic encounters. Luckily for him both the wizard’s and the druid’s minds were too clouded with fatigue and wine to notice the inconsistency in the details. If his bawdy narration began with an assault of a green dragon’s lair, it concluded with the slaying of a malicious demon. Enthralled with his own poetics and eager to believe the tale he was spinning, he failed to notice, that his recitation had an effect quite the opposite of the desired. The few facts were exorbitantly embellished - the rest, and most of the content, sprung from a vapid imagination or a desired reality, not one experienced. Consequently, the tales soon sedated the wizard and the druid, lullabying the already lulled into a premature slumber.

The attentive widow took pity on the two. She woke them, collected the few silver pieces and sent them to her sister’s lodge »The Downy Divan« just round the bend. They gathered up the mule, Corian graciously tossing a silver piece to Bavor, and dispatched without delay, keen to retire for the night.

»The Downy Divan« was a neat lodge of moderate proportions - two stories, with a narrow hallway to the left of the staircase, fours doors to each side and a little window at the back end. The ground floor was equipped with a generous hearth, tables, chairs, and a curtain, behind which Lina, the reputable sister of the merry widow, brewed tea for breakfast and whipped up porridge and other grub.

[musquetaire]

Liebes Tagebuch,

Alle schlafen, ich habe die erste Wache. Du wirst gar nicht glauben welche gar wunderbare Sache (ich heute erlele...) heute geschehen sind. Zuerst...
was? bin ich zu laut? so gut? geht es auch so?
Schlaft jetzt weiter.
Zuerst gab es ein Kampf, oh, wie wunderbar! Fast wie damals bei Omero.

Der Feind kam in Scharen, kaum erledigte ich sie, schon standen sie wieder. Meine Gefährten hatten sich alle im Haus verkrochen, ich nicht! Mutig hielt ich die Tür von Innen zu und ließ die Feinde nicht rein, schließlich bin ich nicht verrückt, es waren zu viele.

Der Vogelmann rannte ziellos herum, Shabebe versteckte sich auf dem Dachboden, danach kamen Schreie und Shabebe war plötzlich draussen, vom Dach runtergefallen.

Nach einer Zeit nahmen draußen die Schreie etwas nach, es war an der Zeit, mutig aufzutreten. Ich riss die Tür auf um im Kampf einen neuen mutigen Kämpfer auf unserer Seite begrüßen zu dürfen.

Er schrie: "Zombies!", und fuchtelte mit der Hand, ich grüßte höflich zurück und stellte mich und danach Shababy vor. Danach brachten wir die Feinde um, komisch, ich glaube das geschah zum zweiten oder zu dritten Mal, egal, hauptsache weg, die sahen vielleicht aus.

Es hat sich später herausgestellt, das der Fremde nicht gerne Zombies genannt werden will, sondern Shaan, wahrscheinlich ist Shaan sein Vorname. Klar, ich will auch nicht beim Familiennamen Thud genannt werden, sondern Bastian, ist eben direkter und bindet.

Wir fanden zufällig im Haus in einer von mir mit dem Schwert aufgebrochenen Kiste drei wunderschöne Briefe von einem Mann geschrieben, der nach einer schönen Schlacht mit Drachen seine Frau namens Carmela mit einer Hure im Hafen betrogen hat oder so. Ich musste weinen, keine Ahnung wieso, die Vorstellung war irgendwie rührend.

Jetzt lege ich mich schlafen.

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Liebes Tagebuch,

Ich werde bald heiraten! Doch alles der Reihe nach.

Ich habe Shaan Zombies so viele Geschichten mit Drachen erzählt, dass ihm die Augen wie Drachenaugen geworden sind. Boah! Ich wusste gar nicht, das ich so gut erzähle!

Zombies meint nein, sein Opa war ein Drache oder so. Und ich hatte ihm so viele Geschichten von meinen Drachen töten Taten erzählt...! Er wollte wissen, ob ich auch goldene Drachen getötet hatte.
Nö, habe ich nicht! sagte ich, nachdem ich mein Tagebuch schnell durchblättert habe (und zwei Stellen nachgebessert habe).
Die Drachen waren eher orange oder grüngelb oder so.

Vogelmann hat ein Problem, er sucht seinen Raben der davongeflogen ist von der Familie eines Magiers, ein Familier eben. Ich muss näher auf Vegelmann aufpassen, er ist manchmal komisch.

Shubidu hat heute sehr gut gekocht, ich hatte dazu eine tolle Geschäftsidee: ich muss Shubidu unbedingt fragen, welche, falls er sich noch erinnern kann.

Danach kamen wir in einer Stadt wo die Leute mich nicht kannten, jetzt kennen die mich aber :)
Ich habe viele Visitenkarten verteilt und so manchen interessante (Bekanntschaftö..) Sachen gemacht.

In der Kneipe, oh Schreck, eine Frau aus der Küche die sah aus wie Mama, war genauso befehlerisch und rechthaberisch und ich musste ganz schön viele Kartoffeln aus dem Keller bringen aber du kennst Mama, da gibt's kein Pardon.

Danach drehte ich eine Runde (im Locaka..) in der Kneipe, ich traf einen alten, aber gebrechlichen Mann dem seine Tochter verloren ging oder so im Wald. Er wollte seine Tochter lieber mir als den Orcs zur Frau geben, ich fühlte mich geehrt.
Was soll ich sagen? Ich werde heiraten!!!

Sie soll sehr schön sein. Mal was Anderes! Und sie soll sehr schön spielen können.
Ich verstehe nicht, wieso ihr Vater mir das so oft wiederholt hat.
Ich spiele manchmal auch, (hänge es aber nicht an die grosse Gluck..) (mache daraus keinen aber nicht einen grossen...) (keinen Hähl..)
Ich spiele manchmal auch.

So jetzt lege ich mich schlafen hier im Zimmer, das zwar etwas kleiner als bei der "nassen Feder" ist, dafür aber mindestens genau so verlaust.
Fertig.

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( Eine auf der Kehrseite einer Visitenkarte geschriebene Nachricht an Bastians Gefährten: )

Ich glaube den Raben jetzt gesehen zu haben, ich laufe ihm nach! Ihr seid jetzt nicht mehr hilflos, ihr habt jetzt Zombies, macht also ruhig weiter ohne mich! Ich komme nach.

Bastian
PS: Ich hoffe es ist wirklich ein Rabe, wie sehen die aus?

(Die Vorderseite der Visitenkarte: )

Bastian der Tapfere
auch bekannt als der Held der Schlacht von Omero
(Drachentöter)(durchgestrichen, händisch hinzugefügt)Drachenfreund

Adresse: fragt nach mir in Willip

[kubelick]

In the morning the companions met downstairs, where others were already breakfasting. Corian was rested and restless, thoroughly impatient to continue the journey and a bit disconcerted about the druid’s state of health. Ssha’buho’s indulgences of yester night taxed his vigor. Corian found him slouching at the table, and despite the languor, groans and moans escaped from under his breath all the while. Lina proved to be a true relation of the merry widow, not only in sharing her sister’s neurotic tick of repeatedly interrogating customers about their financial resources, but also, in a more pleasanter manner, possessing the family’s keen sense of empathy and benevolence, stopping short of charity. This latter family trait lead her to fuss over Ssha’buho’s wretched state – headache and queasiness making it impossible for a speedy departure.

Lina’s potion, which she proclaimed to be an infallible remedy, proved to be just that. Shortly after its consumption, the druid’s complexion bettered, the groans subsided and the prospect of their departure seemed at last probable.

Bastian bickered in vain. Corian bartered successfully. They fetched the pack mule and set out, onto the trade road, eastward, the mountains to their left, behind them the sea.

The druid kept to the side of the road, off and on disappearing into the brush, returning with herbs and berries, the spoils of these brief escapes. Bastian halted his discourses only to breathe. Corian’s pace was quick, his feet light with the excitement of promised or promising adventures he has read of and could not wait to experience.

For two days the sun cheered them on, a pleasant breeze at their backs. At the end of the second day, as plans were made to camp for the night, Ssha’bohu observed a cloud perching on the mountain’s spine. Corian, whose eyes relentlessly monitored the heavens, seemed to take little heed of it. Thinking nothing of it, Ssha’buho found a suitable spot to build a fire, made provisions for supper, over which the three discussed the dilemma of who’s turn it was to hold vigil. Corian yawned excessively and left the straw pulling to the two. Bastian talked his way into it and took to the exercise with the utmost earnestness. As the others retired he kept replenishing the fire with a diligence of a pedant, quick to twitch with every bat’s squeak and owl’s cooing. Thus alert, the sudden cry of a baby did not catch him off guard. He sprung to his feet and peered into the darkness whither he thought the cry came. The cries persisted, clawing at his paternal and lawful instincts. He thought little and roused his friends from sleep, grabbed a twig from the fire and lurched into the darkness.

Ssha’buho was first to notice the abysmal stench. Then the abysmal creature emanating it. Still drowsy from sleep his instincts took over: he flung his spear at the hideous thing, which bit and clawed at him, shearing his robes, his flesh. Corian’s sleepiness rendered him fearless and calm; the motions of his fingers, his intonations intrigued and lulled the beast into a peaceful slumber. And were it not for its disgusting smell, it almost seemed harmless thus dozing. Yet the battle raged on. After the wizard had sung his magical lullaby, a creature reeking of the same miasma sprung upon Bastian, who appropriately held the sole source of light. In the skirmish of battle, it seemed Bastian bit and clawed, growled and hissed equally beastlike, as he shed blow after blow upon the creature, double the size of the prior. Blood flowed freely from them both. Yet Bastian’s instincts dictated actions different from those of the animal: the beast wounded badly bared its rotten fangs one last time. Missing Bastian by an inch, it retrieved into the obscurity of the forest. Thus was the dogma of its instincts.

[kubelick]

Bastian’s vigilance lasted until morning. With the first ray he routed his comrades out of their humble beds and after a silent breakfast they hastened to return to the trade route, pressing forward while the nocturnal events were pushed into a remote corner of memory.

During the next two days of their journey, the weather conditions wavered – the hot beams of the autumnal sun shrug away at the sight of a lost cloud dragging a garrison of thicker, grayer clouds behind it. Perspiration mingled with drizzle, evaporated and reappeared, pearled down, moistened the wet shirts.

In the late afternoon of the second day, the druid spotted worked fields some distance off to the left of the path. Behind them, nestled in a thin wreathe of trees, he saw a simple farmhouse, simple yet snug, promising protection and rest from the heaven’s moodiness. Calling his friends’ attention to it, he noticed smoke coming out of the chimney needing little argument to persuade his comrades to take this detour for a night’s respite.

They left the trade road and made their way through the fields, the rye high and heavy, waiting to be harvested. Halfway through the field an oppressive discomfort settled, their steps became less hurried, then altered into thoughtful treading. They could make out the barn, whose doors were ajar, letting the fowl wander about the front yard. Once they could make out the front porch, they noticed a monstrously severed body sprawled in the middle of it. Their eyes quickly scanned the area and found another body, equally butchered, unattended hens picking at the entrails lying about the corpses.

Rushing in, weapons instantaneously unsheathed and readied, they sought to find a living being. Their efforts proved futile. The farmer’s family has been brutally mutilated, a closer investigation of the wounds revealed the sort of weapons employed in the massacre. This was no monster running amok. The deadly wounds were made with slivers, swords, and the like.

The three were quick to search the house, fearing the murderer might lurk about the scene of the crime. Finding no one and nothing, they returned outside to gather the bodies for burial.

[kubelick]

The hens skidded away. The pig trotted to the back of the barn to frolic in the offal pit. Of the cows there was no sight. The sun was high. The light of its slanted rays shimmered in the pearls of sweat and slid and slipped on Shaa’buho’s bald head.

Just as they turned to lift the last body, a gruesome drone filled the front porch and out of its gory ground grew five hellish things, neither living nor dead, reeking dismally and moaning tediously. Corian was fast to intone. Yet seeing the gaunt creatures unaffected fled into the house and barricaded the front door. The druid unleashed his cold-blooded companion upon the undead; Bastian’s tactics were less subtle, yet more effective.

The two, abandoned by the young sorcerer, finished off the five unexpected attackers. However, the wanton violence of the undead left Shaa’buho nigh fainting. After the dust had settled and the bones lay scattered and still, he sank to the ground and rummaged in his bag, finding his magical berries, which he prepared that day, to replenish his vigor.

Corian, estimating his efforts in battle would have been to no avail, still felt shame of having deserted his comrades, and chose to skulk inside the house, shying away from the derision for his cowardly departure.

Bastian and Shaa’buho thought less to ridicule the novice sorcerer and more of the gnawing wounds they were to nurse.
»Was this a trap? Or how would these deathly creatures come about, do you think,« asked the druid.
»Who knows,« shrugged Bastian.
»There must be magic involved,« came from the window. Corian stuck his head out and tried to help. »I think I may have heard something. You best come in. It’s safe here. I’ll unbolt the door. Hurry!«

Bastian and Shaa’buho exchanged quizzical glances yet accepted the invitation to share the shelter.

[kubelick]

Once inside, the three searched the farmhouse, finding little of worth and much of nothing. They examined a rusty short sword hanging above the fire place only to replace it to adorn the rough-hewn walls, for their scrutiny convinced them the weapon was good for decoration and little else.

»I fear these creatures didn’t materialize out of their own will,« began Corian, while crawling around in search of nothing in particular under the beds, »and he, by whose command they rose may still be around. Here. Somewhere. Did you see anything?«

»Oh naw. I was a bit busy skewering skeletons to hunt the witch down who called them forth, oh brave one.« Bastian’s simple sarcasm piqued the sorcerer. Dismayed and wounded, Corian returned to the little window beside the barricaded front door and concentrated his gaze outward. Ssha’buho rummaged in the kitchen paying little attention to the squabbles in the main room.

It was he who, upon inspecting the main room, found an iron latch on the ceiling at the rear end. He yanked the ladder down and ascended to the attic. Cobwebs and musty debris, a chest and more webs. Sscha’buho walked to a tiny window, opened it and squeezed through it, climbing to the roof to get a good look at the surroundings in hopes of spotting this alleged witch, uncertain as to her appearance or existence. As he crossed the roof to the front of the house, peering down upon the heap of flesh they prepared to bury, he beheld a bewitching and disquieting spectacle: this heap of flesh twitched, the glob of entrails quivered, and languidly, one by one, the farmer, his wife and offspring, rose and started slowly for the front door.

Their dull croaking and muffled groans had no meaning. Yet understanding nothing, Ssha’buho froze for an eternal moment, frightened or mesmerized – he could not discern.

Inside the house, Corian vigilant at the window perceived the awakening of the late farmer. His reaction differed little from that of the druid. Now there were knocks on the door, then thumps, relentless beating. Drumming. Just a mere foot away from him, only the door, the door trembling with each thump, between them. How long will it hold, thought Corian, regretting it instantaneously. Thud. The latches are rusty. Thud. He backed away from the window and leaned against the wall, putting an extra foot between him, the door and the thumping. After some time the knocking seized. Reassuring himself of the stillness, Corian leaned over and peered out the window. The farmer’s family was monotonously wandering about. Pacing the front porch, close to the house.
Thump.

»Bastian,« he whispered a yell. »What are we to do?« Corian was inconsolable, chanting in quiet desperation, ignorant of the fighter’s rational, reckless attitude.
»Unbolt the door. I’ll take’em on. All of ‘em.« Bastian made to the door and the bolt.
»Where’s the druid? For the love of Kord….«

[kubelick]

Corian peeled himself off the wall; the sweat-moistened collar of his cloak chafed his neck. He undid the clasp and let the cloak fall, rousing a flurry of dust as it hit the floor. His eyes still fixed on the commotion outside, his body pressed into a corner, window to his right. From here he saw the farmer and his wife making yet again for the door. The children were out of his line of sight.
Thump.
Corian could no longer distinguish between the portentous drumming and the bluster of Bastian’s threats and curses.
Thud.
Bastian propped the shuddering door with his back.
Thud.
Thud.
Then blood-freezing yelps in an abysmal tongue. Corian shrieked. A tiny denotation set the farmer on fire, sent him amok, away from the door. The late wife’s left severed side was scorched. The children still nowhere to be seen.
»What happened? Where’s the druid? What’s he up to?« Bastian was alarmed and relieved for the halt of the assault, took a moment to reverie then unsheathed his bastard sword and unbarred the door.
Had not the door been in his way, the fighter would have charged at the deathly anomaly that has beat at the door all the while. With a heroic move he stepped outside and unleashed his wrath and bottled-up strength. With few blows, the blazing farmer sank to the ground, flesh smoking.
Bastian scanned the area. Sword aloft and waiting. The children were to his right. The partially scorched wife before him, her one eye devoid of everything human, of anything lifelike, full of inane ferocity. Frozen for a fraction of a second.
He called out to the druid. Ssha’buho answered, leaping from the roof into the thicket of the riot. Then another call. Bastian heard it but kept his gaze fixed on the farmer’s wife.
»Zombies!«
The yell came from the left side of the house. Deep and different. Commanding and cunning.

***
The sun began its descent, falling behind the mountains, torching its peaks with the last vermilion rays as it went. The twisted faces of the undead blazed in the ruddy illumination of the nocturnal sky, with rekindled ferocity, as they sensed the scent of blood that flowed from Bastian’s right shoulder.

Ssha’buho’s daring entrance left him with a sprained ankle, yet he managed to ward off the attacks of the children who fell upon him as he touched the ground.

»Sha’an is my name,« said the strange fellow, whose greeting preceded him. Now he stood across from Bastian, behind the late wife, holding a longsword with both hands. He wavered briefly, as if taking a deep breath then brought down his sword upon the zombie who still clawed wildly at Bastian. With an ear-piercing screech, the late wife collapsed to the ground, dead again.

Sha’an lost no time, took one step and let his sword blows release the undead children from the foul curse. Together with the fighter, they quickly ended the battle, decapitating the corpses to ensure no further surprises. Then they entered the house.

Corian was still at the window, crowding the corner to its right as the three wounded combatants filed in through the door, bolted it and continued to the main room.
»And who may this be?« asked Sha’an.
»Ah, this is Fearless Corian the Mighty Srocerer« replied Bastian, grabbing a chair and dragging it to the door. After propping it up against the bolted door, he fell into one of the beds.
»Young friend, you’re badly hurt. Allow me to dispense to you my humble healing power,« said Sha’an to the druid.

Ssha’buho needn’t reply: his ankle was the size of a troll’s fist, blood flowed freely from numerous lacerations; sweat, dirt and dust covered his skin, his robes, his lesions. Sha’an found a clean rag and fresh water in the kitchen, washed the druid’s bruises and cuts, covered them and briefly concentrated. Ssha’buho sensed an invigorating energy emanating from the fighter, warming him, quieting the burning pulse of the ankle.

Sha’an furrowed his brow, rose abruptly and left for a remote corner of the main room obscured with nightfall.

»Did you hear that?« asked Corian, staring wide-eyed at the fold-down ladder that lead to the attic.
»That’s just bats in your belfry, my friend« replied Bastian, yawning extensively.
»There, there it is again. I know I heard it. Sounded like wings flapping..« whispered the young sorcerer.
»Indeed, the man is right, « said Sha’an.
Bastian propped himself up on his elbows and perked his ears.
»I don’t hea.....«
»Shhhh!« Corian stepped out of his corner and headed into the direction of the ladder. Sha’an left the shadows and followed him.
»For the love of Kord!« Bastian groped for his sword, scampered out of bed and off to the ladder, pushing Corian and Sha’an aside.
»What is it?«
»It’s a red dragon, my friend. A huge and mean dragon is what it is. I’ll take care of it.«
Gullible and frightened, Corian’s thoughts returned to Feriblan’s Library, retrieving the memory of the annoying somber raven Thalon - the familiar of Feriblan’s apprentice, he just as annoying and gruesome. The master always alert. The master always hideously inquisitive, powerful and zealous – the master Vortigern.
Corian shuddered.
»There. I killed it. Mighty Socerer may come now. It is safe here!« Bastian’s voice came from the far end of the attic.
Corian released the memories and went up to the attic.
Brow still furrowed, Sha’an offered to stay dowstairs and be on the lookout, should anything unnatural seek entrance through the front door. He took Corian’s place at the window and peered out into the sunset.

[kubelick]

Ssha’buho tested his ankle as he carefully stood up from the kitchen stool, turned to look at Sha’an, shrugged and smiled, shifted his weight from one foot to the other and, sensing his ankle healed, joined the party in the attic. He found them sifting through the contents of the dust-covered trunk. A white dress, probably a wedding dress of a grandmother or a great-grandmother lay on the floor, papers and sashes next to it. Heaps of rags lay in corners, musty, dank. The cobwebs and dust particles swayed with the air current coming from the little window he opened a while ago.

»Oh. What’s this?« Bastian held a stack of letters, twirled them back and forth, wiped the dust off and passed them to Corian.
»See what it says. Can you read it?« His voice was rapid and anxious.
Corian untied the cords fastidiously and opened one of the letters.
»Well, out with it - what’s it say? Is it a love letter?« The fighter fidgeted.
»Is now the time to read it, do you think?«
»Yes, yes. Read it, for the love of....«
»Well, all right. One moment.«
Ssha’buho leaned against a wall so he could see out the open window.
»’My lovely Carmella,..«
»Ha! Just as I suspected: love letters.« Bastian reeled and nudged closer to Corian, looking at the letter in the sorcerer’s hands.
»’How long has it been since I looked into your emerald eyes, beheld your flaxen braids? No matter the time, your face, your alabaster hands I see before me each time we rest to camp, however rare that may be.
We are now stationed outside of Hommlet. The march here saw the death of many good fighters and the wickedness I witness all around, the soil seems to be soaked with it. Yet I shall spare you the horrors I encountered, my love, lest you should worry.

We camp and await the arrival of a noble fighter, a one Prince Thrommel who will lead us in battle. Rumors crawl through the night when bards strain to lift our spirits. Bivor came to me last night, you remember him? and told me great beasts and devils are our anticipated enemy. He frets we shall not prevail. He prophesies our death. You, my love, should not fret - I will not fall. I will return to you and our destiny. Until I have time to write you again: I adore you, my alabaster bride and Bivor asks to say ‘all’s well, you wench’ to Gela.

Still and ever yours
Thorinn’«
»Next one, go on. Open it, for the lo...«
»Should we not better go downstairs and rest? We still haven’t found the one who called those undead? He is, no doubt, sneaking about. And the flapping, where did that come from?«
»Every attic has bats, my friend. No worry. Bastian is here with you. Now read!«
Ssha’buho crossed the attic and stood now near the window.
»I go on the roof and look for the witch again.« Ssha’buho crawled out.
»Now, would you read the letter?« Bastian ripped the stack of letters out of the sircerer’s hands, unfolded the next one. »Here.«

[kubelick]

»This one is longer, Bastian. I don’t know, I think we should join Sha’an.«
»Pah, the door is bolted. Nothing will happen. Read, read it.«
Ssha’buho tiptoed across the roof noiselessly. The trees sighed and yawned. Corian surrendered to Bastian’s incessant curiosity and began the next letter.
»I cannot keep myself from writing any longer to you dearest, although I have not had any answer to either of my two letters. I suppose your mother does not allow you to write to me. I am so dreadfully afraid that perhaps you may think I am forgetting you.

I can assure you dearest Carmella you have not been out of my thoughts hardly for one minute since I left you. I have written to my father everything, how much I love you how much I long & pray & how much I would sacrifice if it were necessary to be married to you and to live ever after with you.... nothing human could keep us long apart.

... Sometimes I doubt so I cannot help it whether you really like me as you said you did. If you do I cannot fear for the future tho' difficulties may lie in our way only to be surmounted by patience.

Prince Thrommel has finally arrived with an army and a band of somber priests. He is the most glorious knight I have ever seen – noble face, fine armor. I chanced upon his exercises and beheld the utmost grace and tactical finesse. Mostly he remains in his tent with the advisors. I can only hope he will lead us through the battle successfully, but doubt I have not.

The nights are slowly becoming chilly and darker and an uncomfortable oppression weighs down our confidence, even of the dwarven garrison, whose joviality was heretofore renown. As the day of the siege nighs, impatience renders us solemn and taciturn.

Goodbye my alabaster bride. My first and only love...Believe me ever to be Yours devotedly and lovingly,
Thorinn«

Corian searched his memory. The name seemed familiar. He has read or heard of the prince, he thought. His thoughts spiraled deeper yet into the obscure niches of his mind. Back to his childhood. Back to his master’s scroll shelves.

»Furyondy« he whispered, unaware of Bastian’s fussing over the next letter.
»Hm?«
»Furyondy. I believe this Prince Thrommel came from the Kingdom of Furyondy. «
»Never heard of him. And I have fought with more mighty princes than I have fingers.«
Corian wasn’t paying heed to Bastian’s boasting.
»….son of Belvor…field….pasture…no, that’s not it. Prairie? Prairie, prairie, lea..green…war of the green pastures…I can’t think of it.«
»Think of what? What are you thinking about? Are you thinking about your birds again?«
»Birds? Oh….«


***
On one of the nights as they struck their camp, he had spotted Thalon, wicked and remote, in the thicket of an oak. His eyes shone red through the leafage and shadows - in the darkness they seemed devoid of a body, just two scarlet beads, two hot ashes that had risen out of a fiendish pit. The fighter and the druid fired a volley of arrows more out of camaraderie than of conviction. Thereafter, fearing being judged as foolishly paranoid, Corian thought it opportune to relate details about his motives to travel to Fairhill, procured Eralion’s letter which bespoke of the mage’s less than honorable endeavors. Though he wished to allay the misconceptions about his fears, he thought it wise to withhold from showing or telling them of the amulet. Although the druid showed no interest in monetary wealth or the acquisition there of and the fighter’s concerns lay primarily in collecting stuffs for his preposterous tales, Corian still hesitated to confide entirely. He questioned not the loyalty of his new companions. It was his poor judgment of people that fueled his reserve.

»This is the last one. It’s a bit tattered, here, you see? Can you still make out what it says?«
»I don’t want to read anymore.« Corian was tired.
»Just this last one. I beg of you.« Bastian’s features softened. »Then we can go to sleep. But you can’t stop now? What if it tells of the battle with the beasts and ….«
»Battle? Yes. Battle of Emridy Meadows. Puh, now I feel much better. I should have not slept ‘til I have thought of it, Bastian. I am so grateful.« For the first time in days he smiled, relaxed, breathed. »Give me the letter. Let me see it, please.«
Bastian gave him what he asked for, settling nearer still to Corian, his eyes on the sorcerer’s lips.
»My very dear Carmella,

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days -- perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure -- and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine 0 God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. …And I am willing … to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain …to pay that debt.…..I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death -- and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my and thee.…the name of honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.…

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you ….If I do not, my dear Carmella, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, …

But, O Carmella! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours -- always, always… or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Carmella, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

As for my little boy, …. O Carmella, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my child
Thorinn.«

***

»So,… he fell.« The fighter breathed out. »At Emridy Meadows.« His head hung deep between his shoulders, eyes on the dusty attic floor. Corian turned to him and saw a tear fighting gravity on Bastian’s chin. Then it dropped into the cup of his folded hands.
»We don’t know that,« Corian took a shot at an attempt to disperse the fighter’s melancholy. »And if so, he wasn’t the only one. The Prince, although no one is truly certain to this day what had happened, is rumored to have fallen as well. There are, of course, tales. I have heard in Reme. Bards spun heroic epics about his dubious destiny.«
»I don’t know this…« Bastian stammered, »this Prince. But Carmella! How tragic. She, left alone with a son.« He thought only of the family’s ill-fated past, fearing not being ridiculed for this unexpected sentimentality.
»But look, this dress! She found love nonetheless.« Corian labored at cheerfulness, grabbing the yellowed fabric of the wedding dress. »Look!« He started to his feet lifting the dress and holding it up. Out of the skirt’s creases fell yet another withered note. Corian threw the dress into the trunk and picked up the paper.
»Here. Another one. It’s from Thorinn!«
Bastian tried to collect himself and listened.
»'Carmella,

Forgive me for not having written you for so long. These lines may attest to my being alive and you will sigh with hope of our speedy reunion.

Yet, as joyous as you may be to learn I live, I must disappoint you–I shall not return. I cannot. So much I have seen, so much I have learned that I cannot return to a life of a simple farmer. Please understand.

I write you from Reme, whither, alas, my destiny has called me. In these past weeks my new fate unfolded before me, a fate against which my will is powerless. I have fallen in love with a woman who nursed my wounds upon my arrival, who has diligently tended to me, leaving my sickbed not for a moment. My gratitude I owe her as I do my adoration. Her husband wasn’t as fortunate as I–he exchanged his life for that of an orc. A companion she needs to help her with the tavern, with her five sons…forgive me.

Do not judge or detest me, Carmella. All I ask is your compassion…’«

A thud. Something collapsed upon the roof, near the front of the house.
»Ssha’buho!« Corian was on his feet. Shortly after, a yell came from the main room. Sha’an called out to them. Bastian was making for the ladder, Corian behind him.

[kubelick]

Corian watched the fighter plunge into the main room and out of his sight. He halted at the top of the ladder and harked. He heard Sha’an and Bastian exchange succinct words. And there were other sounds, guttural, in an indecipherable tongue. But a language nonetheless. Corian descended a couple of steps. Now he saw erratic shadows jotting across the unswept floor. He continued downwards until he could make out the scene.

The front door they had securely bolted hung on one hinge, wide open. The chair Bastian used to forestall intrusion lay to the left. There were dirt tracks feet bigger than Corian’s had left. He could see there were two of them. Leather-armored, heavily built thugs, skin tinged with jade, hustled with the two fighters.

Corian chanted, aiming his song at the invader nearest to him manhandling Bastian. Before the excited fighter could finish his action, the orc sank peacefully to the floor releasing his short sword. Focusing his attention on the magic, Corian sensed another enchantment, a hackle-raising vibration in the room. He inched behind the ladder and observed. Sscha’buho has gone amiss. Bastian and Sha’an were now in melee with the second orc who pitilessly pierced through Sha’an’s armor with his short sword. But there was something wrong, something different. Every time the orc dealt damage, he writhed and twitched, as though another invisible force bit and cut him. Bastian, behind the cutthroat, raised his sword and Corian saw the orc’s head leave his shoulders. His body quivered, arms stretched out before him as if groping in darkness, then collapsed with a thud. Orc blood pulsed through a spout for a few moments, then settled into a steady stream.

It turned out Ssha’buho was wounded as well. The assault began shortly before Sha’an saw the orcs charge from the bushes. As the druid paced the roof naïve and willing to believe the day’s combat’s been had, oblivious and unguarded, he made for an easy target. And what had collapsed was he, sprawling flat on the roof, making it impossible for the attackers to fire again. He had remained thus until the din of combat subsided, then crawled to the roof’s edge and leapt once again, this time landing unharmed save for the wound on his chest, just inches above his heart.
»Man, get in!« Bastian was laboring to replace the door. Ssha’buho stepped inside, over the decapitated orc and the growing pool of blood.
»Why he is sleeping?« he pointed at the dozing orc with his uninjured arm.
»I put him to sleep, Ssha’buho. But he will awaken soon. Bastian?«
»What?« The fighter had shoved the door back in its place.
»He will soon awaken.«
Corian hardly finished his admonition as the fighter swung around and with the momentum of the turn he sunk his greatsword into the orc’s skull. The orc’s head cracked open, his body toppled over from thrust of the blow, spilling what little brain matter there was near the donkey. It whinnied.
»This, my friends, is an unpleasant site.« Sha’an was noticeably disgusted.
»You want to go out now? This door stays shut for the night! Just look somewhere else.« Bastian cleaned his blade carefully, disregarding the complaints. »Besides, when you sleep you will not see it anyway.« The fighter’s logic was simple and indisputable.
»But I still know and smell it« argued Sha’an.
»Well then, forget it.« Placing the sword at an arm’s reach, Bastian fell into the bed he had already claimed as his before.

[kubelick]

It was still. Sha’an could hear the sowing of trees and Bastian’s soft wheezing four, maybe five feet away from the window where he stood. The druid, in the farthest corner of the main room, rolled out his mat, placed his traveling gear at the wall next to it. It wiggled and Sha’an heard him whisper to it strange, exotic words. The backpack was motionless again and Ssha’buho drifted to the kitchen where Corian and his pack mule readied for rest.
Corian began, his words hushed, cautious not to wake the fighter. »The magic, it came from you, didn’t it?« he asked Sha’an.
»What magic?« answered the shaman, not shifting his gaze from the night.
»During the last attack. I sensed magic beside mine. You know, the sweet lullaby I sang.«
»Yes, I took note of it. Very effective that.«
»Pray tell, what was it that you conjured?« Corian took no notice of Sha’an’s reluctance to engage in chitchat. »And how can a fighter know magic or a mage fight so knowledgeably?«
»I am not a mage, young Corian. I am what you see – a fighter, like he, who sleeps and snores there.«
»But…but I know what I felt. It, - I would swear on the Staff of the Magi, - it radiated from you.« Corian still sat on a stool, head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. His common sense and his intuition quarreled with one another. He wanted to believe his new companion yet could not repudiate the authority of his wisdom’s voice.
Alas, Sha’an relaxed his stare and turned from the window, lashes low, eyes on the battle’s spoils. »Fare friend, it is true I am skilled in fighting. I had a master whom I revere to this day, who has taught me the art of wielding the sword and the worth of discipline. But there is something else. It is my talent, if you will, god given, it flows through my veins. I cannot tell you very much of it for I myself am still in the dark. But I was told my ancestors were of dragon kin, perhaps even dragons.« He lifted his lashes and Corian could faintly make out his eyes. They were different than before. Not those of a human. Reminiscent of a lizard, a great reptile. A dragon. The pupils, Corian could see, were slit, not round as his. In the shimmer of the lamp, Sha’an’s incandescent skin Corian assumed before to have come from the battle’s efforts, still glistened. »What,« he hesitated, »kind of dragons?«
»Do not worry. The good kind. The best kind, should this be true. The noblest of all who roam upon Oerth. My grandfather, a soothsayer revealed to me, was a gold dragon. My father, though I know him always to have been human, was only half such. I feel, and this strong urge sent me abroad, I must unearth my ancestral paths, however indiscernible they may have with time become. But the witch told me, and I have heard enough on my travels as of yet to certify her words, that my grandfather’s trail will lead me to Orcus.
Corian had heard of Orcus. But bewildered and lightly inebriated with awe Corian let the mortifying thoughts of this demon brush pass him. Later. Later he will pry.
He took a moment to reassemble his senses and ventured anew.
»The magic then, I was right, wasn’t I? It was yours, that is, you have a power to inflict pain upon…« Corian needed to rephrase his thought. Sha’an rushed to calm his doubt.
»Yes, it was I. It is not how you assume it. It is a force that protects me from those who wish harm upon me. They regret this wish the second they attack. When I sense danger or the onset of battle, I unleash this magical energy and those who insist on hurting me are injured as well. Hostile as it may be, this magic spreads to my allies, Corian.«
»And you needn’t sing or otherwise say anything?«
»Not at all. My power is different from yours. It isn’t learned. It is how I said, god given. A gift from the dragons, I presume.« Sha’an was wounded and tired. He made the few steps to the sorcerer and placed his hand on his back.
»Let us rest. Ssha’buho will watch over us. And be sure not to doubt my loyalty.«
Corian doubted not and they let the druid begin his sentinel.

Deep into the night, Ssha’buho heard muffled noises coming from his backpack. He smiled and prepared to speak soothing words to his insomniac companion. Yet as he neared his bed he found creatures less friendly and devoted ransacking his rations. The moment the light from the lamp illumined the three rats they attacked him. The snake hissed and bit, but the rats were adamant and greedy. It took little to bring the druid down – he still hadn’t fully healed from the day’s combat. After the rats’ first attack his ankle was torn to shreds. He staggered, hollered and fell.
Bastian awoke. His reflexes were true. Right hand tightened around the hilt of his longsword and he crawled out of bed to find the druid on the floor, rats upon him. The battle was brief, but the druid was unconscious.
»Where in Kord’s name did these things come from,« he wondered aloud, wiping vermin blood off the blade on the bedding.
Sha’an raised his head and looked to the ladder leading to the attic, cleansing yet again the wounds on Ssha’buho’s legs.
»These youngens can’t do anything right. I’ll stay up tonight.« Bastian stepped over the corpses and joined the pack mule in the kitchen.

[kubelick]

Sha’an woke with a moan. The calmer part of the night nursed his injuries, but he still bore wounds from yesterday’s orc assault. He gently rubbed the places the orc’s sword had struck and winced at the stench briefly befogging his senses. He turned. The battle’s spoils lay near the front door, which was open. Flies were happily dancing above it.
»Gold dragons, eh?« he heard Bastian’s voice from the direction of the kitchen, but could not see him. Noises also came from the attic.
»Where are the others«asked Sha’an.
»About. The milksop is to the barn to forage for fodder. Snakeman is ransacking the attic. If the others tell you that I killed dragons, that’s all hogwash. I just meant it, you know, I meant to say, that I battled with big monsters, not dragons. Not once. « The fighter’s voice came nearer, then his figure appeared around the corner wall. He leaned against it, looking through the door a couple of feet away to his left. »I would know what a dragon looks like. And I never, ever, killed one of those. Well no gold ones.«
»Let be, Bastian. There are dragons that I would not want to confront. They seem to grow more malicious with age, and some of them are very, very old.«
»I just wanted to assure you that I never killed a gold dragon. I have never even seen one.«
»I believe you. Just forget about the whole matter.« Sha’an smiled but didn’t want to linger on the subject any longer.
»But you eyes? What happened? They were normal now they are like a lizard’s?« Bastian took to polishing the hilt of a dagger with a rag he found in the cupboards.
»I can change them. I would not want to confuse people, to say the least. Many believe all dragons to be evil which would make me evil in their eyes. Therefore, lest I have time to explain my heritage, I veil it.«
»How’d you do that?«
»I will have answers another time. Now we should get moving. Is there a jug of fresh water here for me to wash my face?«
Bastian summoned the sorcerer, who found some edible remnants for the pack mule; the orcs were stripped of their belongings, the beast of burden packed and the four left the unlucky abode. Unlucky for them, for Carmella, for her offspring. They quickly crossed the fields and found the trade route. It had rained in the early hours of dawn and the road was mucky. The druid figured, it would take an entire day of sun to dry the dirt. But with the rain came not only mud but also mushrooms, which he hunted down.

They traveled for another two days, camping for the night an arm’s length from Fairhill. Roused by the pearly haze of dawn they set out to the village.

The countryside surged with little hills. Surmounting one of these they saw a little guardhouse on the road leading to and through the town.

[kubelick]

Captain Baran’s greeting was followed by an interrogation about their matters in Fairhill. He forewarned them of the orcs that have been menacing the town with night raids these last couple of weeks and concluded the reception with a brief account of Fairhill’s code of conduct for travelers: they were sent to the temple that crowned the north hill of the village. Seeing eligible fighters, the Captain requested their assistance, should there be need of it, if another assault were to plague the night’s peace. The captain’s hand was missing, they noticed. The question of how an invalid could lead a village militia they would pose later. For now they decided to respect the village custom and continued northward to the temple, through the market in the town’s center. They paused to inquire about a tavern or hostel where weary travelers would find rest here. Although the town’s size was more than moderate, it boasted two inns, one pricey and the other humble yet with stables, owned by a man who enjoyed a reputation of being unfriendly, hostile and keenly unhygienic. The subtle recommendation was noted and accepted.

The temple at the hilltop beckoned. They ascended. Pausing at the entrance, they caught a glimpse of the last ceremonial gestures: a cloaked figure dipped its hand in a silver chalice, ablaze and gurgling with mulled wine and herbs. They waited. Sha’an remained motionless. The others moved inside, remaining, awestruck, beside the portal, patient for the cleric to mutter a closing prayer. The figure turned, revealing a female elf, slow, serene, slight. Sha’an followed the others.
»You came to pay respects to Freya? She welcomes you and bids you her blessing.« Her gaze crept from Bastian to Corian to Ssha’buho to the shaman. Yet though her eyes moved from one to the other, her gaze hesitated, lingered like a veil traveling behind. »What brings you here to our humble village?«
»I’m Corian,« the sorcerer began. »We seek the Keep of Eralion.«
»Bastian. I’m with the lad. To protect him on his daring adventure.«
»Not many the likes of you pass through here« she said to Ssha’buho.
»Ssha’buho.«
»You know the ways of beasts, Ssha’buho. Nature is your ally, your hospice. Freya will watch and guide you. You have no man of faith with you?«
»No.« Sha’an grew weary. »Can you please tell us where we can rest. We’ve traveled for some time and, as you can see, still bare wounds of battle.«
»Answers to your questions you will best find at the market. Lest you wish to pray to Freya, I shall leave you.«
The brusque reply displeased Sha’an and he made to exit, as did the others, shrugging.
»May I have a word with you?« she asked the shaman.
Sha’an halted and remained in the temple. The others proceeded to leave, signaling to him they are to head to the town’s center.
»You desire to understand your past. Though you mask yourself by magic, I sense in you a blood much older than that of man. A wisdom keener than that of man. Trust it and you will attain the knowledge you seek.«
It was Sha’an’s turn to be brusque. He cordially thanked the priestess and turned to leave.
»Not me, Sha’an. Thank Freya. She will administer aid in the hour of need.«
»How so?«
»If you are to venture into the woods, you will find them less friendly than Freya and I wish them. Take these in case misfortune seeks you out.« She handed him two flasks.
»What are these?«
»These will quite your aches and mend your wounds. May Freya’s grace ward off evil from you and your companions.«
Sha’an departed.

[kubelick]

The party reunited at the market, the chill of morn gnawing at their spent vigor.
»I say we go to this inn the smith recommended. I am too exhausted to be bothered by nasty innkeepers. I need a royal breakfast and easy care. What’d you say?«
The rest concurred to the fighter’s proposal and after turning two corners they found the tavern. The smith’s depiction was true and unembellished – the tavern was clean and warm. They inhaled the mouth-watering scents that wafted cross the main room. Bastian’s stomach complained of hunger. One other guest skulked in a remote corner. Calamitous noises escaped from the back, presumably the kitchen.

They settled, unstowed their travel gear and waited for the reputable service. Moments later the swinging doors leading to the kitchen opened with a squeak. They turned and saw a woman’s head emerge.
»Be right with ya.« It disappeared again. They waited in silence. Shortly after, a graciously built woman, robust with experience and generosity, hurried out, drying her hands on her apron.
»There’ll be no breakfast. The eggs are rotten. Like the rest of the stuff that double-dealing snot sold me. I’ll bring you tea. If I don’t drop dead this instant from fatigue and fury, that is. Anything else?«
»Some bread« Bastian pried.
»Bread? How about you stop gabbing and help me with some sacks of potatoes that are turning to mold in the seller.« She was already on her way out of the main room, mumbling of impertinence and gall, yanking at the knot of her apron.
They sat gazing bewildered at each other.
»Well, way I figure, I’ll be carrying sacks, lads.« Bastian stepped over the bench and strolled to the back, pushed at the shudders, turned to his companions and shrugged before disappearing.
Corian remembered Martha, her maternal concern, her wine.