- Location
- Austrlia
True, though.
Lost in a Tabletop Game [5E/SI]
- Thread starter shadenight123
- Start date
Why can't I ever play with a real lawful good paladin?
Because, just as that Jack Chick tract was a bad depiction of D&D players, lots of players have a poor idea of what a paladin really is. Sometimes for the same reasons.
It wasn't helped by the fact that early versions of the rules encouraged DMs to find idiotic ways to cause paladins to fall (the one where pulling a lever that unlocked a door and caused somebody on the other side of the door to die comes to mind).
I supposed that also lead s into "Lawful Stupid" situation as well.
Chapter Seventeen - Roadhouse
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Chapter Seventeen - Roadhouse
The guards of the roadhouse had seen better days. Their equipment was well worn, their armors consisting of leather jerkins and chain mails for the most part. Long bows and quivers were the choice pick, short swords at their hips. They weren't more than half a dozen; more than enough to fight in a pinch against the random straggler, but easily overrun by a pack of something fiercer.
"Hobgoblins are tough bastards, had a few spats with them in the past," the roadhouse's owner was a burly looking half-orc with sharp fangs and eyes that seemed to hold a burning hatred for everything around them. It wasn't true, of course. It was just the fierceness of the orc's spirit within that made most orcs, and their breed, look like they always wanted to murder, maim and kill those around them.
"What are their preferred tactics, then?" I asked. We were seated at a large table in the roadhouse's main floor and room. During the day it served as a mess hall and an inn, and during the night straw would make the floor comfortable enough for a rest. The benches would be moved to make way for bedrolls, and some would sleep on the tables themselves to steer clear of curious insects and mice.
One such mice squeaked in the room as the roadhouse's bar tender by the counter threw an empty iron mug at it. "Fucker! Not again!" he bellowed. One of the roadhouse's guests laughed crudely at it. Little did he know he might probably get his bread with some extra...things into it.
"Speaking of mounted or on foot?" the half-orc grunted back. "On foot they mean to trade normally. You can even haggle with them, but they're tight-pursed," he snorted. "When they're on horses or wolves though, they're not in the mood for trade. Raiding parties are common around these parts."
"They trade by foot? No cart?" I asked, puzzled.
"If they have one, they don't show us where they park it," the half-orc answered. "It's got to be somewhere near, but out of sight."
I pondered the information for a bit. "They should have a camp set up somewhere nearby then. A meadow big enough for a cart, easily accessible by road and..." I drummed my fingers against the table's surface, "a cave, since darkness means nothing to the likes of them."
"We've got something like that near here, Murken Cavern," the roadhouse's owner looked at the door of the roadhouse, "It's back the way you came from, a good day or so of travelling."
Which was the direction that Bravus had taken, I suspected. "Then we left them behind us," I sighed in a complicated mixture of relief, and a twinge of discomfort. My eyes roamed towards the table currently held by the entourage of Lord Vayr. "It will make the trip to the capital easier, I suppose."
That night, while the militia slept in the stables, keeping guard over the captured thief, and the private guards of Vayr slept on the ground floor, I stood guard upon a stool outside the noble's door. My head plopped against the wooden surface, I eyed the stairway. I could grab an hour or two of sleep in the morning while everyone else had breakfast, and then eat on my horse on the way.
The flickering lights of the fire pit down below soon ceased delivering strange shadows across the stairs' wall, and as the night grew darker, and longer, I began to mutter prayers to keep myself awake. Most of those went to Bravus, knowing well enough that he'd make it, for uncertainty and doubt didn't befit the faithful.
My ears perked at the sound of a creak. I tensed, my hand on the handle of my blade. The creaking repeated, and a squeaking sound echoed. A mouse scurried off nearby. I placed the side of my face back against the wall, the cool surface giving me no insight on the noises around the place. It was probably a nifty trick that only long-ears or rangers could do. The most I could hear was the faint snoring from the floors below.
I stood up from the stool before sleep could claim me, and as quietly as possible began to pace back and forth in front of the door.
Whoever said that guard duty was relaxing never had to contend with the very real thought of assassins coming for their charge. I couldn't leave the door to check on the prisoner in the stables, and I could but hope the militia standing guard did a good job with her.
The morning came and the lord's attendants arrived to wake and dress up the man. I let them through, checking with relief that the man was, indeed, still alive within his room.
I then swung downstairs, and dealt with the most important matter of breakfast for myself and the men under my charge, and then finally hit the stables, finding most of the militia asleep if not for one, who nervously stood guard with a spear held in both hands. The slumped form of the asleep thief made the woman in question look even angelic, for a cold-hearted murderer. She was wearing a simple enough tunic and a pair of trousers, manacles at her feet and her arms behind her back.
"Anything to report?" I asked the militia standing guard, a young man barely past his seventeenth year.
"Nothing sir," the teen answered, a yawn escaping his lips. "I'll wake the others-"
"I'll bring the prisoner around," I said. "Breakfast at the inn has been paid for, so head on in and enjoy it."
"Thank you, sir," the teenager said with a smile. The rest of the militia thanked me in turn, glad to get something warm in their belly after long days of gruesome cold gruel and hard bread.
It wasn't like I believed she'd be able to do much damage, but at the same time one could never say what implement of death a thief could find and hide until the right moment came.
"I know you are awake," I said to the slumped form of the prisoner. "If you cooperate, you can have a warm breakfast like everyone else."
The woman's eyes opened. The hard glint in them told a story of a lifetime. The lips morphed in a scowl. The teeth bared with the desire to rip my face off a bite at the time. "Fuck you," she hissed out, hatred hanging from every word.
"The anger you feel is, I guess, a shared sentiment of all those people who lost their loved ones to your bolts and blades," I answered in turn, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her up. She tried to kick, snarl, and bite in my direction but could do little. It wasn't like a prisoner was fed well, and even if she had been, she didn't have the strength I had. I yanked her forward, mostly dragging her across the floor.
"Sanctimonious piss-stained bastard! Bhaal take you! Loviatar curse you! You're gonna regret killing my sister when I'm done ripping your eyeballs out with my nails! I'll break your arms, you hear me bucket-of-shit!?" she kept snarling and cursing even as I threw her inside the prisoner's carriage, locking the padlock behind her.
With a deep sigh, I shook my head.
Evil never cared about anything but themselves. They left behind a trail of pain, and sadness. They left behind grieving widows, angered sons and daughters, and then they went on their merry way enjoying their riches, living their lives to their fullest. When they died, they died laughing, never expecting the final moment to come for them. Punishing evil rather than slaughtering evil was, perhaps, the greatest act of justice there could ever be.
For punishing evil humiliated the man, or the woman. It showed them that no, they were not beyond reproach. It showed them that the laws of man had meaning, and weight.
A lifetime in prison was the greatest act of justice an evil being could suffer.
I slumped on the prisoner cart's driver bench, and closed my eyes.
A few hours later, I'd be woken up and we'd depart once more. My body felt all creaky, for resting in armor wasn't the most fitful way of catching up with one's sleep, but I powered through it.
For just as much as evil cares for naught but oneself, so too must good care for all but oneself.
Good carries the burdens of responsibility that evil refuses to carry.
And it is a sweet weight, when the certainty of heaven beckons you at the end of your road.
The guards of the roadhouse had seen better days. Their equipment was well worn, their armors consisting of leather jerkins and chain mails for the most part. Long bows and quivers were the choice pick, short swords at their hips. They weren't more than half a dozen; more than enough to fight in a pinch against the random straggler, but easily overrun by a pack of something fiercer.
"Hobgoblins are tough bastards, had a few spats with them in the past," the roadhouse's owner was a burly looking half-orc with sharp fangs and eyes that seemed to hold a burning hatred for everything around them. It wasn't true, of course. It was just the fierceness of the orc's spirit within that made most orcs, and their breed, look like they always wanted to murder, maim and kill those around them.
"What are their preferred tactics, then?" I asked. We were seated at a large table in the roadhouse's main floor and room. During the day it served as a mess hall and an inn, and during the night straw would make the floor comfortable enough for a rest. The benches would be moved to make way for bedrolls, and some would sleep on the tables themselves to steer clear of curious insects and mice.
One such mice squeaked in the room as the roadhouse's bar tender by the counter threw an empty iron mug at it. "Fucker! Not again!" he bellowed. One of the roadhouse's guests laughed crudely at it. Little did he know he might probably get his bread with some extra...things into it.
"Speaking of mounted or on foot?" the half-orc grunted back. "On foot they mean to trade normally. You can even haggle with them, but they're tight-pursed," he snorted. "When they're on horses or wolves though, they're not in the mood for trade. Raiding parties are common around these parts."
"They trade by foot? No cart?" I asked, puzzled.
"If they have one, they don't show us where they park it," the half-orc answered. "It's got to be somewhere near, but out of sight."
I pondered the information for a bit. "They should have a camp set up somewhere nearby then. A meadow big enough for a cart, easily accessible by road and..." I drummed my fingers against the table's surface, "a cave, since darkness means nothing to the likes of them."
"We've got something like that near here, Murken Cavern," the roadhouse's owner looked at the door of the roadhouse, "It's back the way you came from, a good day or so of travelling."
Which was the direction that Bravus had taken, I suspected. "Then we left them behind us," I sighed in a complicated mixture of relief, and a twinge of discomfort. My eyes roamed towards the table currently held by the entourage of Lord Vayr. "It will make the trip to the capital easier, I suppose."
That night, while the militia slept in the stables, keeping guard over the captured thief, and the private guards of Vayr slept on the ground floor, I stood guard upon a stool outside the noble's door. My head plopped against the wooden surface, I eyed the stairway. I could grab an hour or two of sleep in the morning while everyone else had breakfast, and then eat on my horse on the way.
The flickering lights of the fire pit down below soon ceased delivering strange shadows across the stairs' wall, and as the night grew darker, and longer, I began to mutter prayers to keep myself awake. Most of those went to Bravus, knowing well enough that he'd make it, for uncertainty and doubt didn't befit the faithful.
My ears perked at the sound of a creak. I tensed, my hand on the handle of my blade. The creaking repeated, and a squeaking sound echoed. A mouse scurried off nearby. I placed the side of my face back against the wall, the cool surface giving me no insight on the noises around the place. It was probably a nifty trick that only long-ears or rangers could do. The most I could hear was the faint snoring from the floors below.
I stood up from the stool before sleep could claim me, and as quietly as possible began to pace back and forth in front of the door.
Whoever said that guard duty was relaxing never had to contend with the very real thought of assassins coming for their charge. I couldn't leave the door to check on the prisoner in the stables, and I could but hope the militia standing guard did a good job with her.
The morning came and the lord's attendants arrived to wake and dress up the man. I let them through, checking with relief that the man was, indeed, still alive within his room.
I then swung downstairs, and dealt with the most important matter of breakfast for myself and the men under my charge, and then finally hit the stables, finding most of the militia asleep if not for one, who nervously stood guard with a spear held in both hands. The slumped form of the asleep thief made the woman in question look even angelic, for a cold-hearted murderer. She was wearing a simple enough tunic and a pair of trousers, manacles at her feet and her arms behind her back.
"Anything to report?" I asked the militia standing guard, a young man barely past his seventeenth year.
"Nothing sir," the teen answered, a yawn escaping his lips. "I'll wake the others-"
"I'll bring the prisoner around," I said. "Breakfast at the inn has been paid for, so head on in and enjoy it."
"Thank you, sir," the teenager said with a smile. The rest of the militia thanked me in turn, glad to get something warm in their belly after long days of gruesome cold gruel and hard bread.
It wasn't like I believed she'd be able to do much damage, but at the same time one could never say what implement of death a thief could find and hide until the right moment came.
"I know you are awake," I said to the slumped form of the prisoner. "If you cooperate, you can have a warm breakfast like everyone else."
The woman's eyes opened. The hard glint in them told a story of a lifetime. The lips morphed in a scowl. The teeth bared with the desire to rip my face off a bite at the time. "Fuck you," she hissed out, hatred hanging from every word.
"The anger you feel is, I guess, a shared sentiment of all those people who lost their loved ones to your bolts and blades," I answered in turn, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her up. She tried to kick, snarl, and bite in my direction but could do little. It wasn't like a prisoner was fed well, and even if she had been, she didn't have the strength I had. I yanked her forward, mostly dragging her across the floor.
"Sanctimonious piss-stained bastard! Bhaal take you! Loviatar curse you! You're gonna regret killing my sister when I'm done ripping your eyeballs out with my nails! I'll break your arms, you hear me bucket-of-shit!?" she kept snarling and cursing even as I threw her inside the prisoner's carriage, locking the padlock behind her.
With a deep sigh, I shook my head.
Evil never cared about anything but themselves. They left behind a trail of pain, and sadness. They left behind grieving widows, angered sons and daughters, and then they went on their merry way enjoying their riches, living their lives to their fullest. When they died, they died laughing, never expecting the final moment to come for them. Punishing evil rather than slaughtering evil was, perhaps, the greatest act of justice there could ever be.
For punishing evil humiliated the man, or the woman. It showed them that no, they were not beyond reproach. It showed them that the laws of man had meaning, and weight.
A lifetime in prison was the greatest act of justice an evil being could suffer.
I slumped on the prisoner cart's driver bench, and closed my eyes.
A few hours later, I'd be woken up and we'd depart once more. My body felt all creaky, for resting in armor wasn't the most fitful way of catching up with one's sleep, but I powered through it.
For just as much as evil cares for naught but oneself, so too must good care for all but oneself.
Good carries the burdens of responsibility that evil refuses to carry.
And it is a sweet weight, when the certainty of heaven beckons you at the end of your road.
- Location
- United States
Good stuff, this is one one cart ride
- Location
- Elsewhere
There is a flaw in your reasoning, you're focusing too much on him being a half-orc and not enough on him being a roadhouse owner.
He works in the service industry, I guarantee that he absolutely holds a burning hatred for everything around him.
Chapter Eighteen - Alnam
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Chapter Eighteen - Alnam
I dimly remembered the trafficked streets of my previous life, with glittering skyscrapers and countless cars and people mulling about. Even so, I was not prepared for the sights of a capital like Alnam. Various humanoid creatures from different walks of life moved across the streets, humans of course were a majority, but elves, dwarves, gnomes and halflings were in abundance too. Dragonborns too walked across the streets, their scales glittering under the sun, their height rivaled only by that of the half-orcs.
More than one carriage trudged along the main street, but thankfully a palanquin would see Lord Vayr led to the capital's tower, where a soft mattress and a few comforts would be given to him in wait for his trial. The other prisoner, the one of common birth, would have a very different treatment, thrown into the damp cellars of the darkest pits to await her own trial.
She'd probably survive long enough to be trialed, and may look forward to spend the rest of her life in prison, or as long as a judge would see to it.
I, on the other hand, had to begin planning the way back for the militiamen of Maneryt and myself.
The temple of Helm within the city wasn't the grandest one; the benefit of being the principal deities of the city went to Gond, the god of Craft and to Waukeen, the god of Trade. Yet, amidst the many temples that dotted the religious quarter, the one belonging to Helm was the sternest-looking one, with steel shields adorning the columns and rough-faced men and women patrolling its premises.
Those weren't priests, or paladins. Those were acolytes. Within the temple itself, past an entrance made of hard stone without frills or grandiose artistic depictions, was a portcullis that led into the inner areas of the temple. It was more of a fortress than a temple, if the small arrow slits by the sides of the walls were of any indication, it would be a cold day in the Nine Hells before someone managed to push through without burning the temple down to the ground.
"Steeleye Norrick sent a message to us to expect you and another, Shallowbrook," the man I spoke to within the safety of the temple was no chief of it; merely an in-between for my task wasn't really that much important to the order of Helm itself. "Yet you alone have arrived." The unspoken question went answered dutifully all the same, much to the man's consternation.
I remained seated on the hardy stool offered me while the man in question peeled open a ledger by the side of his desk, quietly flexing his index fingers as he stared into a long list of names penned with rigorous precision.
He then gave a short nod, and stared straight into my eyes.
"We normally trial our acolytes through simple sparring matches with a fully-fledged paladin of the order, one who has sworn an oath and his bound by the will of the Vigilant One," he crossed his fingers together, "However it is not uncommon to offer alternatives to it, especially to those we believe chosen for greater purposes."
There was a sudden sense of understanding, an acknowledgment between two parts. I looked down at the ledger, at the veritable ledge of names written upon it and came to the quiet and startling conclusion that perhaps, once, my name had been on that ledger too.
And rather than be picked for something great, I had been deemed mediocre, average, perhaps even unworthy of any special treatment whatsoever. It was a tiny thing.
I took a small breath, but it felt like the centering of the universe, like the pivotal moment in which understanding and clarity find common ground, and everything makes sense once more. So what if I hadn't been chosen for something special, or something different? So what if my trial had been one of faith, and not one of strength of arms? So what if some were considered more beloved, or more cherished, by the God we all devotedly prayed to?
What did it matter if some of the children of a house had bigger cups of breakfast than others? They would merely be set to work harder than the rest; they would merely have to show greater courage than the rest. The Watcher did not choose favorites because it was to his liking. He chose his favorites because they had great tasks ahead of them.
Thus, it would be a disservice to not teach them; it would be a crime to not prepare them. I bowed my head in acceptance to the priest of Helm in front of me, one who had in the past perhaps shared my same turmoil, and come out from it cleansed.
His place was there, beyond that desk. Never the first, nor the last.
Mine would be wherever Helm saw fit to see me. Never the most blessed, nor the least.
"Hobgoblins form raiding parties," I spoke, "I would take no less than eight acolytes on this trial, and would see them fight in two groups, aided by the militia of Maneryt."
"That is acceptable," the man answered as he grabbed a quill, and neared the ink pot to his side. He unfurled a fresh piece of parchment and began to write upon it. Once he was done penning the writ, he allowed the ink to dry and then rolled it up, sealing it with a waxen seal.
"Bring this to the quartermaster on the second floor," he continued, "The supplies should suffice for both the acolytes and the militia. Once you believe they are ready to take the Oath, you are free to let them return."
"Understood," I said with a nod, "I swear I will trial them justly."
I stepped out of the office and made my way up a tightly wrung ramp of stairs, with uneven steps and maliciously cleaned sides. Either one took their time to climb slowly and steadily, or there would be a nasty fall awaiting them. Perhaps there was an easier path to the quartermaster, but who was I to go against the will of the Steeleye of this temple of Helm, whatever their peculiarities in the defense of such a holy place were?
The quartermaster was a stern-looking dwarf. Fully clad in armor as if expecting a battle to rage out in the middle of his storeroom, and with acolytes moving about counting stocks and preparing supplies to bring to the kitchens of the temple, or to the training grounds or the barracks themselves, I couldn't help but wince at the sight of the poor sods in charge of latrine duty on that fine day. They were the ones with the extra ration of soap.
Running water was a benefit for many, but also a treacherous way into a temple, for wherever the sewers went, so too went unsavory characters.
"Helm's will strengthen your arm," the dwarf spoke with firmness, his voice a low thundering rumble as he extended a hand to firmly grasp mine.
"May your grip never falter in his service," I answered in turn, returning the firm hand shake before moving to the business at hand.
Unfurling the parchment, his brows scrunched up as he massaged his beard, half-pondering on the order, or on the calligraphy perhaps. In the end, he surly nodded. "Atala!" he barked, turning towards a dark-skinned woman, hair the color of ebony and eyes glimmering like steel. "Go get Kosef and Stedd," he lifted the parchment for her to see it, "Watcher Bor has decided it's time."
He then handed the parchment back to me, and stared straight into my eyes with the look of an old dwarf who was seeing the umpteenth freshly shaven cadet.
"The rest you'll find in the training halls. I'll have the supplies readied in an hour."
I nodded at that, and turned to take my leave. "I would suggest you get your weapons and armor checked by the temple's blacksmith, brother," the dwarf added. "You'll find them by the forge in the courtyard."
With a final farewell, I quietly walked towards my impending doom.
For as treacherous as the stairs were on the way up...
...far more dangerous they were on the way down.
I dimly remembered the trafficked streets of my previous life, with glittering skyscrapers and countless cars and people mulling about. Even so, I was not prepared for the sights of a capital like Alnam. Various humanoid creatures from different walks of life moved across the streets, humans of course were a majority, but elves, dwarves, gnomes and halflings were in abundance too. Dragonborns too walked across the streets, their scales glittering under the sun, their height rivaled only by that of the half-orcs.
More than one carriage trudged along the main street, but thankfully a palanquin would see Lord Vayr led to the capital's tower, where a soft mattress and a few comforts would be given to him in wait for his trial. The other prisoner, the one of common birth, would have a very different treatment, thrown into the damp cellars of the darkest pits to await her own trial.
She'd probably survive long enough to be trialed, and may look forward to spend the rest of her life in prison, or as long as a judge would see to it.
I, on the other hand, had to begin planning the way back for the militiamen of Maneryt and myself.
The temple of Helm within the city wasn't the grandest one; the benefit of being the principal deities of the city went to Gond, the god of Craft and to Waukeen, the god of Trade. Yet, amidst the many temples that dotted the religious quarter, the one belonging to Helm was the sternest-looking one, with steel shields adorning the columns and rough-faced men and women patrolling its premises.
Those weren't priests, or paladins. Those were acolytes. Within the temple itself, past an entrance made of hard stone without frills or grandiose artistic depictions, was a portcullis that led into the inner areas of the temple. It was more of a fortress than a temple, if the small arrow slits by the sides of the walls were of any indication, it would be a cold day in the Nine Hells before someone managed to push through without burning the temple down to the ground.
"Steeleye Norrick sent a message to us to expect you and another, Shallowbrook," the man I spoke to within the safety of the temple was no chief of it; merely an in-between for my task wasn't really that much important to the order of Helm itself. "Yet you alone have arrived." The unspoken question went answered dutifully all the same, much to the man's consternation.
I remained seated on the hardy stool offered me while the man in question peeled open a ledger by the side of his desk, quietly flexing his index fingers as he stared into a long list of names penned with rigorous precision.
He then gave a short nod, and stared straight into my eyes.
"We normally trial our acolytes through simple sparring matches with a fully-fledged paladin of the order, one who has sworn an oath and his bound by the will of the Vigilant One," he crossed his fingers together, "However it is not uncommon to offer alternatives to it, especially to those we believe chosen for greater purposes."
There was a sudden sense of understanding, an acknowledgment between two parts. I looked down at the ledger, at the veritable ledge of names written upon it and came to the quiet and startling conclusion that perhaps, once, my name had been on that ledger too.
And rather than be picked for something great, I had been deemed mediocre, average, perhaps even unworthy of any special treatment whatsoever. It was a tiny thing.
I took a small breath, but it felt like the centering of the universe, like the pivotal moment in which understanding and clarity find common ground, and everything makes sense once more. So what if I hadn't been chosen for something special, or something different? So what if my trial had been one of faith, and not one of strength of arms? So what if some were considered more beloved, or more cherished, by the God we all devotedly prayed to?
What did it matter if some of the children of a house had bigger cups of breakfast than others? They would merely be set to work harder than the rest; they would merely have to show greater courage than the rest. The Watcher did not choose favorites because it was to his liking. He chose his favorites because they had great tasks ahead of them.
Thus, it would be a disservice to not teach them; it would be a crime to not prepare them. I bowed my head in acceptance to the priest of Helm in front of me, one who had in the past perhaps shared my same turmoil, and come out from it cleansed.
His place was there, beyond that desk. Never the first, nor the last.
Mine would be wherever Helm saw fit to see me. Never the most blessed, nor the least.
"Hobgoblins form raiding parties," I spoke, "I would take no less than eight acolytes on this trial, and would see them fight in two groups, aided by the militia of Maneryt."
"That is acceptable," the man answered as he grabbed a quill, and neared the ink pot to his side. He unfurled a fresh piece of parchment and began to write upon it. Once he was done penning the writ, he allowed the ink to dry and then rolled it up, sealing it with a waxen seal.
"Bring this to the quartermaster on the second floor," he continued, "The supplies should suffice for both the acolytes and the militia. Once you believe they are ready to take the Oath, you are free to let them return."
"Understood," I said with a nod, "I swear I will trial them justly."
I stepped out of the office and made my way up a tightly wrung ramp of stairs, with uneven steps and maliciously cleaned sides. Either one took their time to climb slowly and steadily, or there would be a nasty fall awaiting them. Perhaps there was an easier path to the quartermaster, but who was I to go against the will of the Steeleye of this temple of Helm, whatever their peculiarities in the defense of such a holy place were?
The quartermaster was a stern-looking dwarf. Fully clad in armor as if expecting a battle to rage out in the middle of his storeroom, and with acolytes moving about counting stocks and preparing supplies to bring to the kitchens of the temple, or to the training grounds or the barracks themselves, I couldn't help but wince at the sight of the poor sods in charge of latrine duty on that fine day. They were the ones with the extra ration of soap.
Running water was a benefit for many, but also a treacherous way into a temple, for wherever the sewers went, so too went unsavory characters.
"Helm's will strengthen your arm," the dwarf spoke with firmness, his voice a low thundering rumble as he extended a hand to firmly grasp mine.
"May your grip never falter in his service," I answered in turn, returning the firm hand shake before moving to the business at hand.
Unfurling the parchment, his brows scrunched up as he massaged his beard, half-pondering on the order, or on the calligraphy perhaps. In the end, he surly nodded. "Atala!" he barked, turning towards a dark-skinned woman, hair the color of ebony and eyes glimmering like steel. "Go get Kosef and Stedd," he lifted the parchment for her to see it, "Watcher Bor has decided it's time."
He then handed the parchment back to me, and stared straight into my eyes with the look of an old dwarf who was seeing the umpteenth freshly shaven cadet.
"The rest you'll find in the training halls. I'll have the supplies readied in an hour."
I nodded at that, and turned to take my leave. "I would suggest you get your weapons and armor checked by the temple's blacksmith, brother," the dwarf added. "You'll find them by the forge in the courtyard."
With a final farewell, I quietly walked towards my impending doom.
For as treacherous as the stairs were on the way up...
...far more dangerous they were on the way down.
- Location
- Elsewhere
Little known fact, if any temple happens to look more stern than the temple of Helm for any reason, they sneak out at night and paint smiley faces all over it.
There's also the possibility of getting an 'alternate' trial due to great potential, and failing.
After all, it is still a trial.
How would one feel after being offered an alternate trial?
Honored? Obligated? Guilty that other's have to do the normal one?
How would you feel if you failed?
Ashamed? Bitter at failing a more difficult challenge?
"As a paladin of Helm, you must remain ever watchful of treachery."
"Yes, I noticed the stairs."
"...I was thinking of cultists, actually."
Shallowbrook feels like that one recruitable NPC in an rpg that always shows up at every tavern. He is the simple but reliable one who doesn't do anything super fancy but will always last through a fight. The perfect combination of tank, aggro and dps that players always use when testing new party combinations.
Because you can always rely on Shallowbrook to last through the fight.
Because you can always rely on Shallowbrook to last through the fight.
Chapter Nineteen - Wilderness
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Chapter Nineteen - Wilderness
It would be folly to believe that a battle, no matter how small, could be fought only with swords and shields. The Hobgoblin raiding party had smelled us coming, and prepared itself accordingly. They could have left, but just as much as they were cruel, the Hobgoblins were also arrogant. It was only once we carefully broke into a small meadow that it became clear that it hadn't been just arrogance guiding them.
A group of four Worg riders stood at the ready, a fifth rider standing atop a peculiarly larger, and meaner Worg. What worried me weren't the five riders. The eight or so Hobgoblins on foot that were in front of them gave me a greater deal of worry, especially when the camp they had set in the meadow had small wooden palisades that would make it hard to charge through in hit and run tactics.
The tents also hinted at more than eight Hobgoblins.
My eyes narrowed as I took the scene in. There weren't cages, nor was there any sight of my dog, or of Bravus. Either he had found the camp and died in the name of his ideals, or he had gotten lost in the forest. The latter was difficult, but perhaps he had been pursuing the prisoners, and they had split up. It would explain the missing Hobgoblins from my tent-count, unless something else was afoot.
"Anyone a good shot?" I asked, my voice a quiet murmur.
"Come over!" a guttural, snarling voice reached us from the captain of the raiding company, a bellowing snarl that reeked of authority and malevolence. "The Battle Lord's hunger will be sated, but not until I see the faces of my unworthy foes!"
"I am good with a bow, sir," one of the acolytes muttered, grabbing hold of his long bow from his saddle. "Shall I take a shot?"
"Is this a test?" another whispered. "Shall we meet with them on open ground, find a compromise?"
I took a small breath. "There will be no compromise with slavers, evil beings, and those who reek of the blood of the innocent," I grabbed hold of my blade's handle, my shield affixed to my other arm. "I need you to take a great shot," I looked at our archer. "Take position, and when the time comes, you will know what to do." The archer swallowed, and dismounted from his horse, placing his back against the tree closest to the edge of the meadow.
"The militia will remain in the background, if anything attempts to encircle us, you will engage it long enough for us to acknowledge the new threat," I glanced at Maneryt's militiamen, who grimly nodded with their hands clutching tightly up their spears' shafts. "Acolytes, the brunt of the battle will fall to us. Raise your shields, and unsheathe your blades. Pray to our God not for the strength to win this battle, but for the strength to stop the injustice in front of us." I exhaled the breath I hadn't known I had been holding, and clicked my tongue to move my horse forward at a slow pace. "Stay behind me, and engage only at my command."
As I moved out of the cover of the trees, the Worgs howled in barely contained blood lust.
"What brave foe, what foolish foe!" the captain of the raiding part howled with cruel mirth. "Come to ask us to leave? Come to give us a kind goodbye!? You are late to save the tasty morsels, our wolves ate their fill!"
I looked at the captain, beyond the wooden makeshift palisade, and pointed the tip of my blade in his direction. "Thrice I call you coward!" I bellowed with all the strength that my lungs could hold. "You challenge the weak! You hide behind walls! You give your back to your foes! For those acts of cowardice, I call you coward!"
"You would dare-" the howling snarl of unbridled anger came like a wave across the meadow, "You will die like all the others-"
"Helm be my witness in this time of strife, for the ever-vigilant's gaze firmly sets upon the shoulders of those who judge and are judged in turn!" I bellowed right back, "Face me, coward! Face me or forever be less than my equal!"
Angry growls, snarls, a few muttered words echoed from the assembled raiding troop. The Captain chuckled at first, and then thumped his battleaxe against his crude leather shield. Blood splattered on the shield, his ax oozing of it.
"Leave him to me, and kill the others!" he roared as he kicked the flanks of his Worg. The howling, cruel wolf did not need to be told, and rushed down with nimble grace past the wooden palisade, the outriders following him hot on his heels.
My heart drummed in my chest as I stared at the incoming forces. The Hobgoblins' captain brought his battleaxe high up, twirling it before bringing his arm back. He threw the ax, the spinning projectile heading straight for me with such speed that, had I blinked, I would have missed it.
I did not blink.
I kicked the flanks of my horse, moving forward and allowing my shield to take the brunt of the blow meant for my mount's head. I momentarily lost all sense of feeling in my arm, only for the warmth within my chest to bubble, reigniting the sensations that the blow had dulled.
There was a sudden sensation of shifting, and my eyes widened as the battleaxe sailed back into the outstretched hand of the hobgoblin captain.
A magic weapon.
A magic weapon in the hands of a simple hobgoblin captain?
I tightened the grip on my weapon, blazing flames igniting from its edge as the warmth within my chest tensed and began to bubble, light shining from the blade. "Thee are my foe!" I howled, kicking the flanks and rushing forward. "Let none stand between us! Ever-Vigilant, Witness Us!"
My sword crossed paths with the captain's battleaxe, his Worg's teeth snarling to bite into my mount's neck, only for my horse to jump to the side at the last second. The impact struck the ax's edge, the flames and the sparks sailing off as I swiftly turned my horse around, swinging again.
The Worg's fur soon matted with blood, a flaming tongue charring the skin and igniting the fur. The beast jumped back, trying to rush away only for the captain to snarl cruel remarks at it. A slithering cord of golden hue materialized from the tip of my wrist, encroaching with blinding speed and locking around my chosen foe. He literally threw himself off the wolf, landing roughly on the ground and rolling quickly back up. The golden cord bound us; a duel witnessed by Helm could not so easily be abandoned.
An arrow sailed in the air close to me, a half-choked gurgle my only warning as I threw myself off the horse, a greatsword cleaving the poor animal across its flank.
The arrow had taken the throat of the attacker, who slumped off his feral beast.
I did not waste time getting back up on my feet, nor rushing forward. The golden cord disappeared as I neared, lunging forward and thrusting, the Hobgoblin's leather shield swatting the thrust away. The magical battleaxe came, but the edge of my shield caught it, throwing it off-aim from my sides.
Steel clanked against steel. Snarl and foam frothed from the furious jaws of the creature in front of me. A horn tooted, Hobgoblins rushing into the clearing from the sides. With screams of their own, the militia of Maneryt plowed forth with their spears in their hands. I moved to the side, letting an overhead swing hit the air. My armored knee came up, slamming into the edge of the shield and granting me the space I needed to swing down and strike at the chainmail.
It cracked, lighting snaking with shrieking might and eliciting a scream of pain from the captain.
The evil creature stumbled slightly back, shaking his head firmly and gasping for a quick lungful of air. He then dropped his shield, grabbed hold of his battleaxe with both hands, and roared. Blood began to bubble across the surface of the weapon, forming a thin crimson mist across it.
"You know not against whom you pit yourself!" the Hobgoblin snarled.
I did not answer. I rushed forward, and that saved my life. A Worg had been prowling towards me, and seeing me lunge, decided to lunge too. I barely managed to bring my shield to stop the jaws from hitting my neck, but my blade was swatted aside with ease by the strength of arms of the Hobgoblin, and I witnessed with wide eyes as the edges sunk into my armor, shattering it in half as sharp pain blossomed across my rib-cage. My right hand went limp, my blade fell, and stopped shining.
"I see only a coward," I wheezed out, the taste of blood filling my mouth. I fell down on one knee, the captain removing his weapon from my chest. The squelching noise reverberated in my skull, the Worg's maws pushing and trying to twist the shield off my arm, its claws raking its surface.
The Hobgoblin captain laughed, and lifted his blade for yet another swing.
"One last breath," I murmured, forcing my eyes to remain open. The bubbling warmth within my chest stretched, coalescing around the wound. "One last prayer."
I rose to my feet just as the battleaxe came swinging down, my free hand shimmering as a shield of pale white energy formed, striking against the incoming weapon and flipping it to the side. My right foot slammed down on the weapon's hilt, and with a bellowing roar my shield hand came up, lacking a gauntlet and the annexed shield, but not the strength of my blow which struck the enemy straight into the face.
I pushed all of my weight into the blade's hilt, and jumped towards my blade, grabbing hold of it with my other hand.
A shield formed of my faith leveled by my side, the symbol of Helm emblazoned, the eye of the Ever-Vigilant shining brightly at its center.
"Just die already!" the captain snarled, lunging forward, the Worg by his side doing the same. I sidestepped out of the way, placing the Worg between myself and the captain. With a furious snarl, the Hobgoblin kicked at the Worg's frame, "Out of the way mutt!"
Another arrow sailed through the air, hitting the wolf in its flank and making the creature howl in pain.
I lunged, thrusting my blade straight through the Captain's guard, and as he deflected it, the shield slammed into the monster's chest. It crackled, thundering with flames which billowed across the creature's frame.
It wasn't enough.
It made him recoil, but it wasn't enough.
Another arrow struck the Worg, making it finally tumble down to its death.
"You think this is over," the captain hissed, clutching his burned face, "You think we'll run, but you don't know us, you don't know who I am-"
"A shield knows but his duty," I muttered, walking forward, "To protect those who need it."
The Hobgoblin captain took a step back, and then another. He snarled, hissed, growled, but dared not near. His limbs trembled. His eyes widened as his heart was clutched by something his ilk had rarely felt. The flames that had struck his chest whispered within his frame of the might of the God whom I served, the Ever-Vigilant's presence palpable to his fear-addled mind.
He swung wildly, his swings large, and easy to avoid. The final thrust struck him in the chain mail's broken part, slid through the leather and the cloth underneath, pushed through the ribs, past the lungs, and exited from its back.
The battleaxe fell on the ground, shimmers of blood coalescing and cooling down.
I pushed him down on the ground and turned, finally taking in the rest of the scene.
The battle was far from over, and so too was my rest.
"Until the last lies dead," I whispered, "Give me the strength to fight anew."
There was no answer, but the warmth within my chest spread to my tired limbs, to my unfocused gaze, to my exhausted soul like a soothing balm.
Thus, I marched forward.
I shall fear no evil...
...for Helm is with me.
It would be folly to believe that a battle, no matter how small, could be fought only with swords and shields. The Hobgoblin raiding party had smelled us coming, and prepared itself accordingly. They could have left, but just as much as they were cruel, the Hobgoblins were also arrogant. It was only once we carefully broke into a small meadow that it became clear that it hadn't been just arrogance guiding them.
A group of four Worg riders stood at the ready, a fifth rider standing atop a peculiarly larger, and meaner Worg. What worried me weren't the five riders. The eight or so Hobgoblins on foot that were in front of them gave me a greater deal of worry, especially when the camp they had set in the meadow had small wooden palisades that would make it hard to charge through in hit and run tactics.
The tents also hinted at more than eight Hobgoblins.
My eyes narrowed as I took the scene in. There weren't cages, nor was there any sight of my dog, or of Bravus. Either he had found the camp and died in the name of his ideals, or he had gotten lost in the forest. The latter was difficult, but perhaps he had been pursuing the prisoners, and they had split up. It would explain the missing Hobgoblins from my tent-count, unless something else was afoot.
"Anyone a good shot?" I asked, my voice a quiet murmur.
"Come over!" a guttural, snarling voice reached us from the captain of the raiding company, a bellowing snarl that reeked of authority and malevolence. "The Battle Lord's hunger will be sated, but not until I see the faces of my unworthy foes!"
"I am good with a bow, sir," one of the acolytes muttered, grabbing hold of his long bow from his saddle. "Shall I take a shot?"
"Is this a test?" another whispered. "Shall we meet with them on open ground, find a compromise?"
I took a small breath. "There will be no compromise with slavers, evil beings, and those who reek of the blood of the innocent," I grabbed hold of my blade's handle, my shield affixed to my other arm. "I need you to take a great shot," I looked at our archer. "Take position, and when the time comes, you will know what to do." The archer swallowed, and dismounted from his horse, placing his back against the tree closest to the edge of the meadow.
"The militia will remain in the background, if anything attempts to encircle us, you will engage it long enough for us to acknowledge the new threat," I glanced at Maneryt's militiamen, who grimly nodded with their hands clutching tightly up their spears' shafts. "Acolytes, the brunt of the battle will fall to us. Raise your shields, and unsheathe your blades. Pray to our God not for the strength to win this battle, but for the strength to stop the injustice in front of us." I exhaled the breath I hadn't known I had been holding, and clicked my tongue to move my horse forward at a slow pace. "Stay behind me, and engage only at my command."
As I moved out of the cover of the trees, the Worgs howled in barely contained blood lust.
"What brave foe, what foolish foe!" the captain of the raiding part howled with cruel mirth. "Come to ask us to leave? Come to give us a kind goodbye!? You are late to save the tasty morsels, our wolves ate their fill!"
I looked at the captain, beyond the wooden makeshift palisade, and pointed the tip of my blade in his direction. "Thrice I call you coward!" I bellowed with all the strength that my lungs could hold. "You challenge the weak! You hide behind walls! You give your back to your foes! For those acts of cowardice, I call you coward!"
"You would dare-" the howling snarl of unbridled anger came like a wave across the meadow, "You will die like all the others-"
"Helm be my witness in this time of strife, for the ever-vigilant's gaze firmly sets upon the shoulders of those who judge and are judged in turn!" I bellowed right back, "Face me, coward! Face me or forever be less than my equal!"
Angry growls, snarls, a few muttered words echoed from the assembled raiding troop. The Captain chuckled at first, and then thumped his battleaxe against his crude leather shield. Blood splattered on the shield, his ax oozing of it.
"Leave him to me, and kill the others!" he roared as he kicked the flanks of his Worg. The howling, cruel wolf did not need to be told, and rushed down with nimble grace past the wooden palisade, the outriders following him hot on his heels.
My heart drummed in my chest as I stared at the incoming forces. The Hobgoblins' captain brought his battleaxe high up, twirling it before bringing his arm back. He threw the ax, the spinning projectile heading straight for me with such speed that, had I blinked, I would have missed it.
I did not blink.
I kicked the flanks of my horse, moving forward and allowing my shield to take the brunt of the blow meant for my mount's head. I momentarily lost all sense of feeling in my arm, only for the warmth within my chest to bubble, reigniting the sensations that the blow had dulled.
There was a sudden sensation of shifting, and my eyes widened as the battleaxe sailed back into the outstretched hand of the hobgoblin captain.
A magic weapon.
A magic weapon in the hands of a simple hobgoblin captain?
I tightened the grip on my weapon, blazing flames igniting from its edge as the warmth within my chest tensed and began to bubble, light shining from the blade. "Thee are my foe!" I howled, kicking the flanks and rushing forward. "Let none stand between us! Ever-Vigilant, Witness Us!"
My sword crossed paths with the captain's battleaxe, his Worg's teeth snarling to bite into my mount's neck, only for my horse to jump to the side at the last second. The impact struck the ax's edge, the flames and the sparks sailing off as I swiftly turned my horse around, swinging again.
The Worg's fur soon matted with blood, a flaming tongue charring the skin and igniting the fur. The beast jumped back, trying to rush away only for the captain to snarl cruel remarks at it. A slithering cord of golden hue materialized from the tip of my wrist, encroaching with blinding speed and locking around my chosen foe. He literally threw himself off the wolf, landing roughly on the ground and rolling quickly back up. The golden cord bound us; a duel witnessed by Helm could not so easily be abandoned.
An arrow sailed in the air close to me, a half-choked gurgle my only warning as I threw myself off the horse, a greatsword cleaving the poor animal across its flank.
The arrow had taken the throat of the attacker, who slumped off his feral beast.
I did not waste time getting back up on my feet, nor rushing forward. The golden cord disappeared as I neared, lunging forward and thrusting, the Hobgoblin's leather shield swatting the thrust away. The magical battleaxe came, but the edge of my shield caught it, throwing it off-aim from my sides.
Steel clanked against steel. Snarl and foam frothed from the furious jaws of the creature in front of me. A horn tooted, Hobgoblins rushing into the clearing from the sides. With screams of their own, the militia of Maneryt plowed forth with their spears in their hands. I moved to the side, letting an overhead swing hit the air. My armored knee came up, slamming into the edge of the shield and granting me the space I needed to swing down and strike at the chainmail.
It cracked, lighting snaking with shrieking might and eliciting a scream of pain from the captain.
The evil creature stumbled slightly back, shaking his head firmly and gasping for a quick lungful of air. He then dropped his shield, grabbed hold of his battleaxe with both hands, and roared. Blood began to bubble across the surface of the weapon, forming a thin crimson mist across it.
"You know not against whom you pit yourself!" the Hobgoblin snarled.
I did not answer. I rushed forward, and that saved my life. A Worg had been prowling towards me, and seeing me lunge, decided to lunge too. I barely managed to bring my shield to stop the jaws from hitting my neck, but my blade was swatted aside with ease by the strength of arms of the Hobgoblin, and I witnessed with wide eyes as the edges sunk into my armor, shattering it in half as sharp pain blossomed across my rib-cage. My right hand went limp, my blade fell, and stopped shining.
"I see only a coward," I wheezed out, the taste of blood filling my mouth. I fell down on one knee, the captain removing his weapon from my chest. The squelching noise reverberated in my skull, the Worg's maws pushing and trying to twist the shield off my arm, its claws raking its surface.
The Hobgoblin captain laughed, and lifted his blade for yet another swing.
"One last breath," I murmured, forcing my eyes to remain open. The bubbling warmth within my chest stretched, coalescing around the wound. "One last prayer."
I rose to my feet just as the battleaxe came swinging down, my free hand shimmering as a shield of pale white energy formed, striking against the incoming weapon and flipping it to the side. My right foot slammed down on the weapon's hilt, and with a bellowing roar my shield hand came up, lacking a gauntlet and the annexed shield, but not the strength of my blow which struck the enemy straight into the face.
I pushed all of my weight into the blade's hilt, and jumped towards my blade, grabbing hold of it with my other hand.
A shield formed of my faith leveled by my side, the symbol of Helm emblazoned, the eye of the Ever-Vigilant shining brightly at its center.
"Just die already!" the captain snarled, lunging forward, the Worg by his side doing the same. I sidestepped out of the way, placing the Worg between myself and the captain. With a furious snarl, the Hobgoblin kicked at the Worg's frame, "Out of the way mutt!"
Another arrow sailed through the air, hitting the wolf in its flank and making the creature howl in pain.
I lunged, thrusting my blade straight through the Captain's guard, and as he deflected it, the shield slammed into the monster's chest. It crackled, thundering with flames which billowed across the creature's frame.
It wasn't enough.
It made him recoil, but it wasn't enough.
Another arrow struck the Worg, making it finally tumble down to its death.
"You think this is over," the captain hissed, clutching his burned face, "You think we'll run, but you don't know us, you don't know who I am-"
"A shield knows but his duty," I muttered, walking forward, "To protect those who need it."
The Hobgoblin captain took a step back, and then another. He snarled, hissed, growled, but dared not near. His limbs trembled. His eyes widened as his heart was clutched by something his ilk had rarely felt. The flames that had struck his chest whispered within his frame of the might of the God whom I served, the Ever-Vigilant's presence palpable to his fear-addled mind.
He swung wildly, his swings large, and easy to avoid. The final thrust struck him in the chain mail's broken part, slid through the leather and the cloth underneath, pushed through the ribs, past the lungs, and exited from its back.
The battleaxe fell on the ground, shimmers of blood coalescing and cooling down.
I pushed him down on the ground and turned, finally taking in the rest of the scene.
The battle was far from over, and so too was my rest.
"Until the last lies dead," I whispered, "Give me the strength to fight anew."
There was no answer, but the warmth within my chest spread to my tired limbs, to my unfocused gaze, to my exhausted soul like a soothing balm.
Thus, I marched forward.
I shall fear no evil...
...for Helm is with me.
Mockingly-Tricky
Ketchup Enthusiast
- Location
- Happy Funtime Candyland
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Channel the Goblin Slayer!
Channel the Goblin Slayer!
Chapter Twenty - Alnam
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Chapter Twenty - Alnam
The return to the capital wasn't something triumphant. We had just dealt with some raiders. While the Maneryt militia had proceeded by herself back home, I had to return to notify the temple's Watcher that everything had gone well, and that the acolytes, as much as they were a bit scraped and dirty, would work well as budding paladins of Helm.
It wasn't like they'd immediately be promoted. This was but one trial among many that they would have to face on the long road to fully fledged paladins, but as their chests puffed in pride and their faces barely hid their smiles, I could not help but feel pleased with them. Yet, if a strong arm were all that was needed, then they would not be paladins, as much as warriors.
"I have tested their mettle in battle, and found them worthy," I spoke to Watcher Bor, the man nodding back. "Their commitment, their faith and their honor I leave to you to judge."
The Watcher nodded back accepting my judgment of the recruits' skills at face value, without need of further proof. "Sir Shallowbrook, the quartermaster notified us of a magical weapon amidst the objects recovered from the Hobgoblin raiding party," he spoke, "We would like your opinion on it."
"It is a weapon best sold, and the gold earned from it used to bolster the defenses against the Hobgoblins," I answered.
"Understandable, but we meant something else," the Watcher exhaled as he stood from his desk, his hands moved to a rolled parchment which he opened with delicate care. He pointed his finger at the borders between us and the Hobgoblins Tribelands, vast patches of angry red in a sea of gold; fertile plains that could be put to better use, if only the strength of arms of the Hobgoblin legions hadn't kept the humans out of it. "No common captain of a raider company would have such a weapon."
There was silence as I mulled the thought over. "And it is rare for Hobgoblins to gift one another magical weapons," I acquiesced. "So someone else must have done so, or they might have stolen it from someone else, perhaps an adventurer?"
"All things are possible," the Watcher answered, "we will pour over what documents were found, and acquire the services of adventurers to deal with this task." He shook his head. "Was anything said? Did the raider mention anything of notice?"
"The usual arrogance of evil," I said. "Nothing important from what I recall."
The Watcher crossed his arms behind his back, nearing the small window of his office to gaze outside. "There is a task I would like for you to solve, Watchknight Shallowbrook."
I blinked. "Watcher-I am no Watchknight, I have served but few years-"
"And those few years have been enough to show the strength of your faith, and of your will," the Watcher answered. "But I will not oblige you," he added as he turned his sight towards me. "This is a task that I fear would test even the staunchest of Watchers of Helm."
I swallowed, and knelt. "As long as it upholds the laws of Helm, I swear I will complete it."
"I will not ask you to complete it," the Watcher spoke, "I merely ask that you investigate it. We employ in our service groups of mercenaries, and adventurers, to keep the peace. A group of adventurers has disappeared recently near the western border; we do not know if they willingly abandoned their posts, or if something happened to them."
"The giants might be involved, then?" I asked.
The Watcher shook his head. "We have no solid proof. I would not risk a lone explorer, nor would I send more adventurers to their doom."
I furrowed my brows. "I do not understand. If I am not to go alone, nor am I to go with adventurers, with whom am I to go with?"
The Watcher smiled. It was a serene smile. My chest burned. A bubbling sensation rose from the depths of my soul as it spread across my limbs. His right hand gently dropped atop my head, as if the sensation within me called to it. "The Vigilant Eyes of Helm rejoice, for one more pair of eyes joins them. Spend tonight in prayer, and in the morrow, depart amidst newly found brothers."
"I-I swear to honor the tenets of Helm," I whispered, for my voice had left me together with the strength within my limbs. Thankfully I was down on one knee, or I would have slumped down regardless. "I-"
A new sense of clarity overpowered my eyes, as if I could finally see the finest details of my surroundings. I could see the world in such stark, startling detail that my breathing hitched. I could see the minute cracks on a brick, the smudges of ink dribbled on the floor, I could hear the quiet rustling of the wind, the fluttering of a dove outside the window and the murmuring of a crowd beyond the walls of the Temple-Fortress.
I could hear the clattering of armored feet; a thief running from the market guard. I could not see it, but I could feel it as if I were there.
The sensation rushed across my spine, and I was no longer feeling the market, but the soft tunes of a piano, a drowsy guard yawning upon a carpet, ignoring the muffled footsteps of the thief above. Again, the feeling within my chest lurched and moved, in the thick of a battle where a shield rose to parry a blade meant for someone else. My blood threatened to boil in my chest, my heart thrummed as if I were there, in the midst of it all.
Searing lights tried to blind my vision the next, but it was for naught. Whispers were heard, malicious and nauseating. Deep in the depths beneath the ground they coaxed, and all too mightily they were rebuked by phalanxes of armored warriors wielding axes.
It was the strangest of sensations, the briefest of instants stretched into an incredible period. The tip of my fingers let the sensation depart, and it felt as if my heart bled together with it. It couldn't have been more than a second, it shouldn't have been more than a second, but the worry etched on Watcher Bor's face told me some time had passed.
"I'm sorry, I-" I swallowed, "I just-I just felt-"
The Watcher smiled, and nodded. "The Ever-Vigilant briefly gazed at you, brother," he extended his right hand, and I grasped it by the arm to rise once more. "And he found you worthy of the honor."
I swallowed, and then glanced outside. Where a thief was robbing a noble. Where a thief was running from the guards. "If-If you don't mind, Watcher Bor-I have...there are-"
"Go," the Watcher nodded. "Whatever visions our God showed you, go and enact his will. You no longer answer to me, but to the Vigilant and your brothers."
I hastily nodded, and then rushed out.
Never before did my feet feel lighter. Never before did mirth blossom into my chest with such incredible strength. I was like a kid at a country fair.
Helm saw me.
He saw me, and he found me worthy.
Now, it was up to me to make him prouder still.
The return to the capital wasn't something triumphant. We had just dealt with some raiders. While the Maneryt militia had proceeded by herself back home, I had to return to notify the temple's Watcher that everything had gone well, and that the acolytes, as much as they were a bit scraped and dirty, would work well as budding paladins of Helm.
It wasn't like they'd immediately be promoted. This was but one trial among many that they would have to face on the long road to fully fledged paladins, but as their chests puffed in pride and their faces barely hid their smiles, I could not help but feel pleased with them. Yet, if a strong arm were all that was needed, then they would not be paladins, as much as warriors.
"I have tested their mettle in battle, and found them worthy," I spoke to Watcher Bor, the man nodding back. "Their commitment, their faith and their honor I leave to you to judge."
The Watcher nodded back accepting my judgment of the recruits' skills at face value, without need of further proof. "Sir Shallowbrook, the quartermaster notified us of a magical weapon amidst the objects recovered from the Hobgoblin raiding party," he spoke, "We would like your opinion on it."
"It is a weapon best sold, and the gold earned from it used to bolster the defenses against the Hobgoblins," I answered.
"Understandable, but we meant something else," the Watcher exhaled as he stood from his desk, his hands moved to a rolled parchment which he opened with delicate care. He pointed his finger at the borders between us and the Hobgoblins Tribelands, vast patches of angry red in a sea of gold; fertile plains that could be put to better use, if only the strength of arms of the Hobgoblin legions hadn't kept the humans out of it. "No common captain of a raider company would have such a weapon."
There was silence as I mulled the thought over. "And it is rare for Hobgoblins to gift one another magical weapons," I acquiesced. "So someone else must have done so, or they might have stolen it from someone else, perhaps an adventurer?"
"All things are possible," the Watcher answered, "we will pour over what documents were found, and acquire the services of adventurers to deal with this task." He shook his head. "Was anything said? Did the raider mention anything of notice?"
"The usual arrogance of evil," I said. "Nothing important from what I recall."
The Watcher crossed his arms behind his back, nearing the small window of his office to gaze outside. "There is a task I would like for you to solve, Watchknight Shallowbrook."
I blinked. "Watcher-I am no Watchknight, I have served but few years-"
"And those few years have been enough to show the strength of your faith, and of your will," the Watcher answered. "But I will not oblige you," he added as he turned his sight towards me. "This is a task that I fear would test even the staunchest of Watchers of Helm."
I swallowed, and knelt. "As long as it upholds the laws of Helm, I swear I will complete it."
"I will not ask you to complete it," the Watcher spoke, "I merely ask that you investigate it. We employ in our service groups of mercenaries, and adventurers, to keep the peace. A group of adventurers has disappeared recently near the western border; we do not know if they willingly abandoned their posts, or if something happened to them."
"The giants might be involved, then?" I asked.
The Watcher shook his head. "We have no solid proof. I would not risk a lone explorer, nor would I send more adventurers to their doom."
I furrowed my brows. "I do not understand. If I am not to go alone, nor am I to go with adventurers, with whom am I to go with?"
The Watcher smiled. It was a serene smile. My chest burned. A bubbling sensation rose from the depths of my soul as it spread across my limbs. His right hand gently dropped atop my head, as if the sensation within me called to it. "The Vigilant Eyes of Helm rejoice, for one more pair of eyes joins them. Spend tonight in prayer, and in the morrow, depart amidst newly found brothers."
"I-I swear to honor the tenets of Helm," I whispered, for my voice had left me together with the strength within my limbs. Thankfully I was down on one knee, or I would have slumped down regardless. "I-"
A new sense of clarity overpowered my eyes, as if I could finally see the finest details of my surroundings. I could see the world in such stark, startling detail that my breathing hitched. I could see the minute cracks on a brick, the smudges of ink dribbled on the floor, I could hear the quiet rustling of the wind, the fluttering of a dove outside the window and the murmuring of a crowd beyond the walls of the Temple-Fortress.
I could hear the clattering of armored feet; a thief running from the market guard. I could not see it, but I could feel it as if I were there.
The sensation rushed across my spine, and I was no longer feeling the market, but the soft tunes of a piano, a drowsy guard yawning upon a carpet, ignoring the muffled footsteps of the thief above. Again, the feeling within my chest lurched and moved, in the thick of a battle where a shield rose to parry a blade meant for someone else. My blood threatened to boil in my chest, my heart thrummed as if I were there, in the midst of it all.
Searing lights tried to blind my vision the next, but it was for naught. Whispers were heard, malicious and nauseating. Deep in the depths beneath the ground they coaxed, and all too mightily they were rebuked by phalanxes of armored warriors wielding axes.
It was the strangest of sensations, the briefest of instants stretched into an incredible period. The tip of my fingers let the sensation depart, and it felt as if my heart bled together with it. It couldn't have been more than a second, it shouldn't have been more than a second, but the worry etched on Watcher Bor's face told me some time had passed.
"I'm sorry, I-" I swallowed, "I just-I just felt-"
The Watcher smiled, and nodded. "The Ever-Vigilant briefly gazed at you, brother," he extended his right hand, and I grasped it by the arm to rise once more. "And he found you worthy of the honor."
I swallowed, and then glanced outside. Where a thief was robbing a noble. Where a thief was running from the guards. "If-If you don't mind, Watcher Bor-I have...there are-"
"Go," the Watcher nodded. "Whatever visions our God showed you, go and enact his will. You no longer answer to me, but to the Vigilant and your brothers."
I hastily nodded, and then rushed out.
Never before did my feet feel lighter. Never before did mirth blossom into my chest with such incredible strength. I was like a kid at a country fair.
Helm saw me.
He saw me, and he found me worthy.
Now, it was up to me to make him prouder still.
- Location
- United States
God damn, Helm is awesome. Anyways for those knowledgable in dnd lore, would the MC getting promoted to watchknight be seen as very early or only somewhat early? Also what level is he?
- Location
- Canada
Promotions come with Helms favor so they can happen to a Paladin whenever.
I'm not sure he has levels in a proper sense, but soloing a hobgoblin chief means he's probably about level 3. Though he isn't casting as much as he should be if he is.
Epilogue of Part One - Prologue End
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Epilogue of Part One - Prologue End
There were five of us. Bramzid and Tanar, of Shalevale and Mountnar, were familiar to me. As they quickly clasped arms with me, I recognized them fully as the two paladins that had aided the village of Anwich in its time of need. Riding with us was an even taller figure, a half-orc wielding a large bastard sword on his back and a small buckler in its left arm. He smiled and widened both arms to welcome me in the company, making my armor creak slightly from his strength. He presented himself as Zevig, a hearty laugh in his chest and quite the strength in his arms.
The final one was a stocky dwarf, a bastion of dwarven might and resolute will. His eyes were the only thing that seemed to shine through the armor that encased him like a block of steel, and the sword and mace strapped to his hip glittered softly, especially when compared to the symbols of Helm that adorned every single part of his armor, topping it all off with the God's holy symbol safely secured around his neck. Thoradin Ironfist was his name, and his welcome was, while less warm, still equally pleased.
Bramzid and Tanar were traditional in the sense that they flawlessly mirrored whom I was, especially after my last trip to the quartermaster. All three of us had armor that covered our every nook and cranny, a single crimson plume atop our head and a purple mantle on our back signaling our status, and our rank. Our armors all shone as if they had been recently polished, and for as long as the magic within the steel would hold, they would never tarnish, nor corrode.
We brought the light of Helm in the darkest recesses of the world; we were his Paladins, and we would know no fear.
"We go as one, our Lord, the Ever-Vigilant guides us to where we are most needed," Thoradin gruffly remarked from his war pony. I trotted alongside the others, finding my place naturally near the back of the group. Bramzid and Tanar stood at its flanks, Zevig in the center of the group. The dwarf was as much of a paladin as he was a cleric of our God, and thus our unspoken leader.
"The Western border has giants on its mountain peaks," Zevig added, "Bramzid, Tanar, you think your shields will manage the feat of blocking a giant's swing?"
"Our arms are forged to carry Helm's will, they will hold if that is our God's wish, and if they break, then we will mend them as many times as it takes," Bramzid replied.
"Leave the brunt of the swings to us, and slice their ankles," Tanar said next, "Once they fall on their knees, aim for their necks."
"There are many kinds of giants in this world," I spoke. "What kind should we expect?"
"Giants of the hills inhabit the slopes, and some like to hurl rocks," Thoradin gruffly remarked. "Yet as much of a risk as they could possibly pose, they alone wouldn't be able to take care of an entire group of adventurers. At least one should have survived to bring back news."
"Beyond the western peaks lies the kingdom of Tyria," Bramzid muttered. An unspoken agreement seemed to cross the party, though the puzzled expression on my face might have given away my ignorance, for it was Tanar who filled me in.
"A rivaling kingdom of Alnam for trade over the main roads," Tanar explained, "Relationships aren't cordial, but they seldom descend into the madness of war."
"Seldom doesn't mean never," I pointed out, worried.
"A few battles, skirmishes at most, were fought decades ago," Thoradin grumbled. "It does not concern us. We do not bother with the squabbles of kings, we protect those in need from evil, regardless of whom they are sworn to serve...unless they've sworn to serve evil, of course, in which case their lives are forfeit."
The traveling took the better part of a week, even though we traveled lightly and without problems. Nobody would be so foolish as to catch the interest of the Vigilant Eyes of Helm, for we would be relentless in our duties.
We slept in barns and under the skies, took turns guarding the camp and prayed together at the break of dawn.
The first signs of the western border were the mountains, coming closer into our view, and standing taller than ever with their white peaks. A river gently rushed us by on our right flank, and the first village we stopped at had no knowledge that could aid us. We began our climb at a slower and steadier pace, avoiding the treacherously dangerous paths, and reaching the small temple of Helm that overlooked the immediate premises of the pass of the Western peaks.
That was the last known sight of the adventurers, as the temple's priest told us.
"An avalanche could have taken them all," Thoradin muttered, placing a hand over his beard in thought, gazing with his eyes at the top of the mountains, "but something is amiss. Something terrible is amiss." He knelt, his hand touching the stone of the temple's steps. "The temple, why do its very stones ooze sorrow?"
The priest blinked, and then furrowed his brows. "I'm sorry, honorable brother, but-but I don't understand."
Thoradin shook his head. "It is all right," he rose, his gauntlet dribbling with a light sheen of water. "It is a sign of the Watcher." The water dribbled down on the ground. "We will be examining the temple, brother," he eyed the priest. "Bramzid, keep guard outside," he added.
The rest of us silently stepped inside, the priest following us with a tranquil look. The temple's entrance was but a simple narrow hallway, with crude arrow-slits across its walls. It was quite normal for temple of Helms to be small fortresses, and when even that wasn't possible, they still would be made as difficult to assault as possible.
A few wooden benches stood pristine in front of the altar, a gauntlet polished and glowing clenching a blade rested on the altar, a holy relic of a past champion of Helm, perhaps.
Thoradin moved to the altar, while the other brothers began to split up, looking into the rooms to the left and the right. I glanced at the benches, and upon one, I noticed a few, small rectangular pieces of paper.
As I neared them, I furrowed my brows. They looked familiar. I flipped the first over, and my eyes widened. The Conjurer's face upon the card looked back at me, and as it did, something familiar began to settle within my head. A whispering voice began to speak up, like a soft murmur of an old crone barely audible in the temple itself.
This card tells of history. Knowledge of the ancient will I help you better understand your enemy. I see a dead village, drowned by a river, ruled by one who has brought great evil into the world.
"Brother, I-" I turned to look around, but Thoradin was no longer by the altar. Even the priest was missing. From the entrance of the temple, a white, unblemished fog was starting to snake in. My breathing hitched. I glanced down at the remaining cards, and hastily pulled them up in order.
This card tells of a powerful force for good and protection, a holy symbol of great hope. I see a Throne fit for a King.
They were familiar. I knew they were familiar, but I had no idea why. I knew they were important, but I couldn't remember why.
This is a card of power and strength. It tells of a weapon of vengeance: a sword of sunlight. Go to the mountains. Climb the white tower guarded by golden knights.
The voice that whispered, belonging to an old crone, an old woman, a seer perhaps of ancient blood. Why was it so familiar, and yet so incredibly hard to remember?
This card sheds light on one who will help you greatly in the battle against darkness. I see a fallen paladin of a fallen order of knights. He lingers like a ghost in a dead dragon's lair.
Was this my undertaking? Was this my trial? Was I truly ready for such a thing? Was this Helm's destiny, thrust upon my shoulders? The fog was drawing nearer, like a hungry tendril of an ancient and malevolent power seeking new prey to satisfy its hunger.
Your enemy is a creature of darkness, whose powers are beyond mortality. This card will lead you to him! Look to great heights. Find the beating heart of the castle. He waits nearby.
The fog crept closer still, but I held the five cards within my grasp and began to slowly walk backwards. My back touched the altar of Helm, my breathing eased as I felt a hand gently hold my back. The warmth of the hand soothed my spirit, the fogs hesitating ever so briefly.
I didn't remember much, but what I remembered, I knew terrified me beyond any ken of doubt, any shred of belief, beyond anything that I could ever possibly conceive.
I took deep, unsteady breaths as the hand remained on my back, neither pushing me forward, nor sheltering me.
My heart stopped beating erratically, my senses returned to me. I took one last, deep breath and then unsheathed my blade.
The Fog would not have me. The Mists would not claim me.
I would go to them, willingly.
"The Great Guard stands vigil!" I bellowed. "And though my soul may suffer, and my body break, I will hold vigil until my last breath! I am a Paladin of the Watcher! I am a blade of the Ever-Vigilant! I serve the God of Guardians, and no evil shall pass the threshold upon my watch!"
One last, deep breath.
Before the plunge into a twirling ocean of darkness.
Ravenloft beckoned.
It would find naught but holy water for its sharp canines.
There were five of us. Bramzid and Tanar, of Shalevale and Mountnar, were familiar to me. As they quickly clasped arms with me, I recognized them fully as the two paladins that had aided the village of Anwich in its time of need. Riding with us was an even taller figure, a half-orc wielding a large bastard sword on his back and a small buckler in its left arm. He smiled and widened both arms to welcome me in the company, making my armor creak slightly from his strength. He presented himself as Zevig, a hearty laugh in his chest and quite the strength in his arms.
The final one was a stocky dwarf, a bastion of dwarven might and resolute will. His eyes were the only thing that seemed to shine through the armor that encased him like a block of steel, and the sword and mace strapped to his hip glittered softly, especially when compared to the symbols of Helm that adorned every single part of his armor, topping it all off with the God's holy symbol safely secured around his neck. Thoradin Ironfist was his name, and his welcome was, while less warm, still equally pleased.
Bramzid and Tanar were traditional in the sense that they flawlessly mirrored whom I was, especially after my last trip to the quartermaster. All three of us had armor that covered our every nook and cranny, a single crimson plume atop our head and a purple mantle on our back signaling our status, and our rank. Our armors all shone as if they had been recently polished, and for as long as the magic within the steel would hold, they would never tarnish, nor corrode.
We brought the light of Helm in the darkest recesses of the world; we were his Paladins, and we would know no fear.
"We go as one, our Lord, the Ever-Vigilant guides us to where we are most needed," Thoradin gruffly remarked from his war pony. I trotted alongside the others, finding my place naturally near the back of the group. Bramzid and Tanar stood at its flanks, Zevig in the center of the group. The dwarf was as much of a paladin as he was a cleric of our God, and thus our unspoken leader.
"The Western border has giants on its mountain peaks," Zevig added, "Bramzid, Tanar, you think your shields will manage the feat of blocking a giant's swing?"
"Our arms are forged to carry Helm's will, they will hold if that is our God's wish, and if they break, then we will mend them as many times as it takes," Bramzid replied.
"Leave the brunt of the swings to us, and slice their ankles," Tanar said next, "Once they fall on their knees, aim for their necks."
"There are many kinds of giants in this world," I spoke. "What kind should we expect?"
"Giants of the hills inhabit the slopes, and some like to hurl rocks," Thoradin gruffly remarked. "Yet as much of a risk as they could possibly pose, they alone wouldn't be able to take care of an entire group of adventurers. At least one should have survived to bring back news."
"Beyond the western peaks lies the kingdom of Tyria," Bramzid muttered. An unspoken agreement seemed to cross the party, though the puzzled expression on my face might have given away my ignorance, for it was Tanar who filled me in.
"A rivaling kingdom of Alnam for trade over the main roads," Tanar explained, "Relationships aren't cordial, but they seldom descend into the madness of war."
"Seldom doesn't mean never," I pointed out, worried.
"A few battles, skirmishes at most, were fought decades ago," Thoradin grumbled. "It does not concern us. We do not bother with the squabbles of kings, we protect those in need from evil, regardless of whom they are sworn to serve...unless they've sworn to serve evil, of course, in which case their lives are forfeit."
The traveling took the better part of a week, even though we traveled lightly and without problems. Nobody would be so foolish as to catch the interest of the Vigilant Eyes of Helm, for we would be relentless in our duties.
We slept in barns and under the skies, took turns guarding the camp and prayed together at the break of dawn.
The first signs of the western border were the mountains, coming closer into our view, and standing taller than ever with their white peaks. A river gently rushed us by on our right flank, and the first village we stopped at had no knowledge that could aid us. We began our climb at a slower and steadier pace, avoiding the treacherously dangerous paths, and reaching the small temple of Helm that overlooked the immediate premises of the pass of the Western peaks.
That was the last known sight of the adventurers, as the temple's priest told us.
"An avalanche could have taken them all," Thoradin muttered, placing a hand over his beard in thought, gazing with his eyes at the top of the mountains, "but something is amiss. Something terrible is amiss." He knelt, his hand touching the stone of the temple's steps. "The temple, why do its very stones ooze sorrow?"
The priest blinked, and then furrowed his brows. "I'm sorry, honorable brother, but-but I don't understand."
Thoradin shook his head. "It is all right," he rose, his gauntlet dribbling with a light sheen of water. "It is a sign of the Watcher." The water dribbled down on the ground. "We will be examining the temple, brother," he eyed the priest. "Bramzid, keep guard outside," he added.
The rest of us silently stepped inside, the priest following us with a tranquil look. The temple's entrance was but a simple narrow hallway, with crude arrow-slits across its walls. It was quite normal for temple of Helms to be small fortresses, and when even that wasn't possible, they still would be made as difficult to assault as possible.
A few wooden benches stood pristine in front of the altar, a gauntlet polished and glowing clenching a blade rested on the altar, a holy relic of a past champion of Helm, perhaps.
Thoradin moved to the altar, while the other brothers began to split up, looking into the rooms to the left and the right. I glanced at the benches, and upon one, I noticed a few, small rectangular pieces of paper.
As I neared them, I furrowed my brows. They looked familiar. I flipped the first over, and my eyes widened. The Conjurer's face upon the card looked back at me, and as it did, something familiar began to settle within my head. A whispering voice began to speak up, like a soft murmur of an old crone barely audible in the temple itself.
This card tells of history. Knowledge of the ancient will I help you better understand your enemy. I see a dead village, drowned by a river, ruled by one who has brought great evil into the world.
"Brother, I-" I turned to look around, but Thoradin was no longer by the altar. Even the priest was missing. From the entrance of the temple, a white, unblemished fog was starting to snake in. My breathing hitched. I glanced down at the remaining cards, and hastily pulled them up in order.
This card tells of a powerful force for good and protection, a holy symbol of great hope. I see a Throne fit for a King.
They were familiar. I knew they were familiar, but I had no idea why. I knew they were important, but I couldn't remember why.
This is a card of power and strength. It tells of a weapon of vengeance: a sword of sunlight. Go to the mountains. Climb the white tower guarded by golden knights.
The voice that whispered, belonging to an old crone, an old woman, a seer perhaps of ancient blood. Why was it so familiar, and yet so incredibly hard to remember?
This card sheds light on one who will help you greatly in the battle against darkness. I see a fallen paladin of a fallen order of knights. He lingers like a ghost in a dead dragon's lair.
Was this my undertaking? Was this my trial? Was I truly ready for such a thing? Was this Helm's destiny, thrust upon my shoulders? The fog was drawing nearer, like a hungry tendril of an ancient and malevolent power seeking new prey to satisfy its hunger.
Your enemy is a creature of darkness, whose powers are beyond mortality. This card will lead you to him! Look to great heights. Find the beating heart of the castle. He waits nearby.
The fog crept closer still, but I held the five cards within my grasp and began to slowly walk backwards. My back touched the altar of Helm, my breathing eased as I felt a hand gently hold my back. The warmth of the hand soothed my spirit, the fogs hesitating ever so briefly.
I didn't remember much, but what I remembered, I knew terrified me beyond any ken of doubt, any shred of belief, beyond anything that I could ever possibly conceive.
I took deep, unsteady breaths as the hand remained on my back, neither pushing me forward, nor sheltering me.
My heart stopped beating erratically, my senses returned to me. I took one last, deep breath and then unsheathed my blade.
The Fog would not have me. The Mists would not claim me.
I would go to them, willingly.
"The Great Guard stands vigil!" I bellowed. "And though my soul may suffer, and my body break, I will hold vigil until my last breath! I am a Paladin of the Watcher! I am a blade of the Ever-Vigilant! I serve the God of Guardians, and no evil shall pass the threshold upon my watch!"
One last, deep breath.
Before the plunge into a twirling ocean of darkness.
Ravenloft beckoned.
It would find naught but holy water for its sharp canines.
Madou Sutegobana
Autocorrupt has been disabled.
- Location
- Twin Realms Mandala
No, Shade should keep it zipped. As Helm's Paladin, he has a greater power to Channel anyways!
TwistedJester
Tired Lurker King
- Location
- Hell
Was that a goddamn deck of many things?
- Location
- Canada
Nah, it was the (not)Gypsy Tarot deck from Barovia.
They already have had Paladins mucking about, things will just end up reset at the end anyhow because Ravenloft is A plane of stupid shit.
- Location
- United States
I'm shocked this isn't more popular. You have done such an amazing job to create a believable and epic Paladin in the DND Universe. I love this fic so much 
.
.
Ravenloft - Chapter One - Mount Ghakis/Tsolenka Pass
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Ravenloft - Chapter One - Mount Ghakis/Tsolenka Pass
The gravel crunched beneath my armored boots. The chilly winds bit into my face, the snow fell, obscuring my vision. The tree tops were my only guide, and even those were barely visible by the side of the road I was following down the mountainous path.
The shelf of rock on which the mountain road rested grew narrow. To my right, the icy cliffs rose sharply toward dark, rolling clouds. To my left, the ground fell away into a sea of fog, the tips of trees barely making way above it. Ahead, through the wind and snow, a high wall of black stone had an opening in the form of an archway, the statue of a knight standing guard over the top of one of the two towers, the other statue instead a crumbled remain.
The wind grew chiller, it bit into the fissures and the cracks of my armor as if it had a will of its own, a dangerous and foreboding warning not to go further, and yet the deadly mists slithered dangerously behind me, far more threatening than some cold air.
My steps brought me closer to the pass, my eyes taking a welcomed moment of respite as the archway and the walls provided some cover from the biting winds. Ahead, my heart briefly sunk into my chest at the sight of a lone rider standing in the middle of a long, narrow bridge across the crevice. I could not see what hid below the bridge, but I suspected that if the fog that blanketed the valley did not choke the life out of my lungs, then the lone rider would suffice.
The black-cloaked rider looked straight at me. The charcoal horse he rode on did not move, frozen seemingly in both time and space. The eyes of the rider looked hungry, and gleamed piercing through the snowstorm as if the snow and the weather could do nothing against it.
I tightened the grip on the handle of my blade and moved forward. I did not run, for the ground was thick with ice and snow, and I did not pause, less it became harder for me to start walking again. Every fiber of my being told me that I was not welcomed there. Every single ounce of my will went into taking one more step forward, for that was the will of my God, and also because that was the right thing to do. The warmth within my chest bubbled somberly, gingerly stretching and recoiling as I neared the silent figure.
"Proceed no further," the rider spoke from his horse. His voice was a guttural, feral warning. "You are not welcomed here."
I did not stop. My eyes locked with his briefly as I began to unsheathe my blade once in range of a swing, but the rider did not care about that. It arrogantly smirked, and dispersed into fine, grey flakes of dirty snow, leaving upon the ground only a few flecks of red.
I pushed through, my breathing steady.
The other side of the bridge was a welcomed vision, especially because a large fire seemed to crackle in front of a locked portcullis. I stopped in front of it, the flames green, haunted whispers reaching my ears from beyond the flames. A guard tower stood nearby, devoid of life. Atop it, stone statues rested in eternal vigilance.
Golden, unflinching statues.
Go to the mountains. Climb the white tower guarded by golden knights.
The whisper of the ancient crone reached my ears, carried by the howling winds. I stared at the door of the guard tower, and neared it carefully. I tried to open it, but the door refused to buckle. I slammed my shoulder against it. Again and again, I braced myself. With a powerful final push I shattered the door and made entry.
A cold hearth stood across from the door, the wind howling down its chimney. A stone staircase was on the south wall. Three windows looked out over a foggy sea, and the cold breeze followed me inside, even as I made my way up the staircase. The upper floor had a dire wolf's head mounted on the wall, cruelly stuffed and given a mockery of life with its jaws open and its teeth glimmering from long frozen humidity. The wind howled through its open mouth, louder than the real thing could ever be.
A rusted iron ladder led further up. My gauntlets tightened around the poles of the ladder, and as I climbed carefully I pried open the trap-door at the far end.
Ten-foot-tall, gold-plated statues stood atop the battlements, facing outward. I reached the last level of the guard tower and exhaled, the cold shimmering and intensifying painfully around me. Each one of the statues depicted a female human knight holding a lance. The cold wind stirred the snow upon the rooftop, revealing beneath it the glinting of white bones. White, human bones.
"I am here," I whispered.
The snowstorm became a thunderous gale.
The snowflakes coalesced, thrumming as ice and snow took the form of beautiful maidens, lithe women of crystal-like appearance. Their faces were deformed in hatred and malice, "Be gone!" they shrieked as one, their voices piercing my heart like daggers of ice. "You will not claim the blade!"
I did not need their blade.
I unsheathed my own, shield at the ready. Like a single mass of howling anger, the trio of ice-like specters poured towards me, ice fragments striking at my armor and slithering through whatever cracks they could find. My blade shone, slicing into the icy form of one as searing white-hot flames burned through the ice and melted her in a flash. The other two screamed, their fingers clawing and scraping, leaving gashes across the plate armor. I spun, my mantle fluttering, and the sharp swing bisected the second ghastly maiden in half, fluttering away in flecks of snow.
The final one's scream were naught but raucous curses by the time I pierced her chest with my blade, flames melting her from within into a puddle of water.
As if she had been the linchpin to some kind of powerful magic, a blast pulsed from the guard tower. The snow atop it broke and melted. The snowstorm's intensity diminished, the sky clearing that bit more needed to see clearly ahead. The fog did not part, but the sights of Barovia now were clearer to my eyes from the vantage point.
And in that moment, the sun pulsed and shone.
A miniature sun. A powerful, thrumming sun pulsed from the center of the guard tower's rooftop. It shone so brightly, I had to shield my eyes until the light disappeared, leaving behind upon the pristine stone floor a platinum hilt of a sword that had long since lost its blade. I neared it and carefully knelt in front of it, my fingers grabbing hold of it and pondering what it was.
I felt happy.
No.
I didn't feel happy. The blade felt happy.
My fingers tightened around the hilt, and the happiness radiating from it surged through my limb and my soul, where it met with the bubbling heat within me, and intertwined like some kind of tightly knit bond of fellowship. There were unspoken promises, there was sadness, and grief. There was determination and fierceness. The blade sought one thing, and within me, inside of me, she knew she would find someone willing to aid her.
Thus, she resonated. The blade pulsed into existence like a searing light, not a blade of flames, but of sunlight.
A louder, more powerful shriek rocked the guard tower. A storm cloud-no, a massive bird easily capable of dwarfing the sun plummeted down from the mountain top, its beady eyes centered on my form as with its massive wings, it flapped towards me.
The better part of valor would have me face it.
The smarter part of valor had me jump down the trapdoor, roll down the stone stairs, and then witness as the gargantuan creature all too easily crushed the guard tower with its talons, leaving deep gashes on the ground as it flapped its wings with even more strength, attempting to regain altitude.
Amidst the rubble of the guard tower, and the toppled golden statues, I quickly strapped the sword now lacking its sun-blade once more against my chest, securing it tightly before making a rush for the portcullis.
Seeing me run, the giant bird spun, eyes betraying its eagerness for fresh meat.
The flaming wall was still there. The green flames angrily hissed, their warmth becoming dangerously scorching the closer I got. I pushed my cloak to cover my face, and dashed straight through with a scream, the flames searing through my armor and biting at my flesh, even as the warmth within me soothed the wounds soon after. The creature's indignant cry came close behind me, and I briefly considered turning around to stare at it, when a sharp clank resounded.
There was a louder yet scream, but it seemed to be of pain, rather than thrill for a hunt.
It gave me pause. It gave me enough pause to turn, and stare at the sight of the creature that had attempted to make me its tasty treat for the day. The portcullis had fallen over its neck, and the flames were burning at its feathers.
It shrieked, attempting to free itself.
Its eyes were wide with fear and pain.
I swallowed. The platinum hilt strapped to my chest felt sad. It felt pity. Feeling my thoughts, it hoped. I knew what it wanted from me.
"We do not do what is easy," I whispered. "We do what is right."
From that side of the portcullis, I could see two giant statues of demon-like creatures standing guard. They seemed to be gleefully smiling at the scene, even through their rocky faces.
I neared the beast, whose eyes were now staring at mine. One of my hands raised, a soothing light left it. The massive thing shrieked wildly, even as it attempted to lunge free. The black wall refused to budge, the portcullis dug even deeper into the neck. Me nearing it did not make it rise once more.
My hand touched the creature's beak, and it stopped moving. It felt the energy touch through her, reach her sores and wounds, and temporarily it calmed the giant creature down.
"Now stay put," I said through gritted teeth as I pulled myself up on the massive creature's neck. This was foolishness. This was incredible, unquestionable foolishness. Both of my hands went to the portcullis' crude rusted irons, dug deep in the bleeding flesh of the creature, and past it I stared at the skin being seared alive by the greenish flames. "This is too much of a weight for you to bear alone," I muttered, both of my hands grabbing hold of the iron gate. "So let me bear some of it in your stead!"
With a squawk, and an indignant cry, the massive bird felt its neck free, and decided to pull away just as I lifted the portcullis with my teeth clenched, my arms sore and burning from the effort. I ended up bathing once more in the scorching flames, the bird flying backwards with a few powerful thrusts, making me lose my balance as I ended up once more near the bridge.
This time, below it, I could briefly see a river flow before I fell on my back, landing miserably on the cold ground. The bird flapped its wings and flew off, screaming all the while. Whether it was out of happiness for its newly found freedom, or because it was just lamenting the sorrowful state of its feathers, I had no idea.
What I did know was that the platinum hilt was happy about the state of affairs.
And I was happy too. I'd have to bath in scorching green flames for a third time, but it was worth it.
I was so happy, I did not notice the giant goat until it was too late.
If a freight train had existed, it would have been under the form of a massive grey-furred creature. It slammed into my sides, taking my feet off the ground and sending me to spiral in midair. If a goat's face could be a cruel parody of life, and also a haunting face of evil, then the goat in question would be all of that, and much more.
I sailed through the air, I sailed through the air like a broken doll, and I my arms flailed in a failed attempt to grab hold of something to hold on, but I didn't.
My back hit the surface of the river as if I had struck a wall. My breathing left my lungs as cold water replaced it. My vision blurred, but the warmth within me blazed like a miniature sun. I thrust my arms to my sides, my muscles burning as I managed to gasp for more air, chilly and frozen as it was.
My swimming was uncoordinated, my mantle weighed me down, my helm filled with water. The river's currents dragged me away, cruelly taunting me with the shore only to pull me further down.
I took a deep breath, the deepest I could, and then I plummeted down to the icy depths of the river.
My lungs burned as I trudged upon the mud-caked ground, finding soil I could walk upon and remains of bones, or probably other unlucky travelers kidnapped by the mists.
Finally, with one last, tremendous effort, I found air once more and with it the shore.
I collapsed, my legs trembling and water pouring out of my every crack, nook and cranny.
I was alive.
The platinum hilt was incredibly happy for that.
It was also incredibly angry at the goat.
I, too, shared that sentiment wholeheartedly.
The gravel crunched beneath my armored boots. The chilly winds bit into my face, the snow fell, obscuring my vision. The tree tops were my only guide, and even those were barely visible by the side of the road I was following down the mountainous path.
The shelf of rock on which the mountain road rested grew narrow. To my right, the icy cliffs rose sharply toward dark, rolling clouds. To my left, the ground fell away into a sea of fog, the tips of trees barely making way above it. Ahead, through the wind and snow, a high wall of black stone had an opening in the form of an archway, the statue of a knight standing guard over the top of one of the two towers, the other statue instead a crumbled remain.
The wind grew chiller, it bit into the fissures and the cracks of my armor as if it had a will of its own, a dangerous and foreboding warning not to go further, and yet the deadly mists slithered dangerously behind me, far more threatening than some cold air.
My steps brought me closer to the pass, my eyes taking a welcomed moment of respite as the archway and the walls provided some cover from the biting winds. Ahead, my heart briefly sunk into my chest at the sight of a lone rider standing in the middle of a long, narrow bridge across the crevice. I could not see what hid below the bridge, but I suspected that if the fog that blanketed the valley did not choke the life out of my lungs, then the lone rider would suffice.
The black-cloaked rider looked straight at me. The charcoal horse he rode on did not move, frozen seemingly in both time and space. The eyes of the rider looked hungry, and gleamed piercing through the snowstorm as if the snow and the weather could do nothing against it.
I tightened the grip on the handle of my blade and moved forward. I did not run, for the ground was thick with ice and snow, and I did not pause, less it became harder for me to start walking again. Every fiber of my being told me that I was not welcomed there. Every single ounce of my will went into taking one more step forward, for that was the will of my God, and also because that was the right thing to do. The warmth within my chest bubbled somberly, gingerly stretching and recoiling as I neared the silent figure.
"Proceed no further," the rider spoke from his horse. His voice was a guttural, feral warning. "You are not welcomed here."
I did not stop. My eyes locked with his briefly as I began to unsheathe my blade once in range of a swing, but the rider did not care about that. It arrogantly smirked, and dispersed into fine, grey flakes of dirty snow, leaving upon the ground only a few flecks of red.
I pushed through, my breathing steady.
The other side of the bridge was a welcomed vision, especially because a large fire seemed to crackle in front of a locked portcullis. I stopped in front of it, the flames green, haunted whispers reaching my ears from beyond the flames. A guard tower stood nearby, devoid of life. Atop it, stone statues rested in eternal vigilance.
Golden, unflinching statues.
Go to the mountains. Climb the white tower guarded by golden knights.
The whisper of the ancient crone reached my ears, carried by the howling winds. I stared at the door of the guard tower, and neared it carefully. I tried to open it, but the door refused to buckle. I slammed my shoulder against it. Again and again, I braced myself. With a powerful final push I shattered the door and made entry.
A cold hearth stood across from the door, the wind howling down its chimney. A stone staircase was on the south wall. Three windows looked out over a foggy sea, and the cold breeze followed me inside, even as I made my way up the staircase. The upper floor had a dire wolf's head mounted on the wall, cruelly stuffed and given a mockery of life with its jaws open and its teeth glimmering from long frozen humidity. The wind howled through its open mouth, louder than the real thing could ever be.
A rusted iron ladder led further up. My gauntlets tightened around the poles of the ladder, and as I climbed carefully I pried open the trap-door at the far end.
Ten-foot-tall, gold-plated statues stood atop the battlements, facing outward. I reached the last level of the guard tower and exhaled, the cold shimmering and intensifying painfully around me. Each one of the statues depicted a female human knight holding a lance. The cold wind stirred the snow upon the rooftop, revealing beneath it the glinting of white bones. White, human bones.
"I am here," I whispered.
The snowstorm became a thunderous gale.
The snowflakes coalesced, thrumming as ice and snow took the form of beautiful maidens, lithe women of crystal-like appearance. Their faces were deformed in hatred and malice, "Be gone!" they shrieked as one, their voices piercing my heart like daggers of ice. "You will not claim the blade!"
I did not need their blade.
I unsheathed my own, shield at the ready. Like a single mass of howling anger, the trio of ice-like specters poured towards me, ice fragments striking at my armor and slithering through whatever cracks they could find. My blade shone, slicing into the icy form of one as searing white-hot flames burned through the ice and melted her in a flash. The other two screamed, their fingers clawing and scraping, leaving gashes across the plate armor. I spun, my mantle fluttering, and the sharp swing bisected the second ghastly maiden in half, fluttering away in flecks of snow.
The final one's scream were naught but raucous curses by the time I pierced her chest with my blade, flames melting her from within into a puddle of water.
As if she had been the linchpin to some kind of powerful magic, a blast pulsed from the guard tower. The snow atop it broke and melted. The snowstorm's intensity diminished, the sky clearing that bit more needed to see clearly ahead. The fog did not part, but the sights of Barovia now were clearer to my eyes from the vantage point.
And in that moment, the sun pulsed and shone.
A miniature sun. A powerful, thrumming sun pulsed from the center of the guard tower's rooftop. It shone so brightly, I had to shield my eyes until the light disappeared, leaving behind upon the pristine stone floor a platinum hilt of a sword that had long since lost its blade. I neared it and carefully knelt in front of it, my fingers grabbing hold of it and pondering what it was.
I felt happy.
No.
I didn't feel happy. The blade felt happy.
My fingers tightened around the hilt, and the happiness radiating from it surged through my limb and my soul, where it met with the bubbling heat within me, and intertwined like some kind of tightly knit bond of fellowship. There were unspoken promises, there was sadness, and grief. There was determination and fierceness. The blade sought one thing, and within me, inside of me, she knew she would find someone willing to aid her.
Thus, she resonated. The blade pulsed into existence like a searing light, not a blade of flames, but of sunlight.
A louder, more powerful shriek rocked the guard tower. A storm cloud-no, a massive bird easily capable of dwarfing the sun plummeted down from the mountain top, its beady eyes centered on my form as with its massive wings, it flapped towards me.
The better part of valor would have me face it.
The smarter part of valor had me jump down the trapdoor, roll down the stone stairs, and then witness as the gargantuan creature all too easily crushed the guard tower with its talons, leaving deep gashes on the ground as it flapped its wings with even more strength, attempting to regain altitude.
Amidst the rubble of the guard tower, and the toppled golden statues, I quickly strapped the sword now lacking its sun-blade once more against my chest, securing it tightly before making a rush for the portcullis.
Seeing me run, the giant bird spun, eyes betraying its eagerness for fresh meat.
The flaming wall was still there. The green flames angrily hissed, their warmth becoming dangerously scorching the closer I got. I pushed my cloak to cover my face, and dashed straight through with a scream, the flames searing through my armor and biting at my flesh, even as the warmth within me soothed the wounds soon after. The creature's indignant cry came close behind me, and I briefly considered turning around to stare at it, when a sharp clank resounded.
There was a louder yet scream, but it seemed to be of pain, rather than thrill for a hunt.
It gave me pause. It gave me enough pause to turn, and stare at the sight of the creature that had attempted to make me its tasty treat for the day. The portcullis had fallen over its neck, and the flames were burning at its feathers.
It shrieked, attempting to free itself.
Its eyes were wide with fear and pain.
I swallowed. The platinum hilt strapped to my chest felt sad. It felt pity. Feeling my thoughts, it hoped. I knew what it wanted from me.
"We do not do what is easy," I whispered. "We do what is right."
From that side of the portcullis, I could see two giant statues of demon-like creatures standing guard. They seemed to be gleefully smiling at the scene, even through their rocky faces.
I neared the beast, whose eyes were now staring at mine. One of my hands raised, a soothing light left it. The massive thing shrieked wildly, even as it attempted to lunge free. The black wall refused to budge, the portcullis dug even deeper into the neck. Me nearing it did not make it rise once more.
My hand touched the creature's beak, and it stopped moving. It felt the energy touch through her, reach her sores and wounds, and temporarily it calmed the giant creature down.
"Now stay put," I said through gritted teeth as I pulled myself up on the massive creature's neck. This was foolishness. This was incredible, unquestionable foolishness. Both of my hands went to the portcullis' crude rusted irons, dug deep in the bleeding flesh of the creature, and past it I stared at the skin being seared alive by the greenish flames. "This is too much of a weight for you to bear alone," I muttered, both of my hands grabbing hold of the iron gate. "So let me bear some of it in your stead!"
With a squawk, and an indignant cry, the massive bird felt its neck free, and decided to pull away just as I lifted the portcullis with my teeth clenched, my arms sore and burning from the effort. I ended up bathing once more in the scorching flames, the bird flying backwards with a few powerful thrusts, making me lose my balance as I ended up once more near the bridge.
This time, below it, I could briefly see a river flow before I fell on my back, landing miserably on the cold ground. The bird flapped its wings and flew off, screaming all the while. Whether it was out of happiness for its newly found freedom, or because it was just lamenting the sorrowful state of its feathers, I had no idea.
What I did know was that the platinum hilt was happy about the state of affairs.
And I was happy too. I'd have to bath in scorching green flames for a third time, but it was worth it.
I was so happy, I did not notice the giant goat until it was too late.
If a freight train had existed, it would have been under the form of a massive grey-furred creature. It slammed into my sides, taking my feet off the ground and sending me to spiral in midair. If a goat's face could be a cruel parody of life, and also a haunting face of evil, then the goat in question would be all of that, and much more.
I sailed through the air, I sailed through the air like a broken doll, and I my arms flailed in a failed attempt to grab hold of something to hold on, but I didn't.
My back hit the surface of the river as if I had struck a wall. My breathing left my lungs as cold water replaced it. My vision blurred, but the warmth within me blazed like a miniature sun. I thrust my arms to my sides, my muscles burning as I managed to gasp for more air, chilly and frozen as it was.
My swimming was uncoordinated, my mantle weighed me down, my helm filled with water. The river's currents dragged me away, cruelly taunting me with the shore only to pull me further down.
I took a deep breath, the deepest I could, and then I plummeted down to the icy depths of the river.
My lungs burned as I trudged upon the mud-caked ground, finding soil I could walk upon and remains of bones, or probably other unlucky travelers kidnapped by the mists.
Finally, with one last, tremendous effort, I found air once more and with it the shore.
I collapsed, my legs trembling and water pouring out of my every crack, nook and cranny.
I was alive.
The platinum hilt was incredibly happy for that.
It was also incredibly angry at the goat.
I, too, shared that sentiment wholeheartedly.
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- Location
- Canada
You cheater Shade. Grabbing the sunblade immediately.
Now you're basically a wrecking ball towards anything undead.
Now you're basically a wrecking ball towards anything undead.