IoK Session 12 – ACT I Conclusions

“Damn it, Talanic… I don’t know what she’s talking about!”

Remenik was red.  The exasperation and fatigue shown through him with every breath, shining as a crimson furnace, and like a furnace… his lungs weezed and huffed like bellows feeding the flame.

“Remenik… This attack was more than just staking claim to their turf.  That elf called you out.  If you know nothing of this ‘Entropy Engine’, then why does she know of you?”

Astride his marbled mare, Talanic looked down on Remenik.  The older dwarf was struggling to mount his horse, and his frustration was evident.  Nothing in Talanic’s gaze offered support.  He simply watched, impatient.  Even enjoying the vantage of speaking to Remenik from his high horse.

Giving up on the mount, Remenik threw the reins over the saddle and started walking.  It was meant more as a gesture to Talanik.  An attempt to take control over his situation, but his limping gait betrayed the need for a mount.  Remenik would never make it far on foot, and though he did his best to not let his aching knee get the better of him, his direction was simply to find Jacob or Colm in order to gain the assistance he sorely needed.

As he hobbled toward the other dwarves, he could feel the weight of their situation pressing down on him.  On all of them.  His knee hurt, and he believed it was due to the burden that Ironsbane once carried for him.

Approaching the stretcher, Remenik gestured to the Srylian priestess.  Hsyrolno knelt near the old smith.  In one hand, she held a wooden cup full of a pungent poultice.  The other applied it to the dwarf’s wounds.  Slow and methodical, she worked with a patience and calm that was desperately needed amongst the caravan… as if her actions could heal the body of the smith while mending the spirits of the miners.  Alongside her, ZzyZzyk searched through the collection of herbs and vials.  Whatever he was looking for eluded him. 

“This one cannot quench his fever, Keymeister.  The master smith will need more than blessings and salves.”

Hsyrolno didn’t not pause from her actions or look at Remenik while speaking.  The application of her poultice itself seemed a ritual which she would not stray from. 

Remenik regarded the pale smith for a long moment.  These two healers have done everything within their power, both within the realms of medicine and magic.  It was an infection which would kill Ironsbane, not Nevil’s knife.  Were they in Forgen, the proper Dranite cures would be within ease of reach.  Infection and disease were the devils of the battlefield, a far greater danger than any dagger or arrow.  They didn’t just kill their victim… they poisoned the spirit of those around them.  There was no greater pain than watching your own die slowly, powerless to stop it.  Gar’s strength, Armin’s speed, Colm’s faith, and Mip’s spirit.  Even Ket with the luck of a hynid could not steal Ironsbane from his fate. 

But perhaps ZzyZzyk could.  Like the Dranites, ZzyZzyk’s knowledge of healing may be able to sway death’s grasp. 

With the help of Jacob, Remenik was able to finally get a leg over the saddle and unburden his knee.  A last long look at Ironsbane, then he pulled the reigns and returned to the side of Nine Hammers.

“Talanik… we need to send the scouts south.  Mip and Ket spotted skindancers watching the fight in the forest.  I believe it was they that chased off the Maji, not us.  That wyvern we saw was no coincidence… I believe it may have been a servant of their tribe.  A band of seven skindancers is a rare thing, and for them to take an interest in our activities should not be taken lightly.”

“After such an attack, we can’t afford to send off our guards!  Let the old smith rest and the Srylian do their job.”

Bolan Nine Hammers had joined his father’s side during Remenik’s absence.  With Ironsbane incapacitated, Bolan had taken over command of the mining expedition.  Being the elder son, Talanic had naturally wanted to see Bolan step into leadership.  It didn’t take long to see how his ill temper and contempt for the working class gnawed at the morale of the caravan.

“Bolan, we can’t let our master smith die.  You have months of mining ahead of you.  Norgart is nursing a wound himself, meaning you have no one to work a forge.  How long do you think our tools will last in the forest?  How did do you think you’ll get with no repairs?”

It was a cold way to address the threat on Ironsbane’s health, but it was at least one that Bolan could agree with. 

“Send the scouts south to find the medicine ZzyZzyk is seeking.  The Northwinds can defend us once we have set up camp.”

Talanik eyed the Keymeister, but didn’t speak.  As they both sat atop their horses, the high ground had been lost and the senior Nine Hammers waited for his son to address the matter.

“Fine.  Let them go, but if the golyn attack while they are away, I’ll hold you responsible.”

With a nod, Remenik heeled his horse and turned to leave.  The scouts would seek out the skindancers, and they best leave immediately. 

IoK Session 11 - Broken Anvil

The fog sprung up around the center of the caravan, a manifestation of the hynid's recent dabbling into shamanism.  Jacob felt a shiver as the mist climbed from his boots to his waistcoat.  Soon, he found it hard to see the golyn swarming through the forest.  'This was a gamble' he thought, knowing that Ket's enchantment would obscure the Nine Hammer family from archers... all of them, friend or foe.  He couldn't see much further than his grasp, leaving his pistol nothing more than a crude cudgel.  Dark shapes could still be observed near the closest trees.  He recognized Drauk Northwind, hunkered down and directing his crew along the golyn's flank.  Hsyrolno and Ket stayed behind him and low, attempting to secret themselves amongst the rolling curtains of mist. 

Of comfort was the cherry incense of Yugrim Ironsbane's pipe.  Like the forge he worked, the elder smith smoldered of fruit and tobacco smoke at all hours of the day.  The steady glow of his pipe's ember shown through the fog like a lighthouse along a darkened shore.  Sanctuary amongst the rocks. 

"Steady, Jacob.  Keep low and use the mounts as cover.  Remember what we discussed... it's Armin's job to protect the merchants, not yours."

With a nod, Jacob let Remenik know he understood.  His teacher was focused on the skies.  The mist may have blocked out the forest, but the brightness of the noon day sun could still be seen above.  Like an eclipse, the dark shape of the dafan and it's rider cast its shadow upon the caravan.

"I thought golyn didn't like the sun.  Why are they attacking in broad daylight?  And what of the drums?"

Jacob found himself speaking too loudly, as if he thought the mist would muffle his voice as well as his vision.  Perhaps it was the steady echo of gunfire from the sappers, convincing him to speak up.

"Golyn attack when they are told, and it seems their master told them..."

It was now Remenik's time to shout.  Jacob saw the flash and the blazing streak of fire descend.  This is what the Keymeister had been waiting for.  With the leadership of the caravan positioned tightly together, an elemental blast from an arcanists would take them all out.  He planned on this and told the Nine Hammer's family to stay close, much to the frustration of Benjamin and Drauk.  'Give the golyn 'shaman' the opportunity to show her cards.' he had said.  True to form, Remenik's prediction came true.

Raising his outstretched hand skyward, his ring of the Great Clockwork flashed as he completed the countering equation.  As the fireball approached, it was met by a shockwave from the Keymeister.  The force of it disrupting the elemental magicks, shattering the spell to nothing but glowing trails of light which gave the fog an amber glow.

In that moment, Jacob observed a glint of steel.  Though the fog was thick and he couldn't be certain, it seemed that Nevil, the Nine Hammer's dirt slave, was brandishing a weapon.  Standing beside Ironsbane, even this slight dock worker was preparing for a fight.

The shapes to the south continued to charge through the forest.  Jacob thought of the shadow puppet shows he would frequent as a child.  Dramatic stories of heroes facing off against monsters and demons.  In these stories, the heroes were knights and noble warriors.  They would save the fair maiden from being kidnapped by hobok and flatland savages.  Watching the silhouettes before him, he smiled as he thought of how these stories would be told.  Of how dwarven soldiers fought the golyn raiders.  A brave Darian swordsman charges to their side, and as he faces the massive hynn axeman... this is where the story changes.  Gar was a beast, but he was a loyal one.  Much of his blood had been spilled in this forest, and still his shadow charged into the rain of arrows. 

"Volimak's down.  Pull back!"

Culnen's heavy Forgen accent echoed across the forest.  The shadow knights were facing too many shadow monsters.  Still, Jacob held his ground.  This was not his place in the story.

Ironsbane's voice pulled Jacob back to the mists.

"The volleys have stopped.  We need to regroup.  Priestess, dismiss your fog!"

The Ninehammers clan seemed to have taken no injuries.  Jacob heard Rolak and Bolan's sharp voices.  The two brothers bickered often, and the subject now seemed to be about who would have to ride the wounded mare.  Talanic stood near Remenik and inquired as to the nature of the dafan rider.

"That is no golyn, Keymeister.  What are we dealing with?"

"Her magic is powerful.  That ball of fire was fueled with old energies... Elemental and strong.  No Talanic, this is no golyn."

"Then why is she just sitting there?"

His voice was calm, but Jacob could sense that the senior Nine Hammers was concerned.  As a merchant prince, Talanic had a reputation for seeing the angles.  Finding the opportunity when others were still assessing the problem.  If Talanic didn't already know the answer, then Jacob wouldn't figure it out.

A howl tore through the forest.  Pain and anger like he had never heard.  That was the voice of Gar, and something awful must have struck him.  Earlier, he had witnessed Drauk take a direct hit from an arrow.  A one-in-a-million head shot which would have taken down anyone not wearing a heavy Forgen helm.  A sniper was in the forest, and Jacob's gut sank as he wondered if Gar would prove the value of wearing a helmet.

The shadow of the dafan moved, and Jacob saw the sun again.  It flew overtop of the caravan and to the north.  The shadows on that side of the fog, which had not been dismissed despite Ironsbane's demand, were of Benjamin and Felsyrlus, the Jerule.  Benjamin released arrow after arrow skyward, looking for the lucky shot that would pierce the enchantment shielding the dafan rider.  Coupled with the musket balls of Drauk's longrifle, the shaman was under constant fire.

"Yugrim... what should we do?  How do we stop this rider?"

The question went unanswered.  Jacob could see the shadow of Ironsbane standing but 10' away, but he saw no ember.  The smell of cherry and tobacco had faded, leaving nothing but smokepowder and the damp of the mist.  Yugrim's shadow stood motionless as Jacob saw a glint of steel grow from the back of the dwarven silhouette.  Saw Nevil's shadow step out of Yugrim's.  Saw the dwarf fall to the forest floor.

"NO!"  The shout escaping Jacob's lips without thought or fully understanding what he had witnessed.  Rushing forward, he caught sight of Nevil as the mist parted enough for shadow puppets to became people again.  His hand was bloodied and clutching a kitchen knife.  He smiled at Jacob before darting away and out of the mist.

"Remenik!  Nevil stabbed Ironsbane!"

The world of mist and shadows swirled around Jacob.  He held his hand over the chasm of Yugrim's waistcoat, pressing upon the wound but unable to slow the wash of deep crimson that was flowing across the once impeccable vest. 

A clawed hand grasp Jacob by the shoulder and pulled him aside.  ZzyZzyk, the srylian medicine man, had firmly pushed him back while Hsyrolno chanted in the slick tongue of the lizardfolk.  Jacob couldn't tell if it was the pale mist that colored Yugrim Ironsbane or encroaching death that had drained all of the fire from the mastersmith's face. 

More pistol shots and clashing metal brought Jacob's mind back to Nevil.  The dirt slave had run north.  With heavy limbs, he rushed forward and across the fog.

"I did what you asked!  Take me with you!"

Parting through the edge of the enchanted fog, Jacob saw Nevil reaching towards the rider of a great winged lizard.  A dafan as he had heard Remenik call it.  A beautiful predator, the beast had the slick scales of a snake or lizard.  Its limbs were slender and delicate, ending in small grasping claws to simple to serve as weapons.  The head, near the size of a horse, resembled the great lizards of the Wraith Isles.  Ancient and powerful, a set of brilliant  sharp teeth shone as its serpent tongue licked the air.  Most astonishing was its wings.  Like a dragonfly, an iridescent blur which kept the dafan and rider hovering ominously just above the ground. 

And set between the dragonfly wings was a Darmic elf.  Dressed in green silks and gold ornamentation, she held a slender longsword in one hand and the reigns of the dafan in the other.  This was not a shaman, but a Maji.

The jerule rushed forward in rage, gripping his axe in both hands.  As he lifted the weapon to strike the rider, she swung her blade faster.  From it escaped a frozen wind, grasping the lizardman in an icy grip and holding him fast.

"Take me from here... quickly, I beg you!"

Nevel pleaded before the maji, desperate for escape. 

"Did you kill the smith?"

The question was calm and simple.  The wings of the dafan shielding her from the divine blades of Rikus the younger keymeister, Colm, had been attempting to smite her with. 

"Yes! Yes!  I cut him deep.  He never suspected me, now please!  I need to escape!"

"...and you will."

With that, the dafan lunged forward.  It's jaws unhinging as a serpent before a mouse, snatching Nevil between its perfect teeth.

"Tell that fat architect to stay away from this.  The Entropy Engine will never be his."

A wind stirred the leaves beneath the maji as they ascended away from the dwarven caravan.  Jacob could still hear Nevil's screams as the dafan held tight, still dodging Colm's divine blades.

Drauk rushed out from the mist, raising his rifle skyward. 

"He took Nevil, Drauk!  We need to stop her!"

Drauk aimed, the maji squared neatly amongst his scope's crosshairs.  Taking a deep breath, he paused and centered his fingertip on the trigger.  He didn't take the shot though.  Too many musket balls had been wasted on this same image held in the rifle's scope.  Instead, he shifted his aim and completed the trigger pull.

The round rocketed towards Nevil, striking him cleanly in the skull.  The screaming ceased as the dafan flew north and out of range of the Rikian blades.  Having no more use for the dead dirt slave, the dafan dropped him.  His body falling to the entangled vines still grasping the wounded and dying golyn archers to the north.

Jacob watched the dafan fly north, in the direction of the Vernfal Mountains.  Nearly all of the golyn lie dying.  To the south, he could still hear some kind of fight.  It was only a few though and he was certain the scouts could handle it. 

In the mist, he could see numerous shadows kneeling around the broken smith.  A sad puppet show, all shadows and no heroes to be seen.

But then another, more frightening thought emerged.  Jacob could still hear the drums.  In the distance, the same beating which had been heard before the first arrow landed.  Its rhythm having never changed, signaling that this story wasn't over.

Iok Session 10 – Ambushed

‘Smoke and Fire’.  If you asked what flowed through the heart and lungs of a Forgen Sapper, he would stand tall and proclaim ‘Smoke and Fire’.  Days like today are where such a motto are born.

The scent of black powder was heavy in the still air, leaving an eye-high haze around The Northwinds mercenaries. 

“On your left!”

Drauk Northwind kept a tree to his right, its trunk taking the brunt of the Golyn volleys.  Moving behind him and east, Volimak and Culnen took their positions to the left of their commander.  Pistols flared and angry musket balls tore through the haze.  Sometimes, the ball would strike true… black blood polluting the forest floor.  Most of the time, the shot blasted tree bark from the still mountain pines.  A forest is a difficult place for direct fire combat.

Monitoring the south of the mule train, Drauk counted at least a dozen archers.  They launched volleys at the miners, allowing for the arching angle to account for the lack of a clear shot.  He knew that the miners carried no shields.  He had lost that argument when it came to accounting for inventory.  Shields did not dig mines, move stone, or support shafts.  Bolan reminded him that it was the job of the Northwinds and the rag tag group of half-breeds to address direct threats.  If they couldn’t stop a couple Golyn archers from killing miners, what were they paying them for?

“Keep low and stop the archers.  Let the axmen approach.”

The tactic was to take out the present threat… the axe wielding golyn warriors appeared to be without a ranged weapon.  They needed to close before they would become a threat. 

From the corner of his eye, Drauk saw the priestess rush to the brush behind him.  The hynid was with her.  Seemed the little beast had taken a liking to the lizardwomen.  Unlike the miners, this was added support… not responsibility.  Reaching to the earth, Drauk heard the Srylian tongue of the ancients call out for aid.  A vast field of vines and entangling brush erupted from the ground, halting many of the rushing axmen.  Very useful.  To the north, the half-beast scouts were employing the same tactic.  Locking down half of their foot soldiers greatly evened the odds, which until now had been largely in the golyn’s favor.

With the hynid watching over the priestess and the jerule and Covalian pirate watching the Nine Hammers, Drauk was free to focus his attention on the southern wave of archers.  To the north, he saw as the hynn and the Traton merchant guard rushed their attackers.  Amongst the golyn archers was a massive creature wielding a long hafted war axe.  Not another ogre, but just as bad.  Back in Drauk’s army days, they called such a creature a ‘Grudger’.  Seemed the golyn shamans knew much about how to breed their own, and this was a creature bred for war.  Gar, the massive hynn, charged past and directly into the swarm of golyn archers.  He would take a beating for that… a hynn is a powerful thing, but for every swing of his axe the golyn would take a dozen stabs at him.  Drauk would have to have a word with this young beast once the smoke cleared… teach him some tactics.

The guard seemed to be in his element.  Better defense and faster than the hynn.  Also, lucky… the grudger had found itself tangled up in the srylian’s vine-field.  This didn’t stop such a brute, but did slow it down.  Made it’s swings awkward and slow.  The guard positioned himself at the edge of the srylian magic, forcing the grudger to stay within or risk dropping its defenses for an opportunistic stab.  Clever.

Drauk drew his powder-horn and reloaded his long rifle.  He needed steady aim to cut through the trees and brush.  The archers were also taking cover, and pistols just weren’t cutting it here.

To the east, the flatlander had wandered into the trap.  Drauk had seen the baiting goyln before the battle began, mostly because the goyln wanted to be seen.  It had ducked behind a tree and waited for the wagon train to send a scout.  This was classic and fortunately the flatlander managed to avoid falling into the hidden spike pit.  The maneuver is a win-win situation for the ambusher… you dig a spike pit in the path of a caravan.  For the bait, you want a minor threat.  Something you wouldn’t send more than a scout or two to recon.  As they approach, they fall into the trap and you take out a scout.  Immediately after, you trigger the pincer and attack from the flanks with your main army.  If the scouts don’t see the bait, then the caravan stumbles into the pit instead.  This usually takes out the lead horses.  Same effect of stopping the caravan, but costs the raiders more as you typically lose a horse or two.

The flatlander was still tied up with this one golyn and separated from the main fight.  Drauk frowned.  These scouts don’t seem to fight as one unit, each attempting to be a hero in their own spotlight. 

“Change tactics… need to approach round the vine-field.  Take out the archers.  Stay close and cover each other against any axmen that break free.”

The other sappers moved as one, staying within each other’s primary pistol range.  They followed along the cover of the trees, saving their load for a clear shot.  Hammer in their offhand should they need to face a golyn directly.  Drauk used his rifle to cover them, picking off the open golyn as they drew their bows.

Behind him, the jerule charged to the west and rear of the caravan.  Past the cowering miners, desperate to find cover from the rain of arrows.  They could have been carrying the damn shields this whole time.

Shifting so as to see to his right, Drauk caught glimpse of a previously unseen band of axmen descend upon the hobok and the other srylian druid.  Another vine-field was laid down, but perhaps too late.  The ax wielding butchers charged through the field and attacked the hobok. 

Drauk caught Shipworth eyeing the scene.  Till now, he had been standing guard over the Nine Hammers... the last guard.  The Jerule had rushed to protect his own, leaving only the pirate remaining.  To the head of the mule train, Skinner and Nutcatcher were doing their best to calm the animals.  Seemed Skinner had already dispatched the baiting golyn with a pistol shot, but otherwise these two were too occupied with the mules to be of any further use.

Shaking his head and attempting to catch Shipworth's eye, Drauk willed him not to leave his post.  The pirate seemed not to see or not to care.  Drawing his bow, he moved to rear of the caravan. 

Quick evaluation of the scene… Drauk saw that he had soldiers at all key directions, but they were widely spread.  No one was in the center, and that is where the asset was.  The Nine Hammers family and the senior Keymeister.  Old Ironsbane drew his blade and took a stance, but the smith hadn’t swung it in anger since before Drauk had a beard.  Several of the miners had taken superficial wounds as had the dirt slave, Nevil.  The young darian cried out when Shipworth left his side, and Drauk could see a wide-eyed panic beginning to set in.

Though he had heard the whistle, he wasn’t fast enough to react.  Drauk’s head snapped back and struck the bark of the tree.  He heard the crack of both his nose and the shaft of the arrow that had struck his helmet.  Recovering, blood now pooled into his mustache.  Had he not been wearing a helm, that shot would have been a career ender.  Dropping his visor to shield against the next, he scanned the treeline.  This was a professional that had just entered play.  Looking skyward, he sought out the tree tops for the hidden sniper.

What he saw was not his anticipated hidden archer though.  Silhouetted against the clear blue sky was the shape of a mounted rider atop a flyng lizard.  Not a wyvern, something obscure and foreign to these woods.  With the sun at its back, it was near impossible to make out detail, the rider held still... calm.  At its own pace, it observed the violence below.

If this was the shaman, then the Nine Hammers expedition was in a vulnerable state.  The flying beast could pass quickly over their line and into the caravan center.  If it was an arcanist, it could rain fire down upon them in the manner of the Rikians.  A summoner had clear view in order to conjure some evil.  Even a simple well trained archer could end the Nine Hammer's patriarch.

The options were endless, and Drauk still had to find his sniper.  Raising his rifle, he decided to shoot the sun and bear his heart to the next arrow from the shadows.  If it held fire, may the next arrow burn before he died.

IoK Session 9

It’s an unfamiliar feeling.  You know that what you are doing is innately wrong, while at the same time it is the most natural thing there is.  I find it amazing that I’ve never experienced this before. 

Well… that’s not entirely true.  I found a dead cat several years back.  The skinny thing looked as though it had been washed up from the city sewer and lived just long enough to drag its way to our back steps.  When I found it, the flies had already set upon the cat’s hide.  Horrid little things, but again… natural.  It’s what flies did, they ate the dead.  Their children, the little white maggots, they ate the dead as well.  I watched this cycle of life for a few mornings… checking on the cat each day before heading down to the wharf.  There was a peace to it, to watching the once living cat now nourish a lesser generation of life.  With one cat’s death, dozens of flies birthed hundreds of maggots.  If there had been enough time, I imagine the maggots could have grown, morphed to flies, and began the cycle again on the same dead cat. 

To the flies, this dead cat must have been the world.  The source of all their basic needs.  The center of their existence for the duration of their little lives.  They mined it for sustenance, they hid amongst its matted fur for shelter, and they protected it from other vermin much like nations warring over hills and fields.

Then one day, I grew bored.  While the sun was still low and the air still chill, I scooped the dead cat into a crate and walked it down to the wharf.  The flies buzzed angrily around my head.  The maggots clung to the cat’s fur in desperation.  Some dropped through the crate and onto the pier.  Exposed to the rising sun, they would shrivel and die without the protection of the stinking animal corpse.  I stood for a moment at the edge of dock, sea water gently lapping the wooden posts at my feet.  I stood long enough to watch the flies settle above the cat again.  To watch the maggots crawl from the crate back to the corpse.  Gave them just enough time to return to the gentle patterns of the meaningless existence, then I dumped the crate into the sea.

I watched as the fish devoured the maggots.  The cat floated for a bit, before some large fish snagged it dragged it under the waves and with it, the world of the flies.

I felt like a god.

Slaughtering the swine, I felt that same sensation of power and righteous judgment flow through me again.  It was more visceral this time, more ‘real’.  The blood made the knife slick, but it also felt warm.  The knife felt alive, like it had stolen the essence of the swine and taken some within itself.

I was a merciful god, and ended the swine quickly… though not that I wanted to.  The dwarven kitchen master was watching, judging me.  I wish he would have left me alone so I could have enjoyed the pig’s sacrifice.  It was an injustice to the animal not to appreciate its death.  Just as it would be a waste to feed this ‘world’ to those abominations returning from the forest.

This collection of man-beasts was a never ending source of amusement to the mountain folk.  The swapped stories while intoxicating themselves.  What a tedious existence… awaken just to drink yourself into a stupor.  Move this rock from here over to there… chop down this tree, split this wood, drag it to the pit, light it on fire.  Repeat.

Benjamin understood my frustration.  Perhaps it was because he also grew up on the docks… he knew what it was like to labor for others, gaining little but survival for yourself.  Knowing that your efforts were not your own, but to ensure that some fat merchant would be able to wipe his ass with the finest silks this evening.  All while you entertain yourself watching a dead cat rot.

The scouts returned and the camp rejoiced, and this pig died… just so that the dwarves could celebrate the ability of upright animals to successfully live in the forest.  Is that an actual deed for a man-wolf… is anyone surprised that the flatland savage didn’t die when he slept in the woods?  Maggots don’t die when they crawl about the cat’s flesh… they thrive.  Nobody threw a feast for the maggots though.

I threw the maggots in the water.  I threw them to the fish.  If the maggots and flies survived the fish, then they’ve earned a celebration.  I would slaughter a pig for the first maggot that crawled back from the sea and returned to my doorstep.

If the dwarves want something to celebrate, let’s throw them to the fish.  Cheer any who swim home.

 

 

Game note – The party has had 1 week of down time back at the miner’s camp.  This has allowed for full healing and anxiety reduction.  Also, the party received several rewards for a successful scouting mission.  After the week of down time, the camp has been packed up and the party is beginning to move to the cleared grid identified by the scouts.  Once there, they will reassemble camp and begin to survey the mountain side to identify a mining site.

At start of game, party will be in marching order moving through the previously scouted forest.

IoK Session 8

"They have returned, priestess.  We should join the others to greet them."

Lifting the tent flaps, the Jerule looked out at the gathering crowd.  All activity in the makeshift camp had ceased to hear word of the scouts. 

"This one knows.  The wind has whispered to me.  They will bring words of great forests and of fallen creatures.  Of hungry wolves and of lost children of a betrayed mother."

With those last words, Felsyrlus saw his daughter frown.  She had a kind heart and a soft spot for all of nature.  It was a weakness that he did his best to shield her from, the isles were ruled by warriors and hunters.  They rarely concerned themselves with the feelings of a young srylian.

"Come when you are ready, the dwarves of nine hammers will expect you."

With that, he stepped into the sun and let the flaps close behind him.  It was warm today, sunny.  A good sign for the scouts to return this day. 

Approaching the gathering, the wave of Forgen tongue flowed over him.  A crude language with no subtlety or music.  Hard consonants crushed through oversized teeth.  The dwarves used their tongue for little more than tasting fermented grasses.  He had to concentrate to focus on Fardal's report, attempting to listen to the dwarves anxious report over the cacophony of the others.

_____

"So the hobok and the flatlander, they are riding bears... bare back bear-riding while bearing their bear-skin cloaks!" 

Fardal shouted over the others, reveling in the attention and excitement of the crowd.  Standing on a stump, he raised himself above the others.

"They carry pelts from the wolves they've slain, and skulls from the golyn they've defeated.  The hynn, caked in the blood of his enemies, bears a necklace of golyn ears around his thick neck!"

Mugs raised high at the stories of triumph... all but one.  Benjamin Shipworth stood at the back, a grimace on his lips as he counted out silver.  Drauk Northwind demanding payment in full, it seemed their wager had expanded since its initial agreement.  Fardel took pleasure in this simple expression, never really fond of Bolan's enforcer.

"Best of all, they left none behind.  What are the chances that seven would enter the great unknown of the Hammerfell mountains, defeat an army of golyn, fend off savage creatures, and come back with new mounts and fur cloaks... By the look of them, they are fatter as well.  If only to be a woodland scout and not have to suffer anymore of Eland's 'Tuesday Specials' "

With this, the dwarves laughed and cheered.  Eland himself, enjoyed the jest... heckling Fardal's preference for Deltan cuisine. 

"That's enough, Fardal.  Save something for the scouts themselves... I'm sure they will be happy to swap stories."

Yurgrim Ironsbane smiled up at the young dwarf, motioning for him to step down and end his show.  As Fardal descended, he whispered to Yurgrim.

'Do you think the golyn followed them?  I heard that they didn't find their nest."

"Go join the others, Fardal.  We'll worry about the mining site later"

Ironsbane held his smile until Fardal reached the frowning face of his uncle.  Reaching for his pipe and pondering Fardal's question, the old dwarf looked back into the woods.  Turning, he approached Drauk Northwind.

"Could you double your patrols for a while?  Just long enough for us to get packed up for the journey east."

IoK Session 7

An anvil is a heavy thing.  Not too big, but dense and unforgiving.  It resists motion, time, heat and cold.  It does not bend to the smith's hammer.  It doesn't care about politics.  Left alone, it will outlive them all.  The birth of an anvil requires crucible conditions of fire and will.  Despite all the good that an anvil can bring to a village, it is birthed in hell. 

"Set that over there you two.  Careful, we only have the one."

"What do you mean 'careful'?  It's not like you can hurt the damn thing!" 

Orgren's arms strained under the load of Ironsbane's anvil.  Despite Norgart's assistance, he was rather sure that all of the real weight was on his end cart.

"You can hurt an anvil... I've seen them crack when dropped.  Just like anything else, they break when under enough strain."

Ironsbane was only half paying attention to the two sweating dwarves.  Relighting his pipe, he puffed and perused the reports from Remenik.  The parchment was small and filled to the edges with near perfect lines of geonomic script.  Even at his advanced age, the keymeister kept a steady hand. 

"Master Ironsbane... Will this work?"

Orgren made a face that hid none of his disdain for Norgart's obedience.  A young dwarf from a good family, Norgart was loyal to a fault to his teacher.  Orgren chalked it up to inexperience... he'd worked with Ironsbane for years and knew the old dwarf cared little for titles.  Much like the anvil, Ironsbane was a singular being. 

"That will do Norgart.  Orgren, why don't the two of you take a break.  Grab some food and meet me back here in an hour." 

Ironsbane turned to head back to the camp.  He didn't wait for a reply, which was his usual manner.  The order had been given.  No further discussion was necessary. 

"Come on, Norgart.  Eland has some bread cooking and I could use a drink."

Norgart dutifully followed... seemed the boy would listen to any authority.  Would get him in trouble one day.

As they approached the mess tent, Orgren extended a meaty hand to halt Norgart's path.

"Hold up boy... It looks like the tent is occupied." 

Three dwarves and a darian sat at the table.  Laughter could be heard from the group, but it was not the company Orgren wished to keep.

"So they should be just about done clearing the mining site."

His Covalian accent was easy to recognize in the camp.  Benjamin Shipworth spoke with the heavy tongue of a dockworker.  Hardy people, but difficult to find an honest one.  Comes with being lied to most of your life... you learn to lie in return.

"They are.  The keymeister's contacts suggest that the scouts took one of those Golyn alive.  This one seemed smart enough to understand his fate, and provided a little info for a clean death.  Good thing too... seemed the hynn was intent on feeding the creature its own entrails.  His own had to hold him off while the merchant guard ended it.  That's the right thing to do... the damn man-beast would have gone and got himself sick had he manhandled the golyn."

Drauk Northwind took a long draft of his cup and paused to lock eyes with Orgren.

"You gonna stand there eye-balling me, miner?  Make yourself useful and fetch another pitcher from the kitchen bitch, would ya?"

Drauk shook his empty cup in the air... waiting for his refill.

"Ignore him, Norgart.  They're just talk.  Wouldn't dare try anything as long as Ironsbane holds their coin."

The two dwarves approached the tables at the opposite end of the tent.  Orgren grabbed a pitcher of water and filled two cups.  They sat in silence and drank, waiting for the others to continue their conversation.

After a long moment, Drauk laughed.  He tossed his empty cup to Culnen, who took it and his own back to the kitchen for a refill.

"So as I was saying... they are nearly done.  Sounds like The Northwinds will continue to grow fat and bored here.  I hope this sorry excuse for beer holds out."

Benjamin eyed his own cup for a moment, then looked east to the mountains.

"They're not out of their yet.  I have a silver says they come back missing one of their own."

Reaching into his belt, his tossed a tarnished raven to the table.  It rolled for a moment before landing, the two headed symbol for the Twin Raven bank locking gaze with Drauk.

"I'll take that wager.  I believe they can handle a few golyn.  Beside, they have the right balance for a squad of scouts."

He drew his own coin and showed it to Benjamin.

"They have a local flatlander with them.  We traveled down the river with the odd fellow.  Seemed to know his way around these parts, so that's to their advantage.  Plus they got themselves a hynid.  Those little vermin might not seem like much, but I tell you they're good luck."

To prove his point, Drauk drew his pistol.  A well crafted piece with a notable accessory... hanging from a brass chain was a shriveled paw, clasping a ruby genik. 

"This little fellow tried to steal from me... many years back.  So I taught him a lesson about thieves.  Before I could take his other hand, he managed to escape his cage and dart into the woods.  Mad as I was, I couldn't find the little rascal.  Figure I would keep the souvenir... some day I may need to escape something and could use the same fortune."

Holstering the pistol, Drauk laid the coin on the table.

"The forest won't kill the flatlander.  If they get hurt, they have the srylian witch doctor with them.  Old Rememik is pumping tap into the ether to aid his young apprentice, so they have Rikus watching over them.  The others know how to fight.  They've already fought off a band of golyn, so what else is out there to kill them?"

"Well... they got wolves out there.  And bear... Nutcatcher has seen bear tracks.  Why, they could get eaten by wyverns.  What if there was a glass cat following them... or what about a plains tunneler?  They eat flatlanders all the time.  Or it could be a..."

Drauk shot Volimak a look, the same one that always instructed the big dwarf to stop talking.  He did, but Drauk could tell he was still listing off the hundred possible predators, lips still moving.  The next couple months would be rough for Volimak.  He'd never really liked the forest.

"No, Volimak.  They'll live.  They'll come back with a wyvern stinger just to prove how well they can handle the forest.  Don't you worry your ridiculous oversized head about such things."

Volimak looked back to his cup, holding it with both hands.

"Nutcatcher said there was bear out here"... he mumbled into his beer.

Orgren had been listening and thought about the anvil.  No matter how tough you thought something was, sometimes bad things happened.  It was true and he had seen it... anvils break, sometimes from just hitting it the wrong way. 

IoK Session 6

“What was that?”

Armin whispered the words to himself, knowing that Cranic couldn’t understand him.  It was just enough that the hobok heard him speak, as well as just enough time to react to the sound cutting through the night sky.

It was the glint from the campfire that warned Armin.  The arrowheads were steel, unblackened, unlike their fletching.  Armin wheeled from his seat on the hillside and let the arrows clatter to the stone.  Looking to Cranic, an unspoken exchange was enough to trigger action. 

“Wake up!  Damn it…”  Armin fumbled at his belt, fingers grasping for his whistle.  With a deep breath, the shrill sound was sure to wake the camp.

The hynid was the first to stir.  Not truly asleep yet, Ket stood the high ground and looked out at the fields around them.  If they were to be attacked, they were in an excellent position.  Their camp stood on a stone mound, steep walls surrounding them.  Looking to the few shallow paths up the hillside, Ket confirmed that his snares were still hidden and waiting.  Ears perked, eyes wide, he took in all that his high ground allowed.  Most importantly, he saw that his tribe was awake.

Colm rose from his tent and stepped away, back to the fire.  With dwarven acuity, his eyes drank in the darkness.  Figures moved up the western path.  More golyn… the nasty creatures of his childhood, skulking out from under his bed and out of his closet.  There were many of them, and the hilltop guard would soon be outnumbered.  He needed reinforcements, and set his chalk and mind to summoning them.  Ancient glyphs, drawn in the hilltop, aligned to the stars… help would arrive soon.

From the trees near the cliff side, Cranic loosed an arrow at the approaching golyn.  First black blood had been spilled.  Beneath the tree, Gar charged past and to the north… taking position at the primary entrance to the hilltop.  Behind him and up the hill, the flatland totemist tapped into forgotten magicks and ancient creatures.  Manifesting a spiked tail, Mip launched a volley of his own back at the golyn.

The golyn, now positioned along the western banks, returned in kind.  A black arrow struck Gar in the shoulder, but didn’t strike deep.  Just enough to make him keenly aware of the approaching swordsmen.  Closing fast to his position was a stranger dressed in dark leathers.  He appeared human, but something was off.  His skin was pale and there was an odd smell to him.  Dank, and sick, though his agile movements and speed suggested no such weakness.  Gar planted his feet and prepared for the fight. 

A howl could be heard from the nearby trees, and a wolf rushed past the chanting Srylian.  The band of scouts had learned not to question where these loyal beasts came from, as long as they came at ZzyZzyk’s summon.  The wolf joined the band of steaming rats now crawling from the arcane portal of the Great Clockwork.  Colm’s request for aid had been granted, and the magical menagerie of creatures set to attacking the invaders.

More arrows, now of many fletchings.  The night sky was streaked by arrows reflecting the light of the camp.  A lantern now made the situation clear.  There were golyn at either side of the hill… a pincer attack designed to split the scouts in two.  The party returned fire and postioned themselves along the hills steep borders.

It was then that Colm saw and remember an awful truth.  The golyn around them would care little about the hilltop.  Though it offered them greater range and a height advantage, the golyn were a mountain race.  They climbed steep stones from the day they hatch, and the loose rocks and sloping walls would only make life difficult for the scouting party.  Coupled with their better night vision, they were in a rough position.

Darkness may be a lost advantage, but cover still existed.  Ket took this opportunity to move in and strike the leaders from behind.  It appears that the majority of the golyn were rushing the hillside in a direct assault.  He would descend the along the north, out of sight of the golyn, and use his size to sneak along the mountain brush.  Footing was more difficult than anticipated though, and the 3 days of rain had left the hillside slick with mud.  Key picked himself up and felt grateful that his fall had been concealed from the others.  At least it bought him distance. 

 Back on the hilltop, Gar finally faced off with the approaching warrior.  With full intent, he swung the massive axe in a wide arc… claiming the narrow path to the camp.  The dark warrior was quick and dodge the blow.  His footwork and expertise with his short swords suggested an experienced combatant.  Gar would be tested this night.  He would also be outnumbered as the warrior was supported by the leechling golyn… stunted creatures carrying long spears.  A nuisance, but in the proper position they offered their warrior an advantage which Gar did not have.

Down at the base of the hill, the summoned creatures defended the scouts.  Rats, owls, wolves, all of nature fought the abominations.  An arrow nearly missed Armin.  Another was dodged by the flatlander, but then the arrows ceased.  The animals were doing their job.  Just in time too, as to the west the new threat began to mount the hill. 

The scouts had not encountered their like before.  They had thought golyn weak and cowardly, but the creatures that scaled the hill were the golyn who stood against the dwarves.  Shield and axe.  Armor and teeth.  Muscle and grim desire, and with them was something stranger still.  An intense figure dressed in rags and a mask.  Obviously golyn, but something more and sinister.  This one didn’t move, didn’t speak.  Raising a hand to the sky, it pulled the darkness down upon the hilltop. 

Armin, being human, was the first to notice.  The fire still crackled near the camp, but only the heat remained.  The fire itself offered little light, little assurance.  Even his untouched lantern seemed to struggle against a malevolent dark will. 

And then they came.  The golyn butchers charged the hill.  It was Colm who suffered the first wave.  Axe battering against his armor, the blows hammering his breastplate as if it still reddened under the smith’s blows. 

As the hilltop rang with steel, it was dark and quiet to the north.  As hynid do, Ket crept behind the lines.  While his eyes and ears assured him that he had not been seen, his heart beat otherwise.  It was the silent shaman that Ket was after.  The one who brought the darkness.  Was this the one that had enslaved the ogre, Gorp?  Did this ragged creature possess such powers that it could control an ogre through fear alone? 

But the most important question to Ket’s heart… was it mortal?  Would it bleed black like the others, or would Ket soon come to understand the ogre’s fear?

Too fast… Gar swung the axe, the warrior dodge.  Gar parried, and positioned, but the warrior’s blades found the gaps in the armor.  All the while distracted by a stunted little creature with a spear, Gar could not land the blow he needed.  Just one… that’s all it ever took in the past, but Gar had never fought anyone like this before.  That thought was driven home when the warrior checked Gar’s elbow… he had swung too wide and had left himself open.  The warrior slipped in behind the swing, and drove a blade deep into Gar’s exposed right side.  Just as quickly, the blade withdrew with a sickly slick sound.  The axe swung round in another deadly arc, but wide and slow.  The warrior dodged again and swept the hynn’s leg, slicing his calf.  The wounded leg now unable to support the rounding weight of the great axe, Gar was thrown off balance.  A final stab from the dark warrior… Gar struck the ground hard.  As his skull crashed amongst the hilltop stones, the world went black.  Black as those eyes that had defeated him, and then silence.

Mip and Cranic turned just in time to see Gar fall.  The dark warrior wasted no time on the hynn, moving steadfast towards the camp.  Dropping from his perch, Cranic abandoned his bow and drew his axe.  With any luck, Gar had at least wounded the warrior.  Mip saw no such wounds as he unleashed another barrage of beastly spikes from his totem empowerments.  Why was this human with the Golyn, and what would it take to stop the being that just defeated a hynn?  Readying his spear, Mip assumed it would take more than just tribal magic.  Just as the summoned animals below were returning from whence they came, the fight was now down to sticks and stones.

Armin fought with steel.  As the golyn climbed the hill, he maneuvered so as to force them into the wolf snares hidden amongst the mountain scrub.  Working with Colm, they kept the creatures at the edge of the hillside.  Still, there were many.  In Traton, they taught the Merchant Guard to be mindful of their surroundings.  To use terrain and speed instead of heavy armor.  Most importantly, they taught Armin to watch his back.  While the heavy golyn butchers charged the hill, the leechlings and their longspears proded and poked… They seemed little concerned with accuracy or striking true.  Their focus was to distract and offer advantage to their larger breathren.  Too many times Colm and Armin found themselves in precarious positions.  Thank Rikus for the traps, as in time it seemed the golyn managed to stumble upon every one of them.  With that, there was little left to do but clean up.

One of the axe welding golyn managed to get past the traps and successfully into camp.  It was here that ZzyZzyk was holding ground.  As the srylian’s viper struck out at the golyn’s leg, ZzyZzyk took the opportunity to cast a net at his assailant.  Whether it was the preternatural dark or the nonstop rain, the golyn avoided the net and lashed out with its axe.  The swung missed his hide by inches.  If he could hold out, the venom would have time to travel from the creature’s leg to its heart, but minutes seemed like hours tonight.

Cranik swung and missed.  Slashed and failed.  The dark warrior stabbed into his leather breastplate, piercing just enough to draw blood.  In his distraction, the leechling to his rear stuck the hobok in the leg.  He was surrounded, but knew that this he needed to keep the human distracted.  Gar still appeared to be breathing, he just needed to buy time for ZzyZzyk or Colm to aid him.  Mip was moving in behind him with his spear, perhaps they could draw the human into their own flanking postion.

Colm found himself flanked, and suffered a stab from a leechling longspear.  Even stuck in the snares, these creatures were dangerous.  It was easy to overlook the little ones, but this wasn’t were the true fight was.  Ignoring the leechling, Colm calculated the leylines and breached the veil… drawing a Rikian blade from the other side.  With its own righteous will, he set it upon the human to the east.

To the west, it was time for a decision.  Ket steadied his breathing and drew his blade.  Mustering his courage, he charged from the brush.  The ragged golyn never saw him coming… lost in concentration.  Ket bounded over rocks and scrub, and struck at the shaman.  The knife stabbed into the rags… and struck air.  Between the dark and wind, he had missed.  The masked golyn turned with wide eyes and it was then that Ket realized all wasn’t a failure.  He had the creatures full and undivided attention now.  The golyn drew his own wicked looking dagger, and prepared to take out the sneaking hynid.

Steel… Armin’s scimitars whirled about him, slashing at the golyn shields.  Parrying the golyn axes.  Despite his intent, the butchers focused on Colm.  It wasn’t difficult to see why… the forgen keymeister was summoning aid.  Armin imagined that the tactician behind this attack understood magic.  The shaman had likely instructed the golyn to take out the arcanists of the group.  They were unpredictable and could foul the plan.  The swords were simple by comparison.  The Merchant Guard had taught the same tactics… you never give a Maji time to breath, else you may find yourself ensorcered.  Armin would focus on eliminating the threat to ZzyZzyk and Colm, then find this shaman.

Too fast…

The human warrior more leather and brandished a short sword in each hand.  His speed was unnatural.  Elves moved like this, not humans.  Something was enhancing his skills.  These thoughts passed through Cranic’s mind as he desperately tried to hold off the assault.  Looking to Gar, he wondered for how much longer he could.  It was then that he noticed the flaming blade behind the dark warrior.  He’d seen it before and recognized Colm’s faith.  Cranic would have to learn of this Rikus one day.

Behind him, the flatlander was entangled with a golyn who had scaled the south hillside.  With no distractions from the summoners, the remaining raiders were free to rush the camp.  These creatures were not skilled fighters.  They displayed a penchant for simple tactics.  Cranic heard a crack as the warclub struck Mip’s chest.  The armor took the brunt of the blow, but the club struck hard and Mip’s pain shown on his face.  It was a luck, not skill though.  As Mip adjusted and steered his longspear, Cranic judged that he could hold his own.

At the base of the hill, another single circle took place.  Separate from the rest of the hilltop battle, Ket and the masked golyn circled each other.  Quick stabs as each attempted to find the weakspot in the other’s defense.  The golyn was backing to the hillside in an obvious attempt to reach the rest of his party.  Ket knew he couldn’t let it have a moment to collect its thoughts.  Who knows what new darkness it could bring forth?

Colm and Armin were finally getting the better of their attackers.  The snares had helped break their formation.  While Colm directed the magic blade to aid Cranic, he dodged the blows of the golyn axmen before him.  Positioning himself so as to offer advantage to Armin, who would then finish their assault.  In a moment of inspiration, Armin managed to slay two of the beasts in quick succession.  Peering down the hillside, he saw the single stand-off between Ket and the masked figure.  Seizing the moment and his momentum, he slide down the hillside and into a flanking position opposite of the hynid.  Fear could be seen through the eye slits of the mask as the sole remaining golyn knew he was finished.

ZzyZzyk and his viper had ended the remaining golyn butcher and looked to aid Mip and the east hillside.  Few golyn remained with several being held by the wolf snares.  It appeared that the raider’s assault was broken, but the dark warrior pressed on.  To ZzyZzyk’s relief, the lamplight showed a stream of bright red across the human’s chest.  Cranic had landed at least one solid blow, proving the creature fully human after all.  Still, there was less human blood than hynn on the hilltop stones.  As quick as a Srylian can navigate dry earth, he rushed to Gar’s aid… medicine bag in hand.  With him came Colm, who no longer suffered the barrage of axe and spear and could himself focus for a moment.

Cranic had pulled back and now stood beside Mip.  The two of them attempting to hold the human warrior at bay.  The glowing Rikian blade tortured the warrior from all angles, disrupting his onslaught.  He appeared fatigued now and ready to break.  Cranic took a final swing, scraping across the black leather as the human fled.

Two days ago, the scouts had allowed a golyn to spot them and flee.  It was an unfortunate series of events that led to the discovery of the wolf snares.  Though the snares end-up as a boon, the fleeing scout is what must have triggered the hunting party that attacked the scout camp.  Mip, determined that there would be no fleeing informants today, launched a deadly and final barrage of spikes.  The spirit of his ancestors guiding them to the fleeing warrior.  The human collapsed, sending stones cascading down the hillside path.  Then silence.

The sound of steel and shield replaced by a final prayer to Rikus, one of mercy.  In Gar’s dream, he saw his tribe.  He saw hynn running free along the great plains, hunting antelope and feeling the heat of the summer sun.  Looking to the sky, the sun was radiant.  A ball of white glory, which shown down upon all with light and just rule.  The sun brightened and Gar shielded his eyes.  Then darkness, and cold, and wet.  He opened his eyes again to feel the May rains.  To the constant damp and cold of the Hammerfell mountains, and the smell of smoke and bronze coming from the dwarf crouched over him.  A silver pendent of sword and scales in his hand.

All around them lie broken bodies and pools of black.  With cold efficiency, the scouts ended the struggles of the injured and trapped.  Save one… the masked golyn.  ZzyZzyk ensured he lived, while binding him tight with a lash of rope.  What secrets would lie under that mask?