Whom the gods would destroy...

[valadaar]

"Until you strike out against someone.  So long as you conduct yourself peacefully, and do not run into counter-magic, you should be fine.  Avoid other wizards or other smart people, for such have a chance to see through the veil."

[Murometz]

[ooc]Late evening. Kyrian has infravision.[/ooc]

Dam Camp

The camp lay sprawled over the course of about two hundred yards, beside the drying river bank, and a mere hundred yards from the elephantine dam. Impressive in size, for no good reason other the wild expanse of flat ground available here, the camp seemed quiet now; whatever revelry had gone on earlier was over. Few figures, if any, could be seen inside the proper camp.

The first thing Kyrian noticed was a great bonfire, though it seemed to be waning now, lighting up the center of the area, the smell of roasted meat strong in the air. Smaller fires, here and there, were also ebbing now. The ogres were nowhere to be seen, no doubt asleep by now Kyrian thought, noticing huge, empty wine jugs, courtesy of the Von Hellen estates, littering the campsite everywhere he looked. The ogres were apparently sleeping inside huge billowing tents, six tents in all, Kyrian counted, covered in hides of exotic beasts. From the top of each tent-pole a limp black banner hung, each depicting the ogre clan’s apparent symbol, a crimson chain, coiled around a gray mountain.

Beside the huge ogre tents, Kyrian counted man-made (and sized) pavilions, twenty three in all, gently flapping in the evening breeze. Each one white, and bearing a painted shield design, a plain black tower on purple background. Behind the pavilions, twenty-four horses, seven of them impressive looking, barded, war-steeds, were tethered. As far away as possible from the ogres, Kyrian allowed himself a smile.

As for the evening watch, Kyrian counted eight human guards, clad in mail head to toe, two each at the northern, eastern (near the horses and men), southern, and western edge of the camp (near the ogres tents, beside the river bed). Pole-torches planted in the ground, lighted their lines of sight.

Most disturbing of all perhaps was that the mailed watchmen, were not alone in their night vigil. Kyrian could make out a revolting, four-legged creature, as large as the largest dog, a savage-looking hyaenodon in spiked collar, patrolling the grounds around the ogre tents, stopping to sniff the air intermittently, or bending its beast-head down to devour some beef-bone with its wide, bone-crushing jaws. It was apparent now to Kyrian, why the ogres themselves had no representatives on watch duty.

All in all, it was a pompous display of a campsite, for a small force whose sole mission seemed to be baby-sitting a dam. But if a noble was in charge here, it made somewhat more sense.

Kyrian could spy neither ogre nor human commander from his vantage point, nor much of anything else, a hundred fifty yards from camp, and coming up from the south. A closer inspection seemed now in order.

The hyaenodon could prove irksome Kyrian thought, as he quickly planned his next move.

[Aerex Matare]

Aerex pulled the box from his back and nocked an arrow.  "Whereabouts?" he asked, scanning the horizon.

[Murometz]

Even as Aerex asked he made out the approaching riders himself. Seven in all, riding in a wide arc, so that passing them was not possible on the trail without veering into a maze of pine-trees in either direction.

A rag tag bunch, Aerex noticed as they neared, mostly men, two women, a dwarf, wearing a court jester’s hat and carrying an axe across his lap as he rode.

“Beggin yur pardon mi’lords, but there be war hereabouts, and honest men turn to thievery, goodfolk turn to self-prezervashun’ if you take my meaning. My name is Sweetcloak, and these are my companions by necessity, the Court Jester, Pockmarked Maryel, Egmont , Unger, Poor Wil, and Queenie.

“I will not beat the bushes. We mean to lighten your load, as you travel these dangerous byways. Surely your horse barding, your coin o’course, that nice armor of yours ser baldy, maybe even that huge sword--” he grinned at Quorridge who began turning ten different shades of red.

“I am Lord Otto Quorridge simpleton! I would arrest the lot of you, if I had time, steer clear, or be run down!”

"How fortunate for us then, eh, a lord with no guards in tow. Now, now, that is no way to speak to the smallfolk, mi’lord. We’re all struggling to survive, you see, too much coin was taxed for the war effort. No bloodshed is necessary, if you would but kindly give us all that belongs to you. Now that I think about it, we could use your horses too. Good weather we’re having this early spring, I’m sure mi’lord could walk wherever he is heading” The man called Sweetcloak grinned again.

“The gall—“Quorridge began, his bald head looking like a ripe tomato about to burst, “You are no poor farmers, no put-upon toilers, but petty highway thieves!”

“Nevertheless---“Sweeetcloak answered soothingly, “Your coin and possessions, sword included, or the court jester here will have to add a notch to his axe.”

“You’ll have none of it, ‘cept the sword!” Lord Quorridge shouted then, and spurred forward his spotted mare, as he unsheathed his great blade in one smooth motion and bore down on Sweetcloak, whose grin turned to scowl, as he raised his hand-crossbow to shoot the charging knight.

[ooc]Initiative roll for 7 bandits, [blockquote]Rolled 1d10 : 6, total 6[/blockquote][/ooc]

[Aerex Matare]

"Not so sweet to me, Sourcloak," Aerex replied sharply at his introduction.  He considered more witty repartee, but figured it would be best to couple the (relatively weak) insult with a blow.  As Sweetcloak raised his crossbow, Aerex's own bow came up to loose an arrow at the foe.
[ooc]Initiative roll: [blockquote]Rolled 1d10 : 10, total 10[/blockquote][/ooc]

[Siren no Orakio]

With little more he could do to help the others for the moment, Adan simply did what came most naturally. He knelt, and he prayed. He prayed for Lord Trigu and Lady Alys to help the elf find the rhin of the land here, and to dispose them well to ridding themselves of this abominable creation of the ogres, and driving off the invaders. Amen.

[Murometz]

Matare

[ooc] Bandits win initiative.(16:12:43) ChatBot: Murometz rolls 1d20 and gets 14.
(16:12:51) ChatBot: Murometz rolls 1d20 and gets 17.
(16:13:01) ChatBot: Murometz rolls 4d20 and gets 20,12,11,16.[/ooc]



Twenty yards, a dead-on shot for Aerex with his fine new bow and his particular knack with it. But a mere half-second before Aerex let loose, Sweetcloak fired his smallish crossbow at the charging Quorridge. The bolt grazed Otto’s mailed shoulder, and careened harmlessly away (14)

Everything happened at once. Sweetcloak’s companions, mounted on their nags and garrons, proceeded to attack as well.

The one called Queenie, notched a short-bow of her own (though no master-work weapon), and fired swiftly in Aerex’ direction. At first Aerex thought she had missed, but seconds later could feel warm blood running down his arm. She had shredded a bit of shoulder with her shot, but the projectile didn’t stick nor wound too deeply. The pain was immediate but bearable.  (17(+2))

The dwarf called the Court Jester, fired a hand-axe at Quorridge with blinding speed, and the weapon struck home, somehow finding a crease in the armor. The axe-blade remained stuck deep in Quorridge’s thigh as he rode by the dwarf, intent on Sweetcloak. The Court Jester rose up in his saddle, to his full four foot height and whooped and hollered, another throwing axe already in hand. As he shook, the bells on his jester’s hat jingled. A psychotic, to be sure. (20)

Unger and Egmont, brothers by the looks of them, wheeled their horses hesitantly and aiming while doing so, each fired throwing knives, both at Lord Quorridge. The knife missed Quorridge by a few feet at least, as the old knight bore down on the bandit-leader. Aerex winced, as the other blade sailed by him, having also missed it mark. (12, 11)

Pockmarked Maryel, who was aptly named, and whose nose featured a nauseating, shadow-casting wart, threw a javelin at Quorridge, but the missile glanced off the mail, just as Sweetcloak’s bolt had moments earlier. (16).

Finally there was Poor Wil, but he did not attack, no. He just looked nervous and feigned attack with his short sword, while keeping his bony garron from actually approaching either the run-away Quorridge or the ever-alert Aerex, who was already notching another arrow, before even knowing if the first had hit its mark.

Quorridge for his part took his time getting there, but once there, struck like a thunderbolt, sending Sweetcloak toppling from his horse with a hit from his gruesome blade, blood spurting in all directions, as he dropped. The bandit’s mount reared and bolted at that moment, leaving the somehow barely still alive Sweetcloak squirming on the ground, his arm nearly severed at the shoulder-blade.

[ooc]Aerex, you take 5 dam from Queenie's arrow. Quorridge took 6 dam from court jester's axe. Sweetcloak took 13 dam from Q's mighty blade. Also, Aerex, need a hit roll from you. If you hit, Sweetcloak could be dead! You get bonus +2/+2 to hit/dam, because you face Bandits, your sworn enemies, your chosen foes! Before next initiative I will roll bandits morale  [/ooc]

[Aerex Matare]

[ooc]Attack roll:[blockquote]Rolled 1d20+5 : 10 + 5, total 15[/blockquote]
Damage:[blockquote]Rolled 1d6+2 : 2 + 2, total 4[/blockquote][/ooc]

[Murometz]

[ooc]4 is enough to kill Sweetcloak. The bandits fail morale.[/ooc]

Suddenly, Sweetcloak stopped squirming, an arrow shaft sticking out from his forehead. This was too much (and too sudden) for the bandit-leader's compatriots. Wheeling their mounts in various directions, as suddenly as they had attacked, they now sought escape.

Quorridge turned this way and that, but did not select a retreating target, instead reaching down and yanking the court-jester's hand-axe from his own thigh with a grunt.

[ooc]Aerex' move. Can do anything. Can fire bow at anyone at additonal +2 because they are fleeing.[/ooc]

[Aerex Matare]

Grim-faced, Aerex picked another target and aimed.  He knew there was no real chance of bringing the highwaymen to justice, but he could perhaps decrease their effectiveness as a threat.  He judged the unhinged Jester to be the most dangerous; the others would probably disperse with their leader dead, but the dwarf would likely continue his attacks driven by insanity.  Keeping the horse still, he launched his missile at the jingling bells of the jester's cap.
[ooc]Attack roll:[blockquote]Rolled 1d20+7 : 10 + 7, total 17[/blockquote]
Damage:[blockquote]Rolled 1d6+2 : 3 + 2, total 5[/blockquote][/ooc]

[Murometz]

"Yeeee-ooowwww!" came a howl from the dwarf, as his stout pony prepared to bolt. Aerex struck the diminutive hellion between the shoulder blades, and now the infuriated jester turned his confused mount back toward Aerex, to fire a hand-axe, before wheeling yet again, to truly attempt escape this time, and outride any arrows that would come.

The rest of the thieves were scattering, no two in the same direction.

Lord Quorridge trotted back toward Aerex. His eyes peeled on the crazed dwarf, who was now some distance away. Lord Quorridge seemed unwilling to give chase, as if both his and his spotted mare's stamina was spent from their first charge. He still held his blade aloft, defiantly, daring the jester to ride closer and engage. But the jester was in great pain and wasnt having it.

The grimy hand-axe came hurtling toward Aerex....

[Murometz]

[ooc]Rolled 1d20 : 12, total 12 Jester missed Aerex with axe[/ooc]

[ooc]You can fire away again now if you like  [/ooc]

[Aerex Matare]

Aerex tucked his head to the side, allowing the axe to miss by a comfortable margin.  He drew another arrow and raised his bow, this time feeling the bite of his own wound as he did.  The adrenaline had numbed him from the hurt for a few moments, but he figured it would only be another minute or so before the hot pain came pouring back in.  Hopefully, it would be time enough.  He aimed for but a moment before loosing the second arrow at the crazed dwarf.

[ooc]Attack roll:[blockquote]Rolled 1d20+5 : 5 + 5, total 10[/blockquote]
Damage:[blockquote]Rolled 1d6+2 : 5 + 2, total 7[/blockquote][/ooc]

[Murometz]

[ooc]That actually hit thanks to your bonuses and the fact that the court jester has low dex and wears a cotton, human child’s nightshirt for armor. 7 is enough to kill him.[/ooc]

This time the arrow pierced the dwarf’s throat, and the court jester, though no court would have him, went hurtling from his pony, his jester’s cap flying, and crashed to the ground dead.

“Well done” said Lord Quorridge evenly, as he sidled up to Aerex’ palfrey. "Those two deserved death."

He considered a moment then, "A day and a half's ride from Thonrecht! Such brazen, murderous thievery!"

Composing himself, he looked at Aerex.“Are you seriously hurt?” The old knight then gazed at the dwarf, and back again at Sweetcloak.

“We should bury them, lest their spirits return to haunt this place”, he muttered and sheathed his giant blade.

As he got off his horse he added, "Another half day's ride north will bring us to the thorpe of Meisingholdt. There we will spend the night and recover."

[Aerex Matare]

Aerex gave a sigh of relief as the jester fell.  "I didn't realize things were this bad out here," he agreed with Quorridge.  Unless traipsing through some dark forest, travelers were relatively safe from highwaymen within a week's ride of Jantir.  And while Thonrecht was no Jantir in size, it was a reasonably large town which should ensure reasonable safety.

Aerex looked over at his wound, the arrow still sticking out bleakly from his shoulder.  "Nothing vital," he said.  He prodded at the wound with his opposite hand, grimacing a bit.  It wasn't too deep to remove, but it wouldn't be comfortable.  Aerex folded a length of the leather reigns into his mouth and bit down on it.  He took a deep breath and then, gripping the arrow carefully, yanked it out.  A loud grunt of pain erupted from his mouth - he was thankful for the leather, else he'd have likely bitten through his own tongue.  He released the reigns and tossed the arrow to the ground, rotating his shoulder.  "I'll be well enough," he muttered, "at least until we can get it bandaged.

Matare briefly considered arguing with Quorridge, to point out that it seemed a waste of time to bury two brigands when they had places to be and there could well be more of them about.  But he figured these religious, even superstitious folk of the north were set in their rites and ghost stories.  Besides, he'd seen more than enough undead to convince him that vengeful spirits were possible.  He dismounted and went to help Quorridge, nursing the wounded shoulder.

[Pariah]

Looking at the more or less unchanged vista he'd been subjugated to for the past few hours, Dujek, once again, struggled against the well crafted bindings holding him in place, astounded that he'd let himself get caught by a lynch mob, again.

Trying wouldn't hurt, not at all, though I would need to have this thrice d**ned gag out of my mouth to so much as attempt a cantrip to untie these ropes.

[EchoMirage]

Kyrian spent half his thoughts on sneaking, and half of chastising himself why he did not befriend a wizard back in Jantir. His imagination ran wild with immature yet highly entertaining applications of the Invisibility spell. 'Why just one?' he aded to himself.

Finally in the camp, he snooped around the ogres' encampment first, planting the speak, tying a sturdy rope around one dead pig and trailing it out of the camp; he loosened the essential ropes keeping a few tents up, likewise those tying a tall wagon load of round timbers. A stray salt shaker got its top loosened, and some spices translocated to undergarments. Some of the ogres' supplies, he just opened so that the creatures of their wild can sneak in and take their share. A drunken snoring ogre, the knight adorned with one of the symbols Vorodon had drawn on the banner, straight across his forehead. Likewise he did with a few tents, with blood dripping from one of the slaughtered cows. Finally, the Witchflame moss he tossed into the fireplaces would be harmless, but once they were lit in the morning, the flame was sure to take on a rather sickening green hue.

Surveying a job well done and grinning sheepishly, he proceeded t'wards the human encampment, the wind from the ogres' tents in his back - and nostrils, but that was a necessary evil. The monstrous guard beast would hopefully be busy with the beef bone he left in its path, then he snuck deeper, to scout out the human comander's abode.

[Murometz]

Matare

Aerex and Quorridge rode into Meisingholdt long after the sun had already set. Quorridge wore a hooded cloak, so as not attract any undue attention. He was not looking to be recognized.

As the pair’s horses clopped along the cobblestone, Aerex was reminded of Thonrecht. A grim people, these northerners, he thought, their buildings and walls so narrowly spaced, that simple navigation gave rise to a palpable sense of claustrophobia. Street lamps, reeking of oil, cast shadows, as the pair rode up to what seemed a public house, an austere building of gray stone. A single sign, creaking in the evening breeze, was the only clue as to the nature of this establishment.

The Gangly Arms, this place was named. Stable-hands emerged from shadows to usher the pair’s mounts into stables, as Quorridge and Aerex entered the inn.

Inside about a dozen people socialized, drank, and lingered, though no one stood out long enough to interest Aerex, as he gazed about.

They took a seat in the corner, and ordered food and drink. A serving wench called over by Quorridge, nodded vigorously, as the incognito noble requested two rooms, and asked that poultices be prepared and left in said rooms for later use.

As they ate charred boar-ribs, smothered in onions, Quorridge began to tell Aerex of Meisingholdt. Something about its history, and its stoic, superstitious people, but Aerex was only half listening, as he suddenly noticed a sign, plastered along one of the inn walls near their table. Many signs and notices were posted for public reading, yet one particular announcement attracted Aerex’ attention.

_{By decree of Mayor Heinz Orensil and the people of the Holdt, the Rolling of the Fire-Wheel can be witnessed by one and all on the Day of Worms this week. The accused, one Dujek the Vile, of parts unknown, has been found guilty of heinous charges; openly practicing necromancy, speaking with the dead in loathsome attempts to raise wicked spirits and for otherwise having truck with forces malign and unwholesome. The guilty miscreant was found performing obscene sorceries, while trespassing in the Jorgisch Mausoleum. Death by the Fire-Wheel was his sentence, and so shall it now be carried out.}

[Aerex Matare]

Aerex paused midway through chewing, his jaw hanging open just enough for a chunk of pork to hang out.  No, it couldn't be, he thought.  It must be another Dujek.  He thought of all the times he'd heard the name before, how many others could match the description of a necromancer by that name.  He could count the times on one hand, of course, one finger even: this must be Dujek, his Dujek, the half-sane necromancing Dujek that once adventured with Aerex and the whole crew.

He swallowed hard and pointed at the sign.  "What do you know of this Dujek?" he asked Quorridge suddenly, interrupting whatever it was the lord was rambling about.  "And who's this Mayor Orensil?  When is the Day of Worms?"  His line of questioning, if it could be called such, left one pointed detail out.  It wasn't a mistake, it was something Aerex genuinely didn't want to know: what in the Dynast's good name is a fire-wheel?

[Wulfhere]

Not far away, Vorodon wondered whether he should have shared his brilliant idea with the others.  No, they would just have worried when he crept off between the trees.  Huddled in the darkness, Vorodon tried to imagine what woodland spirits must sound like in these alien lands.  Did they rattle their branches menacingly or growl like beasts?  Perhaps they crept up on their foes while they weren't looking, pretending to be mundane shrubs: That must be it!

He wondered what was taking the cat-elf so long.  The branches rattled ominously with even the slightest movement and he was so tired of holding still.  The drying mud made his face itch.

[Murometz]

Luckily for the risk-taking Kyrian, the mangy hyaenodon was indeed kept busy with its assortment of bones, gristle, and sinew, left over from the ogres’ dinner.
 
Only when he began dragging the pig carcass to the edges of camp did the creature look up, sniff the air, and then proceed to investigate. Apparently angry at the moving meat's attempt at escape, the hyaenodon lunged, gripped the pig in its jaws and pulled. Kyrian wisely and simply let go, and the mangy creature proudly dragged the pig carcass back toward the main area.

Some minutes later, inside the ogre’s tent, a nauseating odor made Kyrian wrinkle his nose, making him realize in short order that Adan’s impromptu “ogre-scent-rub”, while indeed noxious, may as well have been lavender perfume, compared to the stench inside…

The sloppily drunk and snoring ogre did not wake, nor even bat an eyelash, as Kyrian decorated the sleeping behemoth’s forehead and mischievously rearranged some possessions. (Roll involved)

As he walked from one tent to the next, he noticed a human figure, one of the guards, had come for a closer look at a freshly-painted Shael’Ari masterpiece.

Raising a torch to inspect the tent canvas, confused as to its blood-dripping nature, the guard shrugged, and then looked about the camp. A low Hyaenodon growl from somewhere nearby caught his attention, and he quickly returned to his post, not wanting anything to do with the ogre’s pet.

The cow-blood painted tents were probably some gruesome ogre’s ritual, the guard thought as he walked, holding his torch aloft. The ogres painted their tents at night to prevent spirits from molesting them, he surmised, satisfied with his own assumption.

The Rose-Knight's loosening of ropes, booby-trapping, and general mischief took some time. The camp was quiet and Kyrian went about his work undetected. Or so it seemed.

The human camp was quieter still by comparison, no growling hyaenodons here. Kyrian quickly identified the commander’s tent; it was larger than the others. Two guards stood beside the entrance-flap, awake but disinterested.

It was well past midnight now.

[Murometz]

Matare

"I have never heard of this name, Doo-jik" Quorridge furrowed his brow. A waitress sauntered by with a small bowl holding hard-boiled eggs still in shell. Quorridge picked one out, and began rolling it on the table.

"As far as Orensill, he's the mayor here, a Hellshwert liegeman, but a haughty man and unpleasant. But how do you know the name--?" Quorridge turned to examine the notice that had caught Aerex' attention.

"They are a superstitious lot here" Quorridge continued understanding the query now. "They have no doubt captured this miscreant and will now execute him on the Firewheel. Meisingholdt is not an enlightened place, as Landeel towns go. Not nearly as sophisticated in their laws and in their order, as you are in Jantir. Justice is harsh and swift here." Quorridge explained the obvious, picking at his eggshell.

"Why does this interest you?"

[Aerex Matare]

Aerex pursed his lips, exhaling harshly through his nostrils, trying to keep himself calm.  "Listen," he said, leaning closer to the lord and keeping his voice low.  "I know Dujek.  He's a... an old colleague.  And I'm sure he's innocent of whatever they're trying to pin on him, he'd never hurt anyone that wasn't trying to hurt him first.  And if he did do anything, it's probably not his fault.  He's a bit, y'know, touched?"  He gestured vaguely at his head.

"We've got to find a way to release him before they execute him.  You're a lord, can't you pull some weight against the mayor?"

[EchoMirage]

Kyrian crept around the commander's tent and loosened a peg on the other side; lifting the margin gently, he peeked inside - who knew what possibilities to disrupt the adversaries' plans would present themselves within!

[Wulfhere]

From deep within the cover of the trees, Vorodon watched quietly and wondered where the ogres had found such a noble creature.  From glimpses visible when the hyenadon wandered near lit torches or banked campfires, the snarling, mange-infested beast rippled with powerful muscle.  Its irregular, yellowed fangs and dark, malignant eyes conveyed an unmistakable sense of stupidity and  menace.

Enthralled by the occasional grunts and snarls of the malodorous beast, Vorodon decided that someday he'd have to find one of those creatures to keep for his own.

What WAS that elf doing?  All Vorodon could make out was a vague impression of movement as Kyrian painted something onto the side of a tent.  Impatience getting the better of him, Vorodon awkwardly moved a bit closer, his attempts at stealth stymied as his crude disguise's foliage caught on saplings and low-hanging branches.