Open Chronicles The Road to Hallenrul

[Velaeri]

Hallenrul


It was the name of a small town mostly kept by simple people. Secluded from the world by a region of thick forests and heavy mountain fogs, it wasn't a place you knew about unless you'd been to it yourself. Much like the people that lived there, the town was also quite simple. Several log homes lined the roads leading in, here and there a two-story marked a place of notability. The town square sat around a singularly large dug well from which a spring of some of the freshest waters in the valley could sate the thirst of any passerby.


But for as simple as Hallenrul seemed to be it really was a special place if you knew where to look. For one, its pristine water was said to be rejuvenating. For two: its pristine waters were actually rejuvenating for the regular donation of magical giant gryphon blood to the well.


That was part of the accord struck years ago between said giant gryphon and said simple townsfolk. This town offered a peaceful place for the gryphon to rest during passages between the larger cities as well as a hearty meal in the form of a cow; in return said gryphon provided a bit of her magic to the people and, in rare times of need, also a form of protection.


Both had been in dire need as of late.


Vampires, undead, spirits on the loose. Velaeri had arrived not but a night earlier to the news of the town elder's youngest granddaughter set upon by a spirit while out picking wildflowers in the evening light. Not dead, so far as they could tell, but she'd not awaken either. The rejuvenating waters did not seem to be helping and the people were at a loss for what to do - both about the girl and about these ghastly creatures haunting their town limits.


She sat along the outskirts at the edge of a farm where her latest meal; a healthy steer presently quartered and half-eaten, lay strewn before her. It was here she first heard the chaos on the road even over the shattering of leg bone within her beak. Feathered ears prickled, nares ruffling at the sound of shouting; of hooves pounding in a desperate staccato over the worn path leading in. The gryphon abandoned the carcass and moved astride the road where her massive bulk claimed the entire girth of the pass.


If she didn't know any better--and she didn't--it looked like a band of thieves coming to cause a ruckus in quiet little Hallenrul. Blue eyes honed in on the galloping quarry and as he neared she alerted with a ear-splitting screech.


No one would be marauding this little town, not on her watch.

 

[Erling Thenn]

They had been riding quite noisily, clearly without any attempt to conceal their movements, and in broad daylight as well. Erling Thenn and his band of brigands were usually more careful, but in matters such as these it was more important to create a - what word had the baron used? A hooplah. Barons and their shit words. Whatever. Shame they weren’t having a go at this during nighttime. Torches were fun.

The horses reared to a halt as soon as the Gryphon sauntered off the nearby farmstead and into the road. About ten more minutes riding and they would have gotten to the town square, but the Gryphon was here instead. When the Gryphon shrieked, the horses teetered nervously, but Erling snapped the reigns to keep it complacent. A few of his men covered their ears.

A moment passed in silence before Pyotr rode up next to him. Pyotr was a lanky man with a shitty beard that covered his face in patches and grew too thick on his neck. His brown hair was short and curly, and he shone with unpleasant sweat.

“That’s the Gryphon,” he observed.

“Good eye, Pyotr. No shit it’s the fucking Gryphon.” Erling grunted in annoyance, then leaned over and dug around in his saddle bag. He withdrew a scroll cylinder, an ornate one with the sigil of petty nobility emblazoned on it.

Once he was back up on his horse properly, he scowled again at Pytor and added: “Fuck you.”

Pyotr winced and swallowed hard. He had, of course, noticed the half-eaten carcass still in the field. This did little to soothe his steadily fraying nerves. “What’s the, uh, plan?”

“Talk to it.”

A moment of silence, as Pyotr stared in disbelief, though he soon snapped out of it. “I see, I see,” he said, glancing behind him - as if seeking assurance from the other men. Did you guys hear that too?

There were five in all, counting Paganini, a fat man on a destrier. Best horse in the bunch to be able to carry him and keep up. Paganini was utterly clean shaven, head and face. But he did have an eyepatch, so that made him look at least a little intimidating. He looked sour and contemplative.

“We, eh,” Pyotr began, looking back, “We don’t need to be with you for that, do we?”

“Not unless you want to fuck it up,” Erling replied. He snapped the reigns, and his horse meandered forward at a reluctant trot. “Stay here and try not to shit yourself.”

Pyotr’s response was muttered, but Erling didn’t care to hear it. Erling had plate armor, the only one in the group with the privilege. It was painted black and, frankly, not of a high quality.

Erling’s features were much like his armor. Black, greasy hair hung to his shoulders. A full beard of matching color covered his lower face, though it was clearly kept trimmed. The horse came to a halt and Erling smiled at the Gryphon. Where his canines had been were two white stumps - like they had been chiseled off.

“Hello, beast,” Erling said, sounding pleasant - if rough - despite his vocabulary. He was already unfurling the scroll, as if prepared to read from it. “What brings you to these remote climes?”

 

[Velaeri]

This was not a typical greeting she received. Beast. Fletched ears pinned against a broad and graceful skull, hooded eyes narrowing to leer at the man. The gryphon, easily three times the size of an adult centaur, momentarily considered chasing this man and his cadre back down the lane from whence they came. It would be easy - their horses wouldn’t dare stand in her way - but she was not a simple beast.


Bristling, a golden gleam followed the feathers ruffling along her spine in offense. The gryphon emitted an agitated click with its beak, drew in a breath and released it in a short and impatient screech.

 

[Erling Thenn]

Now that Erling was much closer, he could see the sheer size of the thing. This was a big Gryphon. Not that he had seen very many in the past and could compare them, but holy hell, this thing could probably eat a dragon, then have room for a couple Paganini’s. Erling winced when it yelled at him, and had to struggle to keep his horse steady.

Erling himself was not faring much better. Internally, anyway. The time for outward panic had since past. No sense getting worked up now in the middle of a job. His father told him that once. Sound advice, but now he was dead, and Erling had a feeling he was about to join him.

Once his horse was steady again, Erling smiled, though it was the teeth-grit-so-I-don’t-shit-myself sort of smile. “Right then.”

Could this animal even fucking talk? Or understand him? It had a little cuirass on, which was cute and all, but who knew where this resplendent thing got it from. Certainly couldn’t have made it itself - not without hands. So where… Whatever. Questions for another time. Or never, hopefully. Erling cleared his throat and began to read from the scroll.

“The honorable Baron Hoitentoff of Illbridge, sworn suzerain of Hallenrul, sends his warm regards to the Gryphon which recurs in the area of Hallenrul,” Erling said, keeping his voice steady. “The honorable Baron Hoitentoff expresses his deepest thanks for the Gryphon’s role in keeping the township safe. It has, however, been noted that the town of Hallenrul has ceased to send its due taxes to Illbridge, citing that they know longer have need of the honorable Baron’s protection...”

Erling cleared his throat.

“...And so it must be requested that the Gryphon encourage that taxes continue to be paid irrespective of its presence and, failing that, the Gryphon should… Leave, and allow the honorable Baron Hoitentoff’s duly appointed men - that being us - to collect the due taxes without interference.”


Illbridge was a larger town just up the road. About three thousand people. Decent militia. Baron Hoitentoff had been expanding his influence over the neighboring villages for some time now. Hallenrul had been the first to join his little demesne, now it was the first to apparently want out. All because of this bird.

Erling smiled again at the Gryphon, in a nervous sort of way. He would have said something smart, maybe called it a name, but he was quite close to the Gryphon now. It was looking extra resplendent in the light, and now he could smell all sorts of righteous-holy-good people-magic on it. The kind of magic that hated third party tax collectors.

 

[Velaeri]

"And where were you the last three times Hallenrul came under attack?!" the voice seemed to sound from the bird, but it was muffled and certainly not of the regal, feminine variety one might come to expect of her. Gruff, really, flegmy.

A pitchfork peeked out from around the gryphon, spearing at open air as a smallish, oldish man came bustling about to pass her. The gryphon gently opened her right wing to block his path.

"Ack - three times now! Three times we've called for aid and three times ye've not come! First it was bandits," the man clambored under her wing, pushing the massive feathers aside, waving his pitchfork about, "then it was vampires, and now-UFF" the gryphon's tail swooped forward to curl around the man's middle, holding him in place, "now it's spirits! Three times we called! Three times nothin! Were it not for the gryphon Hallenrul would be overun!"

The gryphon, for all the commotion, was not looking at the angry man, but staring at the one set before her with his noble scroll, steely eyes narrowed, ears pinned.

"Yeh can tell Hoitentoff to bugger off! If he can't serve whats was promised then we ain't payin' no damn taxes!"

 

[Erling Thenn]

Oh, good. A farmer. Finally, something he was more familiar with. The scroll snapped shut, and Erling's horse shifted restlessly under him while the Gryphon made its big display of restraining the codger - or maybe because of that pitchfork the farmer was waving around. Angry, little old thing. Erling would have liked to see him without a Gryphon for reinforcement; savor the change in his tune after Paganini knocked him around a bit.

Maybe some other time. Erling glanced at the plot of land the Gryphon had come from, then at the restrained old man. This must have been Johann Sprig. Erling did not know much about Hallenrul, but he did bother to look up whose land he would be rough-riding over. Erling smiled his broken smile at the farmer, but he didn't take his eyes off the bird.

"Hallenrul's been skimping out on tribute longer than it's been begging for help, old man." Erling said. He beat back the urge to sneer, if only out of fear the Gryphon would tear out his guts and decorate the trees with him if he did. "But I wouldn't expect you to know."

An ancient fart living on the outskirts of town wouldn't be kept abreast of Hallenrul's tax situation. Except to be blithely aware that he wasn't paying anything, obviously. But Erling Thenn was not here to talk to Sprig. Erling Thenn's only business with farmers was to relieve them of their surplus foodstuffs - not explain himself to them.

He leaned forward on his horse, now addressing the Gryphon. You know, since it was the Gryphon that was holding all the cards here. And by cards, Erling of course meant "capacity for easy slaughter of all assembled parties."

"I wanna talk to the mayor."

It was not an easy request to make to a winged hell-beast. A drop of sweat worked its way down Erling's brow. The time for cowardice and girlish shrieking had long past, however. The fear had numbed him. But so had a lifetime of general brigandry. Perhaps moreso.

 

[Velaeri]

If the flaring of hackles along the neck of the gryphon were of any indication, she was not impressed with Erling or his greasy smile. Despite the grumbling of the old man in her tail and the incessant waving of his pitchfork, she did not move to act disfavorably. Far be it from she to take sides in petty squabbles, such things being beneath her.

Ruffed ears back, hooded eyes half lidded, the gryphon watched Erling with quiet consideration. Casually then, as most felidae types were want to do, she rose to all fours and turned with a soft shake of her head, plucking the elderly farmer off his feet by his pitchfork and carrying him off the road. She slunk along the hill, wings folded and muscles rippling beneath her hide of gold, taking her charge back to his farmstead.

The road was clear.


~~~

There was no official Mayor of Hallenrul, but there was an Elder. Rawn Claygen was a man of slight build that didn't quite fill out his clothing anymore like he once did in his prime. Old age had stricken him of anything quick but time had not been unkind to him. He was healthy, for certain - alert as a wild cat in his domain. Very few things escaped the knowledge of Claygen. So when Erling arrived at the town square with his entourage, Claygen was standing at the entrance of the Tavern with no name, a pipe stuck in his mouth and his eyes keenly watching the party.

"Thenn," he said casually before turning and making his way into the tavern.

 

[Erling Thenn]

Erling snuffed at the Elder as he turned and went. Didn't even wait for him to get off his horse, the prick. Stop paying taxes and get a magical murder-bird and suddenly you're all hot shit. Erling didn't quite like this kind of reception. The town was deserted. No doubt all the villagers were hiding in their lofts. Didn't they know they had a Gryphon? Erling was half-surprised they didn't all mob outside to throw shit at them.

He handed off the reigns to one of his men, some kid who'd only been riding with them for a few months now, and hopped off his horse. Paganini and Pyotr followed suite. Of course now that it was just another old bat with a pipe and a chip on his shoulder, they were all for joining in the negotiations. Pricks.

"Ebblemeyer," Erling said. A Gnome with wild blond hair on a shetland turned to look at him. Feathers and dirt crowded his scraggly mane.

"Wot."

"Scope out this shithole, will you?"

"Yar," The Gnome said. He rolled his girlish shoulders, gave his pony a kick, and started off.

Ebblemeyer was a right and proper freak, so if a bunch of villagers ambushed him and clubbed his brains out, it wouldn't be too much of a loss. Even if he could talk to forest critters, or whatever it was he claimed he could do. Maybe it was just squirrels. Gnomes were weird.

Erling and his two trusted lieutenants made their way into the tavern. They lingered in the door for a minute, eyeing the interior. Just the mayor. Pyotr knew the drill - this wasn't the first time official town business was conducted alone in a tavern. The skinny lad skulked behind the bar and began rustling through it, jostling glasses in his search for the good ale. Pyotr had a nose for that kind of stuff.

Neither Erling nor Paganini sat with Claygen at his table. They preferred to stand. Silently, in Paganini's case. The large, fleshy man folded his arms while Erling did the talking.

"I hope the ghosts haven't made off with your coin, friend," Erling said, somewhat menacingly. He was really coming back to himself now that the fuck-all Gryphon wasn't around. "Otherwise it'll be you that's coming back with me to the Baron."

 

[Velaeri]

The old man puffed on his pipe, smoke rolling about his aged face and lingering in his beard. He watched Erling and his cadre closely, waiting for the man to make his statement before nodding noncommitaly.

"Hallenrul isn't a town of fortune, you and the Baron know this both," taxes had never been an easy thing to collect from the small town. Mostly they paid in produce, game, and livestock when the herds were healthy and numerous. It wasn't a destination town, nor was it on any major route to anywhere at all. Hallenrul was a dead-end, landing the unwary traveler in the nook of a small mountain surrounded by dangerous forest and rolling meadows.

"The drought's taken most of our harvest and the herds have thinned with little grazing. All we can offer you," the man leaned forward and patted at an beautifully crafted glass basin filled with gleaming red liquid bearing one small gemstone on its topper, "is this."

 

[Erling Thenn]

Erling stared at the crimson liquid and the ornate glass. Far more ornate than anyone in this rinky-dink village was capable of making, as if the gemstone wasn't a dead giveaway. There were a few clinks behind them at the bar as Pyotr put up one, two, then three bottles of ale on the counter.

Naturally, Erling didn't mince words. His lips pursed as he looked back towards Claygen. "What the fuck is that?"

He'd bled plenty of people dry before, but the presentation and forethought in this case was a little unusual.

 

[Velaeri]

"That there is gryphon's blood," Claygen replied, glancing momentarily over at the bar with a sigh. There went the last of their good ale. It would be another month before Stormwall's trade caravan came through here again.

"It's prized and valuable for its magical properties. Drinking it diluted in water or wine will restore vitality. Taken alone it will heal wounds, cure ailments, and lift curses."

Rawn Claygen had been the village elder for as long as anyone could remember. Perhaps longer still. Maybe that was his secret.

 

[Erling Thenn]

"You milk a fucking Gryphon for blood?"

Could be snake oil. He'd been more inclined towards disbelief if he hadn't seen the Gryphon before coming here. But just because they had a Gryphon hanging around didn't mean it were real Gryphon's blood. Sure, it had been all gentle-like with Sprig, but there was a fine line between gentle-like and letting a bunch of dirty peasants engage in some commercial bloodletting.

Erling's face scrunched up in annoyance. This could have been anything. He didn't like it. "Maybe that is Gryphon blood. Fine. Now where's a small-time villager like yourself get a fancy glass like that?"

 

[Velaeri]

Rawn shrugged his shoulders and let out a plume of smoke through his nostrils, "From the gryphon. Gods only know where she got it from. Comes through here with trade goods from time to time. Carries 'em in a giant basket. She traded us her blood for a place to rest and a steer to eat whenever she passes by."

 

[Erling Thenn]

Pyotr came back, handing a bottle to Paganini. He attempted to pass another one to Erling, but the mercenary ringleader waved him off. He wasn't thirsty any more with all this blood business, or with Claygen's casual attitude. Stupid Gryphon. Even when it wasn't here, it got everyone acting like Erling couldn't run them through. Bastards.

Whoever owned the Gryphon (if it could even be owned - like a horse or somesuch) was using it for trade. And because it was such an intuitive little shitbird, it was striking deals with local peasants along the route. Blood for board! What a world. Erling snatched the decanter off the table, and inspected the liquid closer. It certainly had the viscosity of blood.

"We'll take your... Gryphon blood, then," Erling decided. For someone holding a bottle of - what was it? - vitality and healing, he didn't sound too happy. Baron Hoitentoff would likely prefer material goods to mystical ones. Whatever. He probably had a court wizard to sift the bupkis from the worthwhile.

Stuffing the decanter into a pouch on his waist, Erling saw fit to add on. "If this turns out to be some chickenshit scam, Hoitentoff will send me back here. With torches. And more men. Then all the Gryphons on the continent won't make a difference for you lot. Got that?"

Well, if Claygen did have all the Gryphons on the continent, technically... Actually, it was better not to think about it.

 

[Velaeri]

And who but the gryphon to greet them on their way out the door, head leaned over a large water trough near the well where she sated her thirst. Two men worked the well pump, filling the trough just as quickly as it was drained by the creature. Lifting her head to watch the brigand and his lackeys, the gryphon's gaze tracked the man unblinkingly. The slow sway of her tail ceased, feathers ruffling along her neck.

"Safe travels," Rawn said from the doorway as they left, "mind the shades and spirits on the road. They've become more aggressive since the last moon."

 

[Erling Thenn]

Erling muttered something unpleasant about Rawn's parentage as he marched out of the building. He now had the ale Pyotr had attempted to hand to him. He'd drink it later, when there wasn't a jug of Eau-de-Gryffin burning a hole in his pocket. The sight of the Gryphon staring at him from the water trough was off-putting, but he wouldn't have to deal with it further, so he forced himself to look away while he re-mounted. This had better not be quack juice. And if it was, the damn Gryphon would hopefully be gone by the time he came back.

Ebblemeyer was waiting for him. The Gnome pointed at a sparrow that was perched on his head, picking insects out of his tangled hair. "Fund a sparra," Ebblemeyer announced. He then jerked his head to indicate the Gryphon and its attendants, the bird fluttered wildly at the motion and then resumed its business. "An' 'tem."

If Erling grit his teeth any harder, they might have shattered. "We're leaving," he snapped.

The sun was already sinking, but if they rode hard enough they'd make it back to Illbridge before it got too dark. Erling doubted the existence of any spirits on the road, but it would be good to avoid them anyway. Bunch of simple village folk, it was more likely they were getting spooked by their torches. What would a bunch of spirits want around here anyway?

Erling spurred his horse, off out of the village and back on the miserable dirt road. Pyotr and Paganini followed close behind, then the rest of the gang went after them in one big mob.

 

[Velaeri]

Rawn followed the man at a distance, waiting for him to clear the doorway of the Tavern before stepping out himself. He watched the band go with worry deepening the lines on his face and then slowly stepped down to join the gryphon at the water trough.

The gryphon turned her head and emitted a soft haawww.

"Yeap, I gave him the last of it. It's all we had of worth, M'Lady."

The gryphon clicked her beak distastefully.

"Noh, I don't reckon he deserves it either. Last thing we need is for Hoitentoff to have access to extended vitality, but ... it's better than lettin' them rob us blind so we starve come winter."

The gryphon gave a deep rumble.

"We'll think of something. I'll send my boys out to harvest some extra pelts and meat. The herds haven't moved far, just the other side of the peaks where the grass is still lush," Rawn took a deep breath and turned his eyes upwards towards the clouds above the trees, "storm's comin. Hope those fellas make it back before it hits. Thanks for the warning, M'Lady."

~~~~

Night fell a bit more quickly than usual as the storm rolled in over the mountains. Dark clouds burdened by rain slowly drifted over what little sunlight remained. A wind picked up from the north, cold for this time of year.

Erling Thenn and his men traveled the road back, coming to a turn where they should have headed west towards Illbridge, only the passage wasn't there. A quiet trail sat open to the east.

 

[Erling Thenn]

The band of brigands ground to a sudden halt in the quickly-encroaching darkness on account of their leader. Erling scowled in displeasure at the road ahead of him, which was clearly not the road they had previously traveled down. He squinted at the map Paganini unfurled, struggling to see it in the darkness. They were on the right road, sure enough. It was more or less a straight run from here to Hallenrul. But there should have been a road heading West, and all he saw was a shitpath heading East.

"That ain't right," Erling said, and chewed on his right cheek. "Where's the rest of the road?"

Paganini rotated the map. As if that would magically manifest the missing road before them. "Should be here. That path right there isn't on this map."

It could be they had just gotten lost. Maybe veered onto a different path without noticing. But Paganini would have said something, or Pyotr, if that were the case. There wasn't much that got past all three of them. Usually. So what was the deal?

What was it that Claygen had bitched about? Spirits? Were spirits tearing out pavement and sticking trees back in the ground? Sounded more like druids to him. Whatever. Back in the day, he had a hedge wizard of his own in the gang. Greasy Phil. Useful guy, could smell magic when it was afoot - like it probably was now. He'd have known whether it was druidfolk or spirits. Then he took an arrow in the pelvis and died from the poison it'd been tipped in. He was less useful now, buried like he was somewhere in Iuk-'u.

But Erling didn't need Greasy Phil to sense that fuckery was afoot. And as the old Thenn family saying went: when fuckery's about, settle down and wait it out.

"Fuck this," Erling hissed and turned his horse away from Paganini. "Make camp!"

The men did not protest overmuch, and began to vacate the road for a nearby copse of trees. It had been a long day of riding and dealing with Gryphons. A campfire and some sleep would do them good.

 

[Velaeri]

Night approached with an unwelcome fog rolling in heavy from the higher mountain peaks. A chill took the air, biting at the soul rather than the bones. There was something quite unusual about the way the evening settled across the quiet road and the way the shadows loomed darker and closer as the sun melted behind the jagged horizon.

Vampires, they'd said. Brigands and thieves. Spooks.

Shades.

This valley town had been haunted as of late by all manner of unsavory sorts, the latter being the least savory of all. Vampires had their weaknesses, and the men knew how to deal with brigands and thieves. Spooks were often harmless, if not frightening, but Shades were a different story entirely.

Already the elder's granddaughter had fallen ill after contact with a Shade. Shipped off to the closest large city by horse-drawn wagon with her parents, seeking out help from the Healers. These Shades were angry, hungry, cursed, and couldn't be harmed by physical implements.

What luck for Erling and his merry men that the Shades of the woods had come to haunt them this evening, drawing in with a sudden shrill cry and a cold that couldn't be warned off by a fire.

 

[Erling Thenn]

By now the men had paired off into smaller groups to make camp. Paganini went with Pyotr, and that left Erling with Ebblemeyer. Erling was doubtlessly blessed among all northern folk to have such an honor. Erling dropped down a pile of firewood with a grunt, then used his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. "There, that oughta-"

He felt something pull at his trouser leg and, half turned to find Ebblemeyer. Erling squinted at the Gnome. "What are you doing?"

The Gnome still had a sparrow in his hair, the little creep, only the thing was now nested and - by all accounts - asleep. Ebblemeyer looked more wide-eyed and crazed than usual, which put Erling on edge even before the Gnome pointed at something just beyond the treeline and whispered: "Shadds."

Erling heard the panicked yelling of the rest of his men before the shades even got to where he was. He gave a mighty scowl and swatted Ebblemeyer away. Useless Gnome could talk to birds. He should've got one that could talk to shades. Erling didn't know much about undead and less about shades, but he did know that most things in life could be hit with swords. Ebblemeyer must have known more but just not cared to share, as he scrambled up a nearby tree and did not come down.

The first of the shades meandered through the treeline. Erling could barely see it, a tad darker than everything around it and with a vague humanoid form. The temperature dropped noticeably. It was almost comfortable - reminded him of home. Almost. He felt something churn in his stomach, but he yanked his sword out of his scabbard anyway.

"Come on then, you dead bastard!" Erling thundered. He didn't wait for a response, Gods knew he probably wouldn't get one, so he charged in swinging like a maniac soon as he could.

 

[Maude]

Mountain slopes north of Hallenrul

The day had been bright, the sun warm, and a short river crossing was more than a welcome sight. A tired Nordenfiir was as grizzly in nature as it was unusual, but Maude had been on the move for so long now she'd lost count of the days. Her hunger was strong but her thirst was painful. She'd collapsed by the river, metal armor pinging against stone, and leaned to scoop handfuls of water to her mouth. After a time and a short rest she was on her feet again and following the river to a stone bridge and an aged signpost.

< CREE | HALLENRUL >

That was three days ago.

A stranger to these lands, her decision had been made on gut instinct alone and perhaps a bit of pragmatism. Hallenrul seemed the sort of place she wanted to go but for the life of her she couldn't determine why. There had been no sight nor scent of another Norden for weeks - truly she'd wandered much too far south to find them in any common numbers here. As unusual as it were for them to journey beyond the snowy realms of Nordengaard, Maude was banking on such a circumstance.

She was supremely grateful for the cold chill on the night air as her travels afoot brought her further south, following a road that, while not completely overgrown seemed to be borderline forgotten or abandoned. One sword was already out, cleaving through stubborn branches when the ear-splitting screech of a Shade cut through the evening peace. It was a sound one didn't hear often where she was from but fuck if you didn't ever forget it. Proverbial hackles flared, Maude thought to cut another path in a direction that would not take her their way, but if it wasn't her luck to hear the sounds of frantic men and a blade ringing off the cobble path.

A grimace plastered itself on her face, irritated growl in accompaniment as the woman pressed through the overgrowth to follow the path where it spat her out into the chaos of the camp. Twin swords drawn and gleaming a curious bronze within the light of the fire, she set to work fending off the nearest Shade. Solstal wasn't exactly the most ideal material for battling dark spirits, but the ward of the soul bond was better than nothing. As testament to her previous experience with Shades, she swung a lancing strike through the shadow making way for Paganini and watched as it dissipated with a miserable hiss before moving on to the next.

 

[Shabha Agloshk]

Roads were for people who wanted to be beset by vagabonds, and were afraid of the beasts of the world. Shabha was neither interested in being beset, and not afraid of beasts, so she tended to avoid roads, preferring to blaze her own trails and follow game trails when possible.

So, when a ruckus began one evening while she was making camp, and from the direction of the road, she almost ignored it. Roads were bothersome, and here was proof.

It was the cries of Shades that drew her up from the ground, stave in hand, and moving swiftly and silently through the woods towards the road. Shades, unsettled spirits and their ilk didn't stick to roads, and it was better to combat them with a group than be picked off singly.

At least that was what her mother had taught her. As of yet, she had not encountered shades before.

Once this night was through, she wouldn't be able to say as much any more.

At the edge of the road, Shabha paused. She peered out from the shadows at the camp, watching for a moment. There were a cadre of humans, with singular other species present as well. All were up and fighting the shades that appeared here and there at random.

Her handaxes would be all but useless against the shades, they and her arrows were made for flesh and bone. Her stave, however, carried shamanic blessings common to her people. She hoped it would prove more adept at hitting the incorporeal targets.

With a sudden burst of motion, she leapt from the foliage, silent as death on the wind, and struck out at a passing shade with her stave. The stave passed partially through it until the fetishes tied to the stave struck the flesh of the shade. They rent a tear in the entity. The wood seemed to be as effective as any other weapon, but the blessed fetishes could hurt them.

Keeping that in mind, she struck again, tearing lines through the shade again, then watching it disperse in a cloud and vanish.

Nostrils flaring, she set about finding the next shade.

 

[Erling Thenn]

Paganini had been brandishing a bardiche, ready to go toe-to-toe with the shade, when suddenly a fiery-haired lass leapt from nowhere and cut it to pieces. His brow furrowed, and she moved on before he could say anything. Pyotr came crawling by a moment later, fumbling to reload a crossbow.

"Our weapons aren't working!"

"Who the hell was that?"

Pyotr slammed a bolt into his crossbow and desperately worked the crank, "Who, the Orc?"

Paganini stared with his one good eye at Pyotr. "There's an Orc now?"

"Yeah, over there."

Paganini followed Pyotr's weak, limp-wrist gesture to - sure enough - some Orc huntress tearing apart one shade after the other. The men those shades had been menacing broke off and ran away, leagues more terrified of the Orc than the shades, apparently. Paganini was not quite sure what was going on or why, but he did grab Pyotr by the scruff of the neck and start dragging him off to the treeline.

"Hey, what, what are y-"

"We're regrouping," Paganini replied tersely, then yelled to the remaining bandits, "Pull back!"

This was really fancy bandit-talk for running the hell away. Still, if everyone's weapons were useless, they'd be better off a good distance away. Especially now that some all-female-fighting-squadron had shown up on them. Paganini had no idea where Erling was, but he suspected he'd make a similar call if he were around.

 

[Rob Yew]

He lay fast asleep,
Whilst his fire did keep,
By embers humblest glow
Dreams he didst know
With horse nearby he slumbered
Unwitting as troubles ahead thundered

 

[Maude]

Though a Solstal sword did not necessarily gleam in the same way as a steel blade polished to a shine, it certainly seemed to as it gutted a third Shade before slashing through a fourth. Maud couldn't be sure if she was destroying them or simply banishing them back to whence they came, but now didn't seem the appropriate time to question it.

The Nordenfiir turned with a jerk at the sound of frantic boots across the cobble and caught the gigantic ass of Paganini retreating into the thicket with the others in tow. That left herself, an abandoned campsite, and another person just a little further down the road. Smelled like an Orc and her sense of smell had never been wrong. Maude gave a snort, green eyes lancing about the immediate area for any other moving shadows to find none. The wails had faded and the metaphysical chill seemed to be gone.

As were the men who belonged to the campsite ... but their dinner wasn't.

No second thoughts - she sheathed her sword, took up a seat by the dying fire and began to feed the flames with a pile of nearby kindling.

Erling Thenn Shabha Agloshk Thronebreaker