Return to Lossal

Nasirolan, Dalaghendor, 16th April 1655

It was a crisp but dry April morning when the companions rode out of Nasirolan eastwards to Lossal. The trip was ten days' worth, and it felt good to have grass underfoot again instead of mud. For two days they traveled without event, but the night of the second day was to prove the most memorable of the entire trip by far...

All was (relatively) peaceful, as Gorfang and Eloy stood guard - Gorfang equipped with a bottle - and the others slept contentedly around the remains of the campfire. Faint crackles and pops from the flames as the orc chucked on more wood, and occasional snoring, were the only sounds.

Suddenly, with no warning, each one felt teeth bite into them! The unexpected pain brought everyone, asleep or awake, to their feet, searching for their assailant – but there was no-one there… They stared around bewildered, wondering if their friends had attacked them in their sleep – and it happened again! This time, Gorfang could actually see the wound opening, in shape and style just as if a claw had raked across his neck... but there was nothing to see, and his swipes across in front of him struck nothing.

The party scattered around the campsite, searching frantically for the cause, their urgency increased by yet a third set of small but nasty wounds appearing from nowhere. Méabh could sense no cast magic being used. The humanoids were bewildered but the keen nose of the Warg soon picked up a trail. It led to a cluster of boulders overgrown with bushes several yards from the camp, from which Eloy's keen ears picked up the sound of high-pitched giggling.

Eloy curved off to the side, planning a flanking attack, while Gorfang prepared for a frontal attack. Catching Méabh's eye from across the campsite, he gestured a request for a Lightning Bolt to soften the unknown foes up. The sorceress chuckled, and obliged with a Maximized bolt of pinpoint accuracy.

The bushes vanished in an actinic blast of blue fire, silhouetted against which could be seen several small humanoid forms hurtling into the air with thin cries. An instant later, louder yells of pain and shock tore across the night as Eloy, Gorfang and Shamlakh staggered under the sudden burns of a Lightning Bolt strike of equivalent power. With a bellow of fury, Gorfang charged across the scorched and fused earth in the centre of the blast radius to where three more small figures were standing, clearly stunned. Seizing one, he laid hold of its' head and twisted it around more than ninety degrees with a crunch of bone. The small creature croaked and died, but again Gorfang felt pain tear across his body as the wound was returned by the demon's magic. The other two Jovocs flexed their abnormally long, blood red claws and the hideous giggling began again.

At that moment, Eloy, having worked his way around behind the creatures, loomed up behind one of the two survivors, sword raised for a deadly sneak attack. Gorfang considered trying to stop him for a moment, which was just too long; the blow fell. Bereloth slashed across the demon's head at eye level, shearing the top of its' pointy head right off. Eloy grinned for an instant, then staggered back coughing as blood poured from a new wound in his chest.

Disdaining the consequences, Gorfang bore down on the last Jovoc as it chuckled at him and drove its' crimson claws into its' own skinny body. Blood flowed, and the fiend was obviously in pain, but also relishing that pain in twisted glee as it watched Gorfang's blood leak from two more supernaturally transmuted wounds. Unintimidated, the orc grabbed the little monster by the shoulders, and drew it into a savage hug, crushing its' claws deeper into its own body. For a moment the demon's wiry strength resisted the pressure, then the claws drove through its' torso and it was dead, its' blood mingling with Gorfang's as its' last wounds replicated on his own flesh.

Settling back around the campfire, Gorfang returned to his bottle.

Next morning, striking camp, Eloy happened on a stray arm and claws. A thought struck him, and with a sly grin he picked up the limb and deliberately scored the tips across his forearm, glancing around at his companions hopefully. Nothing happened, however, and he shrugged and dumped it.

Lossal, Tarlanor, 26th April 1655

Eight days later, the companions rode into the city of Lossal. Much had happened there the last time they visited, and each returned to familiar haunts. Méabh and Lynien took themselves off to the Bull and Elephant, where they were received with a warm and cultured welcome. Uruk and Bog went off to buy supplies, but Gorfang and Eloy decided to move straight along and track down Damarus. They left their spare gear and Eloy's horse with Uruk, but Gorfang made sure to take a large handful of the fragments of the Deathbreaker.

On arrival at Damarus' house, Eloy slipped around the back to cover the back door and prevent their quarry escaping, while Gorfang approached the front door with his usual tact and delicacy - delivering a mighty kick that should have smashed any wooden door a yard into the hall beyond.

Not only did the door withstand the impact without any sign of damage, but the door responded by emitting a blast of directed and concentrated sound which violently agitated the very cells of Gorfang's muscles, tearing and wounding and partially deafening him for a few seconds. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked up at the windows above - there were none on the ground floor - and started to climb up to one.

At this point Eloy returned around the corner of the building, having discovered to his surprise that Damarus didn't have a back door and having faintly heard the sound of the sonic trap, to find his orcish comrade halfway up the wall. Belatedly, Eloy remembered Bereloth's power of Detect Magic and, drawing the blade, found he could discern the enchantment of the trapped door. Looking around, he realized he could see the same traces of magic on the upstairs windows as well, a fact he communicated to Gorfang who clambered down again, grumbling. 

It's amusing to note that both Allan and Derek immediately concluded that the woman was the obvious major threat...

As his feet touched the street and they pondered what to do next, the door actually opened anyway, from the inside, as the occupants came to discover what the noise was about. Gorfang and Eloy, ready for an aggressive response, were a little taken aback to observe six large and competent-looking heavies - some familiar as Damarus' guards from their first meeting - and a tall, compact human woman in leathers with an assortment of blades, from Lynien's description probably Callia. A young servant lurked at the back, recognizable as the youth who'd guided Gorfang and Eloy in on their last visit. Eloy looked over the group and immediately tagged Callia as the most dangerous of a tough bunch.

"We're here to see your master; get him," started Gorfang.

"Our master does not see those who assault his property," returned Callia sharply. "Now go away before we make you."

"We will force our way in," stated Gorfang flatly.

"We will kill you if you try," returned Callia, and all the six thugs drew their weapons. Gorfang scoffed. "Call that a blade?" he said scornfully, "This is a blade!" and he swung his vadok off his shoulders.

Although the argument was excellently RPd by both players, a Critical Diplomacy roll from Eloy didn't half help!

Conflict seemed inevitable, but to Eloy's slightly cooler head it looked a battle they might not win, especially as there wasn't room for Shamlakh to fit into the hall and join in. With enormous tact, he suggested that a fight wasn't the best move here, and pointed out to the orc that to turn his back on Damarus' guards and walk away would be a powerful insult. In orc culture this is true, as it implies clearly that the turner does not consider the turnee a credible threat. Finally, he succeeded, and Gorfang - quite aware in his cooler thoughts that Eloy was right - allowed himself to be persuaded. "Another day, gents," he commented, re-slinging the double axe and turning casually away. As the pair walked off, he added in a shout: "Tell Damarus we have your pyramid!"

Meeting up with Uruk and Bog, the pair next sought out lodgings at their old haunt, the Blue Knight. Harald the innkeeper was glad to see them again; if their last visit had left an unexplained body, it also hadn't involved any property damage and they had drunk and eaten heartily, and paid promptly. "Your usual ale?" he enquired affably, "and did you bring your monkey?" Gorfang reached down and lifted Bog up above the level of the counter by the back of his jerkin. The little healer waved cheerily at Harald as the latter served out some ale.

Eloy, nervous of possible repercussions from their visit to Damarus' home, had entered the inn separately and was seated in an obscure corner, his cloak wrapped around his body and his hood pulled over his head. The combination of a busy tavern filled with loud mercenaries and a few other people who didn't want their business known made this a success and he kept watch over his comrades from a distance.

With the definite switch between 'working' and 'relaxing' having happened, Gorfang set himself at the bar with the definite intention of drinking himself into a pleasant stupor. Uruk matched him drink for drink, with the result that he slid into unconsciousness just after eleven.

A little after midnight, the door of the inn banged open and a dozen men entered. Four of them were clearly fighting men in employment, with a matching badge on their brigandines and well-worn, servicable swords in plain scabbards. The other eight were richly dressed (if rather dishevelled), young, well-born, and absolutely tanked.

Swaggering across the floor, they headed for the bar as if the room was empty. Gorfang was prone to do this, and generally speaking people tended to move to allow it to happen. For these youths the same thing happened, although for different reasons; associated power rather than personal power. The only people who didn't move were Uruk - propped against his barstool by Gorfang in a moment of sympathy - and Gorfang himself, who remained facing the bar but alert to the possibilities. Eloy, watching from his corner, winced at the inevitability of things. Sure enough, the fop on the end barrelled straight up and shouldered into Gorfang. The sound as the orc's ale sloshed backwards and forwards in the tankard was suddenly quite audible. The four minders, who had been scanning the tavern in general, suddenly focussed sharply on the bar as they identified the threat to their charges. Gorfang drained the rest of his beer and put down his mug with a click which sharpened everyone's attention a notch. Eloy took advantage of this to slip from his chair and move unobtrusively through the crowd to within step-and-strike range of the guards' backs. Just in case.

Harald the innkeeper had also picked up the tension, and acted quickly to defuse it. Nine flagons of ale slid rapidly along the bar, coming to rest close in front of each of the young fops and Gorfang. With a pleased smile, the youth who'd bumped Gorfang reached for one, but his already blurred vision let him down - and he grabbed the wrong one, far too enthusiastically. Ale splashed out and across Gorfang's chest. Absolute silence fell. Harald sank silently out of sight behind the bar. Eloy gripped his sword ready to launch a sneak attack.

There was a moment of tingling silence and then Gorfang spoke.

"I think you're drinking my beer," said the orc calmly.

Slowly, the realization dribbled into the youth's mind of what had happened and he froze. Adrenalin did the work of several cups of strong coffee, and he grappled for an idea that would save him. "Allow me to buy you another," he managed. Gorfang nodded slightly and the youth leaned over the bar, frantically trying to get the attention of the huddled barman. As he did so, Gorfang turned slightly and addressed the four minders. "Are you really prepared to die for these idiots?" he asked sceptically. The oldest tapped his badge. "We work for his father, and this is our assignment." he said resignedly. Gorfang glanced back at the drunken young nobles. "What are we celebrating?" he asked. A voice from further along the line, slightly less inebriated than the one next to the orc, called back, "It's my stag night!"

"Very well," replied Gorfang, "you have a choice; invite us or I kill your friend." There was a crash as the fop next to Gorfang dropped the beer he'd just bought for him and went pale. The more sober one however rose to the occasion. "It's a good deal," he said, "come - drink with us!" There is, however, as the saying goes, always one. Further along the line, a voice rose in blurred protest and disgust. "What?" it said, "drink with an orc?!" Everything went silent and tense again, and then Gorfang grinned. "What, are you afraid you can't keep up?" he said.

It was exactly the right thing to say; it relocated Gorfang in their fuzzy brains from socially inferior and threatening to challenging drinking companion. Relaxing, the youths gathered around as Gorfang innocently offered to stand the first round. Their confidence slipped a bit as the orc called on Harald for four bottles of Typril's best brandy and thirteen glasses. The four minders, though clearly grateful to be considered, declined but the young revellers were by no means backward about sinking the potent fluid... and a night of epic drinking commenced.

Four hours later, Gorfang and the young groom were the only ones left standing. The orc eyed the young human with some respect; his toughness was almost orcish, and he seemed to have more sense than most of them - probably why he was ready for marriage. "Your mates are a bit wet," he commented. He dug in his pouch and rolled up some devil-weed, then proffered the resulting bulging construction to the youth. "Smoke?" he said. The human took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, then blinked. "Good stuff, man," he said, croaking slightly. Gorfang gave up; he wasn't going to get this one to go down, it was clear. This man would be somebody, one day. "I think we'd better get your friends home," he said. The oldest of the minders stepped forwards. "We have a cart outside," he explained, "this was not unexpected."

As the guards and Gorfang started to lug unconcious bodies towards the door, Eloy 'casually' strolled over and offered to help. The minders seemed glad of the assistance, and the snoring celebrants were soon loaded. As the last one slumped onto the cart, Eloy tucked a purse into his jerkin. Then he turned to look at the groom and held out his hand; the youth paid him a piece of gold and thanked him.

The cart rumbled into the night, and Gorfang and Eloy shared a good laugh before dragging Uruk up the stairs to crash out for what remained of the night.