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ORDER & CHAOS pt. 3
Posted 06-08-2009 at 12:53 AM by Goth Writer
Updated 06-11-2009 at 07:56 PM by Goth Writer (It's a work in progress...)
Updated 06-11-2009 at 07:56 PM by Goth Writer (It's a work in progress...)
Unleashing a battle cry, Sharon and Senegoth simultaneously leapt from the tree. Mid-way through their fall the Baroness transformed into a werebear while Senegoth disappeared completely.
Standing bewildered, one unlucky goblin found his shoulder cut while another felt a dagger in his back. The latter goblin managed to turn and thrust his own blade into Senegoth’s chest.
Sharon surged in werebear form at the last two goblins. The she-bear knocked them out of consciousness.
Gilead galloped into the battle scene.
***
Grondol awoke with his head burning with pain. In the stillness he thought he was the only survivor of the battle. He walked over to Ulmo, his dead nephew, to mourn him. Then he saw other living people.
Standing over the body of the big troll was a pair of troll folk, mourning their ally.
Gilead sensed the goblin watching him and spun around, his eyes burning with rage and his sword drawn. The Ice Goblin wielded his axe and growled like a wild animal. Gilead and Sharon looked at Senegoth. Grondol stared down at Ulmo. The enemies gave each other a final look of sadness and resignation. They each sheathed their weapons and picked up their slain kinsmen. They headed in opposite directions.
***
Upon her return to the safety of The Wolf’s Fang Inn Sharon visited with the residents of Coermantyr. Over mugs of ale they discussed the latest happenings around Gaea. When not assailed by the Lykanthros, the trolls and troll women worked in varying trades. These skills ranged from weapons craftsmanship to the fabrication of fine cloths and regalia to be bartered with visiting gypsies and pilgrims.
Gilead brought the Baroness a pan of cakes, still steaming from the oven.
“What news, Gilead?”
Sharon tasted her supper.
“Not much beyond the usual business, M’Lady. There are visitors talking among themselves in the far corner. They’ve been here for some time and have something afoot. You should go speak with them and see if they have need of your assistance.”
The Innkeeper of The Wolf’s Fang was a sturdy troll with a ruddy face and a pocketed leather apron that he wore over his homespun tunic and breeches. His boots and belt were made of tanned and cured wolf hide.
Sharon glanced casually at the visitors in question. They were a secretive bunch as they chatted with each other in the dim candlelight of the quietest section of the tavern. She tossed back her braided, amber hair and pulled her buttoned vest about her as she ambled over to the party of newcomers.
There were three people at the table. They sipped mugs of ale drawn from a pitcher set next to the candle. Upon closer inspection, one of them was a troll whose face was partially obscured by a dark cowl. He looked at the Liege Lady as she extended her hand to him in greeting.
“Hello, I am Sharon Redthorne, Baroness of Coermantyr. What brings you folks to town?”
“Goblins, unfortunately,” said the burly troll.
He took the troll woman’s hand and shook it robustly.
“I am Lord Taliesin, of Mystic Down. My lich troll friend here is Leif. He hails from the Ghastly Fens and is a member of the scrupulous order of magic users known as the Sentinels. Our halfling scout is Bjorn Roundtree. We need help. We happened upon a cave on our way here from my Region. At first I took it to be a fine place to provide us with shelter during the cold night.”
“I discovered we were not the first band of visitors to make use of the location,” Taliesin continued. “As we settled before a cook fire, I saw piles of skeletal remains scattered around the floor of the cave. A few of the bones and rags contained jewelry and gold upon further investigation. The chamber extends deep into the Under Earth. I wanted to travel inward to inspect the full extent of the cavern’s riches. We chose to press on to Coermantyr, though. There were large, strange looking caterpillars building silk nests in notches of rock. At times I heard pattering foot falls deep in the darkness.”
Lord Taliesin paused to take a sip from his mug of ale before he continued.
“If you are willing to take your bow into our employ, we will gladly share with you what values we encounter in the depths of the cave.”
“Perhaps your Innkeeper friend would care to join us on our enterprise,” said Bjorn.
The halfling’s green eyes shone with a palpable eagerness.
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to accompany us,” answered Sharon.
As if on cue, Gilead approached the table with a platter of hearth bread and a fresh pitcher of ale.
“What business interests M’Lady with you fine fellows?” the Key Mage asked.
“These gentlemen wish for me to join them on a treasure hunt. They were just saying that they thought you’d make an excellent team member,” said the troll woman.
“Aye, and I’m sure there’ll be goblins involved,” Gilead scoffed. “I’ll join your band, for what it’s worth. My assistant, Max, will mind The Wolf’s Fang in my absence. Whenever the Baroness sets off on risky missions of this nature I like to escort her. I’m a protective troll at heart. I’m handy with a short sword, too,” Gilead chuckled.
The group of adventurers left for the mysterious cavern first thing in the morning. They marched quickly through the wilderness outside of Coermantyr. Although the untamed Regions of Gaea were the homes for many hostile creatures, the travelers reached the mouth of the cave without interception.
Sharon saw several gatherings of old bones scattered within the cave’s entrance. There were also the ashy remains of the original campfire left by Lord Taliesin and his acquaintances.
As they traversed inward they saw the large caterpillars. Several of them had sealed themselves in silk cocoons. A few had metamorphosed and arisen as large, shimmering, purple and blue butterflies. They clung to the walls of the cavern and flapped their wings so they would dry.
The cave extended into the depths of the Under Earth. Sharon and her friends heard the trickling of subterranean rivulets flowing through the rocks.
The lengthy cave expanded and became a spacious chamber. A clan of green-skinned goblins muttered around a cook fire. The smoke rose high into the dark cave to dissipate in unseen crevasses.
“Who are you?” asked a large goblin.
“We are travelers who happened upon the remains of those unfortunate people at the front of this cave. Do you know who they were and how they met their fate?” the Baroness replied.
“Yes, they were nosey pilgrims, just like you. We don’t take kindly to sharing our hoard.”
The goblin wielded a glinting saber.
“I advise you people to flee now or face the full brunt of our wrath.”
“That is not an option, Foul Goblin,” answered Gilead. “You have done wrong by these travelers and will suffer the consequences of your actions.”
The group of goblins drew their weapons and charged the troll woman’s band en masse. Bjorn felled two of the humanoids with his sling. Sharon dispatched a pair of the goblins with her arrows.
The remaining six goblins engaged the party with their sabers. The magician, Leif, waylaid the closest with an ice bolt spell.
“Frigidos!”
The goblin was encased in ice crystals. He was shattered entirely when smitten by another of Sharon’s arrows.
The last five humanoids fought viciously with the travelers. Lord Taliesin was cut a glancing blow on his left shoulder. They finished off the goblins, however. The last of which was victim to the Baroness’ steel sword.
“What a tragedy for those unlucky souls,” Bjorn said. “It surely is a risk to traverse the wilderness of Coermantyr without an armed escort.”
Gilead found a small chest that was unlocked. It held a collection of silver and gold bracelets, along with a large ruby amulet. He gave the amulet to the Baroness.
“These goblins must have been using this cave as an ambush for unwary visitors. It’s a good thing that we foiled their plans,” said the Key Mage of Coermantyr.
“Let’s return home and tell the people what happened here.”
Chapter Two: Lykanthros Invasion
The welcoming lights of Bard’s Inn brought visitors from throughout the Region of Mystic Down. Bjorn Roundtree enjoyed relaxing in a quiet corner of the bustling tavern. Short in stature, the enterprising halfling waited for the jovial travelers and wayward villagers to become immersed and distracted in mirthful conversation and tankards of ale. It was at times like these that potentially valuable items found themselves in Bjorn’s travel pack.
When Bors, the proprietor, closed up for the night, Bjorn slipped out the front door and prepared to retire for the evening. As he walked below the side window he was startled by a commotion at the hitching post of the inn. A tall, gaunt lich troll, dressed in fine attire was berating Bors about something.
“There’s no way I could’ve misplaced it. I’m a new visitor here and pay for all my supplies with honest coins. One of you townsfolk has purloined my orb!”
“I’m sorry, sir. I have no idea of what you speak. This is an honest establishment and my reputation reaches far in this territory. If you have truly lost this item I cannot guess as to it’s whereabouts.”
“I am very put out. Inform your patrons that I shall return and expect information regarding my missing property.”
The mysterious lich troll glowered at the barkeep with an intimidating visage.
Bjorn was intrigued. He had not expected anything interesting to happen after the inn closed for the night. Although planning to retire for the evening, he was curious about this strange visitor to Wood’s End and decided to follow him undetected. Bjorn paused to ensure that the contents of his travel pack were in order. He had only a few baubles that had been discarded throughout the village that day.
Among the wood and pewter figurines, whittling tools and spectacles he noticed a dark, glass ball. It was cool to the touch and small enough to fit easily into his pudgy hand. Bjorn had noticed it lain among some ale mugs and empty plates on a table under which he’d been resting. The tall stranger had been sitting there. He’d seemed lost in thought, contemplating his mug of ale. The enterprising halfling thought it unnecessary to disturb the ghoul troll.
Bjorn followed the lich troll beyond the outskirts of Wood’s End.
That’s unusual, he thought. If a traveler didn’t stay in a room at Bard’s Inn he would normally find lodging in one of the many livery stables around town.
The gaunt fellow walked another mile into the woods before arriving at a clearing in the trees. A fire ring was prepared and a black, Arkadian stallion mashed oats while tethered nearby. The enigmatic traveler rummaged through the pockets of his lavish cloak and struck flint with steel to start a crackling fire. As the flames rose he tossed in a handful of glittering powder that he drew from a pouch fastened to his belt.
Bjorn watched in awe as a preternatural, blue mist gathered over the flames.
“Your servant awaits your counsel, My Queen.”
The tall troll genuflected before the spiraling flames as the heated mist condensed into the likeness of the Dire Queen, Ankharet. Her hair had turned white prematurely from the strain of her magical experiments.
“Well done, Themistokles. Your reward awaits your return to the Abyssal Cairn. I have maintained correspondence with Guardon, the Gorgon King through my scrying glass. He will continue to send his Lykanthros through the planar gateway but demands the Orb of Paryphax. He must unlock it’s energy in the Gorgon Plane in order to appease the ever-hungry Spirits of Chaos. Where is the orb, Themistokles?”
“I regret to inform you that it has become misplaced, My Queen. I took it from the decrepit Wood Mage with little resistance. His sorcery has faded and I liquidated him with minimal difficulty. Unfortunately, somewhere along my journey here the orb simply disappeared. I have no idea how or when. There must be some impeding enchantment afoot. If this is the case it is a magic I have not yet encountered. These accursed woods are a menace.”
“There is little time for such inconveniences! You must find the Orb of Paryphax without hesitation if you wish to extricate yourself from my displeasure.”
Ankharet was furious and let her rage be known to her sometime liaison.
“Do not fail in your task, Themistokles, or you shall not only reckon with me, but with Guardon, as well.”
“I understand, My Dire Queen. I will find your orb and deliver it to you with the utmost haste.”
The wavering representation of Ankharet dissolved.
Rather than go to sleep for the night, the Dire Queen’s Vizier focused on the task of preparing an arcane summoning.
“Alas, I have not the time to hire bumbling stone trolls or impoverished orcs,” the thin lich troll declared aloud.
As Bjorn watched from a cluster of dense underbrush, the Vizier once again tossed a handful of shimmering powder into his fire. This substance he drew from a different pouch from the first. As the flames swirled into a bright, crimson pyre, Themistokles uttered an incantation from a spell book.
“Flotsam, Jetsam, Mayhem come forth. I take upon myself the burden of your chaos. If your bonds are broken, I shall be banished to the Gorgon Plane in your place.”
Bjorn marveled as the crimson pyre condensed and intensified. Three Ephemeral Entities were pulled through the rift opened by the conniving Vizier’s magic. In the dark of the moonless night the trio of freshly summoned creatures glowed with an arcane light.
“What is your bidding? We await your direction,” the largest specter, Flotsam hissed.
It had a rough, humanoid shape but was entirely translucent, as were the other two. They all levitated with impatient buoyancy.
“I seek an object of great value to me. I have already claimed it once this day and it carries my signature. You will perceive it’s proximity for it is a mark made of the same magic that binds you to this realm. By no mistake of mine it has clearly been taken. I want you to find it and return it to me immediately,” the tall mage commanded.
“What shall we do with the current owners?” asked Mayhem, a smaller specter that bore an especially sinister expression.
“It is none of my concern. Deal with the pickpockets, as you will. Just make sure they never steal again,” Themistokles answered.
The scene in the forest fascinated Bjorn. He figured he would tell his uncle, Ben Frostberry, what he had seen and heard. The agile halfling was familiar with this section of the woods and knew of animal trails and dried riverbeds that escaped detection by large lich trolls and orcs. He traversed narrow tunnels worn through the thick underbrush by badgers and foxes. Some distance behind him he heard whispering voices wafting among the treetops.
“I sense the orb. It is in this forest. Someone bears it away from our master.”
“Yes, it is true. We must pursue.”
Bjorn supposed the specters were talking about the glass ball he’d found in Bard’s Inn earlier that evening. It didn’t seem very special to him. He thought he might use it to augment a necklace or pendant.
“It sure will be good to see old Ben again. I wonder if he has any of his strawberry pie.”
To Bjorn Roundtree’s relief his longtime companion’s house was just as he remembered. Even more enticing was the aroma of freshly baked strawberry pie that drifted from the kitchen window. The morning sun was dawning. Bjorn was amazed that he had traveled through the uncharted woods all night long.
“Hello, Ben! It’s me, your nephew, Bjorn!”
The outgoing halfling took it upon himself to open his uncle’s unlocked front door and step inside.
“What a pleasant surprise, Bjorn!”
The older halfling was lifting the last of his batch of pies from the hearth.
“I didn’t expect to see you here today. What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Ben Frostberry queried.
“It’s a good thing you should ask. I wish I could say it was your strawberry pie. Unfortunately I seem to be in a bit of a pickle. I picked up a few trinkets from here and there and happened upon this glass marble.”
Bjorn showed the object in question to his uncle.
“It seems there are a few specters that are determined to find it at any cost. I was thinking I might dispose of it by sticking it into a smidgen of your pie and leaving it for a badger.”
“Well, you come bearing unusual news, Nephew. I think I have a better solution to your dilemma.”
The gray-haired halfling rubbed his chin whiskers in contemplation.
“I happen to know of a stream nearby where I catch delicious salmon. The young fish swim down the current to the sea where they pursue their own romantic encounters. Let us make haste to my fishing spot, place your marble in a piece of my pie and feed it to the hearty fish.”
It took the fleet-footed halflings just a few moments to reach the bank of the stream. Bjorn followed his experienced uncle’s advice and placed the Orb of Paryphax into a narrow wedge of Ben’s strawberry pie. He tossed it into the water with a splash. Both humanoids were surprised at how quickly the fins of a strong, young salmon grazed the surface of the river as it gulped the tasty morsel. It was a large fish and would certainly venture downstream soon in search of a prospective mate.
The two halflings shook hands over their ingenious collaboration and walked home for a savory breakfast of their own.
***
Even before the advent of recorded history, Mystic Down was home to many species of creatures. Laden with magic and the etchings of ancient battles between Titans, whose names are long forgotten, the Down has become a crossroads of sorts. It is here that lich folk and stone trolls struggle for a viable existence with werebeasts and multitudes of entities.
As groups of species united in their perpetual, feudal conflicts, Liege Lords soon rose to lead and defend their clans. One such Liege is Lord Taliesin. He is a troll who bears the telltale markings of his race. His eyes are a dark hazel. They reflect the color of the trees of the wold that grow perpetually and, some say, move on their own cognizance.
Taliesin is an ambitious troll, craving both power and recognition. He admires these characteristics in his relationships as well. Thus, the Liege Lord has experienced limited success with the fairer sex. Although Taliesin courted her for several months, Sharon ultimately shunned the Lord.
She opted for the placid countenance of her Key Mage, Gilead. She too is an independent-minded, willful warrior, not lacking in courage or craving for power. Although a Liege Lord’s noble bearing is cause for esteem and provides an opportunity for leadership, true notoriety for any Lord or Lady of Gaea is determined in the battlefield after arduous and dangerous campaigns.
Mystic Down is a chaotic and untamed Region. Taliesin’s homeland is beset with ongoing invasions and terrors. Of late the Dire Queen, Ankharet, poses an intrusive threat. She has caused a palpable disturbance in the spatial continuity of the Down. Her evil, experimental sorceries have summoned creatures from planes untapped for centuries.
The Dire Queen plans to crush the Denizens of Gaea and claim it as her own. This has never been done. She understands the magical gambit that must be played. The Spirits of Gaea are not easily swayed under any mortal’s influence.
If she is to be victorious Ankharet must either destroy Taliesin and his brother and sister Lieges or obtain their acquiescence, a feat that will not be done without bloodshed and travesty.
Lord Taliesin is aware of the spatial disturbance in his Region. His dreams have been filled with the cries of the wild things deep in the uncharted woods. He is bonded to them in preternatural ways. The Down is in his blood. They are of the same magic.
The howling of the wolves in the kennels of Lord Taliesin’s Tower reflected his solemn melancholy. Ever since his rejection by Sharon he felt out of sorts. He prided himself on his abilities to persuade and cajole even the most impervious of visitors to his domain.
The Baroness of Coermantyr was an aggravating exception. She’d arrived in the Down the previous fortnight, seeking his counsel as Liege Lord of the trolls in his Region. The conflict with the Summoners had become a serious problem in the Realm.
“Taliesin, we must do something. Mystic Down is alight from this spatial imbalance. My wizards have reported Summoners and Illusionaries as far as Deep Tree. They have placed watching eyes on the borders and urge me that more of the Dire Queen’s strange creatures are migrating here. We must ally ourselves with the other Liege Lords and penetrate the picket line of Arkadia.”
The Baroness wore her usual colors of dark, silky blue and a shimmering cape lined with burgundy. Her bright, blue eyes glowered with an uncanny expression of determination and vehemence.
“I intend to assist you,” Taliesin said. “We must make an account of our resources. The Dire Queen has proven to be a formidable adversary. The spatial balance of the Down is indeed askew. I have had troublesome dreams of late. My minions are anxious and prowl this Region with increased discontent. I would not like to initiate a direct conflict with the Dire Queen, Ankharet, but her recent activities demand further investigation. We should gather a party of travelers and infiltrate her borders without detection.”
Taliesin recalled the meeting well. He did not doubt it foreshadowed approaching tribulations. He had asked the Baroness to take his hand in the Rites of Matrimony but she had refused. The Troll Lord had thought it a suitable match. The Baroness was not a troll woman to be easily persuaded of influenced. She had a wily, independent mind and would not be willingly beholden to him.
“Sharon, if you will not have me, let us embark to the core of the woods. We must investigate the source of the turmoil that winds itself around the hearts of the creatures of the Down. Our lands must be restored to their harmonious state. I will not be remembered as the son who let his father’s land turn to magical disarray.”
The Liege of Mystic Down addressed the Baroness who stood before his gargoyle-etched dais. A hooded troll stood behind each of her shoulders, cloaked in the same, blue motif.
“If you insist, Taliesin, my trolls and I will join you on your quest. The beasts and villagers of Coermantyr are also ill at ease with this new disturbance. The trees have changed. When I look out the window of my stronghold, the wilderness is not what I knew. There is a foul blackness that permeates the land. I feel it in my bones.”
“I have been petitioned by the people to restore the sunlight,” the Baroness continued. “They are desperate for their crops to grow once again. My mages have seen strange creatures through their scrying glasses. They warn me that cattle and fish have disappeared where they once prospered. I will seal this alliance with you although I will not take your hand. You are a respectable Liege Lord and merit the responsibilities inherent to this undertaking.”
Taliesin and Sharon readied themselves for their journey. Their entourage included several packhorses, the Liege Lady’s Sergeant-at-arms, Rodnik, and two mages of the Baroness’ Castle, Gilead and Alex. They departed over the Tower’s drawbridge the next morning, despite the chilling rain.
Magical phenomena soon became evident along the road that led toward the deep woods. Indications of banditry and foul play were abundant. Along the roadside, wagons lay ransacked and overturned. The traveling party found deceased horses and oxen that eerily had not putrefied. Drained of their fluids, the carcasses possessed large puncture wounds at arterial locations.
“Something awful has happened here,” remarked Alex. “There are ill spirits adrift.”
“I concur,” murmured Sharon. “I fear for the safety of the villagers in this Region. Let us seek the counsel of the Burgomeister and take shelter for the night. I am loath to camp here. These woods are ominous.”
Lord Taliesin and his party reached the outskirts of the village of Wood’s End as dusk began to fall. The sporadic wails of rogue wolves echoed over the shanties and cleared land. Few trolls were visible and those that lingered outdoors hurried to bring their last loads of firewood into their homes. The windows were boarded and the doors of the shacks steadfastly barred. As the riders approached the town’s square, the church bells rang out, announcing the impending nightfall.
(CONTINUED IN ORDER & CHAOS pt. 4)
Standing bewildered, one unlucky goblin found his shoulder cut while another felt a dagger in his back. The latter goblin managed to turn and thrust his own blade into Senegoth’s chest.
Sharon surged in werebear form at the last two goblins. The she-bear knocked them out of consciousness.
Gilead galloped into the battle scene.
***
Grondol awoke with his head burning with pain. In the stillness he thought he was the only survivor of the battle. He walked over to Ulmo, his dead nephew, to mourn him. Then he saw other living people.
Standing over the body of the big troll was a pair of troll folk, mourning their ally.
Gilead sensed the goblin watching him and spun around, his eyes burning with rage and his sword drawn. The Ice Goblin wielded his axe and growled like a wild animal. Gilead and Sharon looked at Senegoth. Grondol stared down at Ulmo. The enemies gave each other a final look of sadness and resignation. They each sheathed their weapons and picked up their slain kinsmen. They headed in opposite directions.
***
Upon her return to the safety of The Wolf’s Fang Inn Sharon visited with the residents of Coermantyr. Over mugs of ale they discussed the latest happenings around Gaea. When not assailed by the Lykanthros, the trolls and troll women worked in varying trades. These skills ranged from weapons craftsmanship to the fabrication of fine cloths and regalia to be bartered with visiting gypsies and pilgrims.
Gilead brought the Baroness a pan of cakes, still steaming from the oven.
“What news, Gilead?”
Sharon tasted her supper.
“Not much beyond the usual business, M’Lady. There are visitors talking among themselves in the far corner. They’ve been here for some time and have something afoot. You should go speak with them and see if they have need of your assistance.”
The Innkeeper of The Wolf’s Fang was a sturdy troll with a ruddy face and a pocketed leather apron that he wore over his homespun tunic and breeches. His boots and belt were made of tanned and cured wolf hide.
Sharon glanced casually at the visitors in question. They were a secretive bunch as they chatted with each other in the dim candlelight of the quietest section of the tavern. She tossed back her braided, amber hair and pulled her buttoned vest about her as she ambled over to the party of newcomers.
There were three people at the table. They sipped mugs of ale drawn from a pitcher set next to the candle. Upon closer inspection, one of them was a troll whose face was partially obscured by a dark cowl. He looked at the Liege Lady as she extended her hand to him in greeting.
“Hello, I am Sharon Redthorne, Baroness of Coermantyr. What brings you folks to town?”
“Goblins, unfortunately,” said the burly troll.
He took the troll woman’s hand and shook it robustly.
“I am Lord Taliesin, of Mystic Down. My lich troll friend here is Leif. He hails from the Ghastly Fens and is a member of the scrupulous order of magic users known as the Sentinels. Our halfling scout is Bjorn Roundtree. We need help. We happened upon a cave on our way here from my Region. At first I took it to be a fine place to provide us with shelter during the cold night.”
“I discovered we were not the first band of visitors to make use of the location,” Taliesin continued. “As we settled before a cook fire, I saw piles of skeletal remains scattered around the floor of the cave. A few of the bones and rags contained jewelry and gold upon further investigation. The chamber extends deep into the Under Earth. I wanted to travel inward to inspect the full extent of the cavern’s riches. We chose to press on to Coermantyr, though. There were large, strange looking caterpillars building silk nests in notches of rock. At times I heard pattering foot falls deep in the darkness.”
Lord Taliesin paused to take a sip from his mug of ale before he continued.
“If you are willing to take your bow into our employ, we will gladly share with you what values we encounter in the depths of the cave.”
“Perhaps your Innkeeper friend would care to join us on our enterprise,” said Bjorn.
The halfling’s green eyes shone with a palpable eagerness.
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to accompany us,” answered Sharon.
As if on cue, Gilead approached the table with a platter of hearth bread and a fresh pitcher of ale.
“What business interests M’Lady with you fine fellows?” the Key Mage asked.
“These gentlemen wish for me to join them on a treasure hunt. They were just saying that they thought you’d make an excellent team member,” said the troll woman.
“Aye, and I’m sure there’ll be goblins involved,” Gilead scoffed. “I’ll join your band, for what it’s worth. My assistant, Max, will mind The Wolf’s Fang in my absence. Whenever the Baroness sets off on risky missions of this nature I like to escort her. I’m a protective troll at heart. I’m handy with a short sword, too,” Gilead chuckled.
The group of adventurers left for the mysterious cavern first thing in the morning. They marched quickly through the wilderness outside of Coermantyr. Although the untamed Regions of Gaea were the homes for many hostile creatures, the travelers reached the mouth of the cave without interception.
Sharon saw several gatherings of old bones scattered within the cave’s entrance. There were also the ashy remains of the original campfire left by Lord Taliesin and his acquaintances.
As they traversed inward they saw the large caterpillars. Several of them had sealed themselves in silk cocoons. A few had metamorphosed and arisen as large, shimmering, purple and blue butterflies. They clung to the walls of the cavern and flapped their wings so they would dry.
The cave extended into the depths of the Under Earth. Sharon and her friends heard the trickling of subterranean rivulets flowing through the rocks.
The lengthy cave expanded and became a spacious chamber. A clan of green-skinned goblins muttered around a cook fire. The smoke rose high into the dark cave to dissipate in unseen crevasses.
“Who are you?” asked a large goblin.
“We are travelers who happened upon the remains of those unfortunate people at the front of this cave. Do you know who they were and how they met their fate?” the Baroness replied.
“Yes, they were nosey pilgrims, just like you. We don’t take kindly to sharing our hoard.”
The goblin wielded a glinting saber.
“I advise you people to flee now or face the full brunt of our wrath.”
“That is not an option, Foul Goblin,” answered Gilead. “You have done wrong by these travelers and will suffer the consequences of your actions.”
The group of goblins drew their weapons and charged the troll woman’s band en masse. Bjorn felled two of the humanoids with his sling. Sharon dispatched a pair of the goblins with her arrows.
The remaining six goblins engaged the party with their sabers. The magician, Leif, waylaid the closest with an ice bolt spell.
“Frigidos!”
The goblin was encased in ice crystals. He was shattered entirely when smitten by another of Sharon’s arrows.
The last five humanoids fought viciously with the travelers. Lord Taliesin was cut a glancing blow on his left shoulder. They finished off the goblins, however. The last of which was victim to the Baroness’ steel sword.
“What a tragedy for those unlucky souls,” Bjorn said. “It surely is a risk to traverse the wilderness of Coermantyr without an armed escort.”
Gilead found a small chest that was unlocked. It held a collection of silver and gold bracelets, along with a large ruby amulet. He gave the amulet to the Baroness.
“These goblins must have been using this cave as an ambush for unwary visitors. It’s a good thing that we foiled their plans,” said the Key Mage of Coermantyr.
“Let’s return home and tell the people what happened here.”
Chapter Two: Lykanthros Invasion
The welcoming lights of Bard’s Inn brought visitors from throughout the Region of Mystic Down. Bjorn Roundtree enjoyed relaxing in a quiet corner of the bustling tavern. Short in stature, the enterprising halfling waited for the jovial travelers and wayward villagers to become immersed and distracted in mirthful conversation and tankards of ale. It was at times like these that potentially valuable items found themselves in Bjorn’s travel pack.
When Bors, the proprietor, closed up for the night, Bjorn slipped out the front door and prepared to retire for the evening. As he walked below the side window he was startled by a commotion at the hitching post of the inn. A tall, gaunt lich troll, dressed in fine attire was berating Bors about something.
“There’s no way I could’ve misplaced it. I’m a new visitor here and pay for all my supplies with honest coins. One of you townsfolk has purloined my orb!”
“I’m sorry, sir. I have no idea of what you speak. This is an honest establishment and my reputation reaches far in this territory. If you have truly lost this item I cannot guess as to it’s whereabouts.”
“I am very put out. Inform your patrons that I shall return and expect information regarding my missing property.”
The mysterious lich troll glowered at the barkeep with an intimidating visage.
Bjorn was intrigued. He had not expected anything interesting to happen after the inn closed for the night. Although planning to retire for the evening, he was curious about this strange visitor to Wood’s End and decided to follow him undetected. Bjorn paused to ensure that the contents of his travel pack were in order. He had only a few baubles that had been discarded throughout the village that day.
Among the wood and pewter figurines, whittling tools and spectacles he noticed a dark, glass ball. It was cool to the touch and small enough to fit easily into his pudgy hand. Bjorn had noticed it lain among some ale mugs and empty plates on a table under which he’d been resting. The tall stranger had been sitting there. He’d seemed lost in thought, contemplating his mug of ale. The enterprising halfling thought it unnecessary to disturb the ghoul troll.
Bjorn followed the lich troll beyond the outskirts of Wood’s End.
That’s unusual, he thought. If a traveler didn’t stay in a room at Bard’s Inn he would normally find lodging in one of the many livery stables around town.
The gaunt fellow walked another mile into the woods before arriving at a clearing in the trees. A fire ring was prepared and a black, Arkadian stallion mashed oats while tethered nearby. The enigmatic traveler rummaged through the pockets of his lavish cloak and struck flint with steel to start a crackling fire. As the flames rose he tossed in a handful of glittering powder that he drew from a pouch fastened to his belt.
Bjorn watched in awe as a preternatural, blue mist gathered over the flames.
“Your servant awaits your counsel, My Queen.”
The tall troll genuflected before the spiraling flames as the heated mist condensed into the likeness of the Dire Queen, Ankharet. Her hair had turned white prematurely from the strain of her magical experiments.
“Well done, Themistokles. Your reward awaits your return to the Abyssal Cairn. I have maintained correspondence with Guardon, the Gorgon King through my scrying glass. He will continue to send his Lykanthros through the planar gateway but demands the Orb of Paryphax. He must unlock it’s energy in the Gorgon Plane in order to appease the ever-hungry Spirits of Chaos. Where is the orb, Themistokles?”
“I regret to inform you that it has become misplaced, My Queen. I took it from the decrepit Wood Mage with little resistance. His sorcery has faded and I liquidated him with minimal difficulty. Unfortunately, somewhere along my journey here the orb simply disappeared. I have no idea how or when. There must be some impeding enchantment afoot. If this is the case it is a magic I have not yet encountered. These accursed woods are a menace.”
“There is little time for such inconveniences! You must find the Orb of Paryphax without hesitation if you wish to extricate yourself from my displeasure.”
Ankharet was furious and let her rage be known to her sometime liaison.
“Do not fail in your task, Themistokles, or you shall not only reckon with me, but with Guardon, as well.”
“I understand, My Dire Queen. I will find your orb and deliver it to you with the utmost haste.”
The wavering representation of Ankharet dissolved.
Rather than go to sleep for the night, the Dire Queen’s Vizier focused on the task of preparing an arcane summoning.
“Alas, I have not the time to hire bumbling stone trolls or impoverished orcs,” the thin lich troll declared aloud.
As Bjorn watched from a cluster of dense underbrush, the Vizier once again tossed a handful of shimmering powder into his fire. This substance he drew from a different pouch from the first. As the flames swirled into a bright, crimson pyre, Themistokles uttered an incantation from a spell book.
“Flotsam, Jetsam, Mayhem come forth. I take upon myself the burden of your chaos. If your bonds are broken, I shall be banished to the Gorgon Plane in your place.”
Bjorn marveled as the crimson pyre condensed and intensified. Three Ephemeral Entities were pulled through the rift opened by the conniving Vizier’s magic. In the dark of the moonless night the trio of freshly summoned creatures glowed with an arcane light.
“What is your bidding? We await your direction,” the largest specter, Flotsam hissed.
It had a rough, humanoid shape but was entirely translucent, as were the other two. They all levitated with impatient buoyancy.
“I seek an object of great value to me. I have already claimed it once this day and it carries my signature. You will perceive it’s proximity for it is a mark made of the same magic that binds you to this realm. By no mistake of mine it has clearly been taken. I want you to find it and return it to me immediately,” the tall mage commanded.
“What shall we do with the current owners?” asked Mayhem, a smaller specter that bore an especially sinister expression.
“It is none of my concern. Deal with the pickpockets, as you will. Just make sure they never steal again,” Themistokles answered.
The scene in the forest fascinated Bjorn. He figured he would tell his uncle, Ben Frostberry, what he had seen and heard. The agile halfling was familiar with this section of the woods and knew of animal trails and dried riverbeds that escaped detection by large lich trolls and orcs. He traversed narrow tunnels worn through the thick underbrush by badgers and foxes. Some distance behind him he heard whispering voices wafting among the treetops.
“I sense the orb. It is in this forest. Someone bears it away from our master.”
“Yes, it is true. We must pursue.”
Bjorn supposed the specters were talking about the glass ball he’d found in Bard’s Inn earlier that evening. It didn’t seem very special to him. He thought he might use it to augment a necklace or pendant.
“It sure will be good to see old Ben again. I wonder if he has any of his strawberry pie.”
To Bjorn Roundtree’s relief his longtime companion’s house was just as he remembered. Even more enticing was the aroma of freshly baked strawberry pie that drifted from the kitchen window. The morning sun was dawning. Bjorn was amazed that he had traveled through the uncharted woods all night long.
“Hello, Ben! It’s me, your nephew, Bjorn!”
The outgoing halfling took it upon himself to open his uncle’s unlocked front door and step inside.
“What a pleasant surprise, Bjorn!”
The older halfling was lifting the last of his batch of pies from the hearth.
“I didn’t expect to see you here today. What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Ben Frostberry queried.
“It’s a good thing you should ask. I wish I could say it was your strawberry pie. Unfortunately I seem to be in a bit of a pickle. I picked up a few trinkets from here and there and happened upon this glass marble.”
Bjorn showed the object in question to his uncle.
“It seems there are a few specters that are determined to find it at any cost. I was thinking I might dispose of it by sticking it into a smidgen of your pie and leaving it for a badger.”
“Well, you come bearing unusual news, Nephew. I think I have a better solution to your dilemma.”
The gray-haired halfling rubbed his chin whiskers in contemplation.
“I happen to know of a stream nearby where I catch delicious salmon. The young fish swim down the current to the sea where they pursue their own romantic encounters. Let us make haste to my fishing spot, place your marble in a piece of my pie and feed it to the hearty fish.”
It took the fleet-footed halflings just a few moments to reach the bank of the stream. Bjorn followed his experienced uncle’s advice and placed the Orb of Paryphax into a narrow wedge of Ben’s strawberry pie. He tossed it into the water with a splash. Both humanoids were surprised at how quickly the fins of a strong, young salmon grazed the surface of the river as it gulped the tasty morsel. It was a large fish and would certainly venture downstream soon in search of a prospective mate.
The two halflings shook hands over their ingenious collaboration and walked home for a savory breakfast of their own.
***
Even before the advent of recorded history, Mystic Down was home to many species of creatures. Laden with magic and the etchings of ancient battles between Titans, whose names are long forgotten, the Down has become a crossroads of sorts. It is here that lich folk and stone trolls struggle for a viable existence with werebeasts and multitudes of entities.
As groups of species united in their perpetual, feudal conflicts, Liege Lords soon rose to lead and defend their clans. One such Liege is Lord Taliesin. He is a troll who bears the telltale markings of his race. His eyes are a dark hazel. They reflect the color of the trees of the wold that grow perpetually and, some say, move on their own cognizance.
Taliesin is an ambitious troll, craving both power and recognition. He admires these characteristics in his relationships as well. Thus, the Liege Lord has experienced limited success with the fairer sex. Although Taliesin courted her for several months, Sharon ultimately shunned the Lord.
She opted for the placid countenance of her Key Mage, Gilead. She too is an independent-minded, willful warrior, not lacking in courage or craving for power. Although a Liege Lord’s noble bearing is cause for esteem and provides an opportunity for leadership, true notoriety for any Lord or Lady of Gaea is determined in the battlefield after arduous and dangerous campaigns.
Mystic Down is a chaotic and untamed Region. Taliesin’s homeland is beset with ongoing invasions and terrors. Of late the Dire Queen, Ankharet, poses an intrusive threat. She has caused a palpable disturbance in the spatial continuity of the Down. Her evil, experimental sorceries have summoned creatures from planes untapped for centuries.
The Dire Queen plans to crush the Denizens of Gaea and claim it as her own. This has never been done. She understands the magical gambit that must be played. The Spirits of Gaea are not easily swayed under any mortal’s influence.
If she is to be victorious Ankharet must either destroy Taliesin and his brother and sister Lieges or obtain their acquiescence, a feat that will not be done without bloodshed and travesty.
Lord Taliesin is aware of the spatial disturbance in his Region. His dreams have been filled with the cries of the wild things deep in the uncharted woods. He is bonded to them in preternatural ways. The Down is in his blood. They are of the same magic.
The howling of the wolves in the kennels of Lord Taliesin’s Tower reflected his solemn melancholy. Ever since his rejection by Sharon he felt out of sorts. He prided himself on his abilities to persuade and cajole even the most impervious of visitors to his domain.
The Baroness of Coermantyr was an aggravating exception. She’d arrived in the Down the previous fortnight, seeking his counsel as Liege Lord of the trolls in his Region. The conflict with the Summoners had become a serious problem in the Realm.
“Taliesin, we must do something. Mystic Down is alight from this spatial imbalance. My wizards have reported Summoners and Illusionaries as far as Deep Tree. They have placed watching eyes on the borders and urge me that more of the Dire Queen’s strange creatures are migrating here. We must ally ourselves with the other Liege Lords and penetrate the picket line of Arkadia.”
The Baroness wore her usual colors of dark, silky blue and a shimmering cape lined with burgundy. Her bright, blue eyes glowered with an uncanny expression of determination and vehemence.
“I intend to assist you,” Taliesin said. “We must make an account of our resources. The Dire Queen has proven to be a formidable adversary. The spatial balance of the Down is indeed askew. I have had troublesome dreams of late. My minions are anxious and prowl this Region with increased discontent. I would not like to initiate a direct conflict with the Dire Queen, Ankharet, but her recent activities demand further investigation. We should gather a party of travelers and infiltrate her borders without detection.”
Taliesin recalled the meeting well. He did not doubt it foreshadowed approaching tribulations. He had asked the Baroness to take his hand in the Rites of Matrimony but she had refused. The Troll Lord had thought it a suitable match. The Baroness was not a troll woman to be easily persuaded of influenced. She had a wily, independent mind and would not be willingly beholden to him.
“Sharon, if you will not have me, let us embark to the core of the woods. We must investigate the source of the turmoil that winds itself around the hearts of the creatures of the Down. Our lands must be restored to their harmonious state. I will not be remembered as the son who let his father’s land turn to magical disarray.”
The Liege of Mystic Down addressed the Baroness who stood before his gargoyle-etched dais. A hooded troll stood behind each of her shoulders, cloaked in the same, blue motif.
“If you insist, Taliesin, my trolls and I will join you on your quest. The beasts and villagers of Coermantyr are also ill at ease with this new disturbance. The trees have changed. When I look out the window of my stronghold, the wilderness is not what I knew. There is a foul blackness that permeates the land. I feel it in my bones.”
“I have been petitioned by the people to restore the sunlight,” the Baroness continued. “They are desperate for their crops to grow once again. My mages have seen strange creatures through their scrying glasses. They warn me that cattle and fish have disappeared where they once prospered. I will seal this alliance with you although I will not take your hand. You are a respectable Liege Lord and merit the responsibilities inherent to this undertaking.”
Taliesin and Sharon readied themselves for their journey. Their entourage included several packhorses, the Liege Lady’s Sergeant-at-arms, Rodnik, and two mages of the Baroness’ Castle, Gilead and Alex. They departed over the Tower’s drawbridge the next morning, despite the chilling rain.
Magical phenomena soon became evident along the road that led toward the deep woods. Indications of banditry and foul play were abundant. Along the roadside, wagons lay ransacked and overturned. The traveling party found deceased horses and oxen that eerily had not putrefied. Drained of their fluids, the carcasses possessed large puncture wounds at arterial locations.
“Something awful has happened here,” remarked Alex. “There are ill spirits adrift.”
“I concur,” murmured Sharon. “I fear for the safety of the villagers in this Region. Let us seek the counsel of the Burgomeister and take shelter for the night. I am loath to camp here. These woods are ominous.”
Lord Taliesin and his party reached the outskirts of the village of Wood’s End as dusk began to fall. The sporadic wails of rogue wolves echoed over the shanties and cleared land. Few trolls were visible and those that lingered outdoors hurried to bring their last loads of firewood into their homes. The windows were boarded and the doors of the shacks steadfastly barred. As the riders approached the town’s square, the church bells rang out, announcing the impending nightfall.
(CONTINUED IN ORDER & CHAOS pt. 4)
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