As night fell and the heavens opened overhead the adventurers- along with the remaining townsfolk- fell back towards Bridhvale. It was a great, terrified, headlong chase back through the darkness, and many of the expedition- unfamiliar with the woods or simply oblivious in their blind panic- stumbled, fell behind or otherwise became hopelessly detached from the group’s main body. Fortunate indeed that the forest’s bloodlust had apparently been sated for the present at least, for if any further pursuit had been offered then your losses would no doubt have been greater still.
Soon, only Emmerus remained: rooted to the forest clearing by the force of the druid, Aliira’s, enchantment. The full fury of the storm broke across the forest about him: lightning dancing across the grey dusk sky as wave after wave of thunder rolled down the hillsides and into the valley, a heavy rainfall lashing the blood-soaked soil where the templars had fought and died. The stag-spirit Helvellion, seemingly unperturbed by the deathly cold, biting rainfall, continues to tear at the fallen Pelorites’ lifeless bodies, his strong hands easily sundering the links of their mail hauberks and then- with a series of sickening cracks- the ribcages within, to feast messily upon their hearts and innards. By the time he is done and each of the ten stilled bodies in turn has been summarily defiled the hunt-spirit turns his blood-spattered muzzle back towards the priest, snorting and sniffing the air sceptically, but his appetite must have been sufficiently blunted by the heavy meal for Helvellion is soon gone, ambling off back into the trees in search of sleep for the night. Emmerus is not far behind him, exhausted both by the past day’s fighting and by his fruitless efforts to repair the damage done to the clearing’s plants by the Bishop’s scorching vengeance. Exhausted, he tumbles to the forest floor, too tired even to remove his armour, and finally succumbs to a troubled sleep.
In the priest’s fevered dreaming a bloated, rotting corpse hangs from the bough of each tall oak in the forest clearing, swaying weakly from side to side in the brisk, woodland breeze. The bodies twitch and whisper amongst themselves- or perhaps they are chanting- but their voices are strangely disjointed and the words make precious little sense to the slumbering Pelorite. A figure stumbles from the treeline, clad in the tattered mail and bloodied tabard of the Minster’s protectors, it’s movements clumsy and ragged like those of the animated cadavers the group fought in the tunnels beneath the keep’s ruins. There is a gaping, tattered hole in the visage’s chest- again like those poor unfortunates the drow had sacrificed there- and the figure opens its mouth to speak but only a torrent of maggots and green spring leaves issues forth.
When Emmerus awakens it is already early morning, pale fingers of dawn light stretching through the canopy and into the clearing once more. The old priest’s form is tired and aching from a night sleeping in chain mail, bruised where the rings and plates of his armour bit into his supine flesh. His erstwhile comrade Aliira is standing nearby, deep discussion with the ghost Alendar. The subtle syllables of the elfish tongue in which the two converse is lost on the cleric, but from their expressions and body movements it is plain enough that his fate is indeed their topic of conversation. Finally, the druid approaches the fallen Pelorite, instructing him to return to Bridhvale and trouble the woods no more- magically compelled, he had little choice but to obey.
(OOC: I’ve received a PM from Ginafae, and those were the instructions her character will be giving Emmerus. I haven’t flanged this one at all.)
***
The morning after Emmerus returns from the forest, a messenger from the Church of Pelor arrives with a letter inviting what remains of the party to visit Bishop Abner in his office at the Minster.
Four bodies- the townsfolk killed in the first ambush in the woods- are displayed in open coffins atop a raised dais at the far end of the cathedral’s central hall and a number of their friends and relatives are still paying their last respects when you arrive. Some glance up to greet you with angry, accusing frowns as your troupe files past, while others are more welcoming, offering their condolences for the friends that you too have surely lost. A small number appear simply indifferent, or so lost in their grief that they are blind to your passage. Sheriff Woodshall is there too, bearing great, gaping facial wounds- now beyond even the a cleric’s power to heal fully- where the wolf tore off his nose and much of his forehead. He looks ready to approach you, to tell you what is difficult to say, but evidently thinks better of it and instead departs in the opposite direction. The heavy scent of burning incense is already insufficient to quite mask the odour of decaying flesh and you have little doubt that the funerals must soon follow. In the meantime the Minster resounds with the sounds of ringing bells and with prayers offered up for the town’s fallen.
A red robed acolyte is on hand to show you in, and wordlessly leads you up to the Bishop’s office. Abner himself appears in a sad state, devoid of any hint of the all-consuming passion that had fired him when you saw him last, and you are greeted instead by a tired, listless, beaten-looking old man, slumped back in his chair behind the battered oaken desk. Hollow rings of blue-grey bruises beneath the old priest’s eyes betray two nights missed sleep and, from the thick growth of grey stubble about his face and chin, it appears unlikely that he has been motivated to shave over the past couple of days.
Making an effort to stand the Bishop invites you all in, offering you each a place at the half-ring of chairs arranged before his desk. After a couple of awkward false starts the ancient warrior finally summons the energy to speak, and here at least there is some sign of the priest’s old familiar strength in his pitched, resounding tone. “Men say,” he begins, “that I was the first to flee. That much you will be aware is not true. Nonetheless,” it seems almost as though he’s trying to justify himself to you, “there was once a time when none could doubt that I would sooner stare death in the face myself than abandon those under my command to a hopeless fight.” He frowns, spreading his hands palm down on the battered old desk, “I have prayed long on the matter and will accept the penance that my lord Pelor decides for me.”
“You should also be aware,” and here he fixes your group with a penetrating stare, “that rumours have been spread about that it was the elves who betrayed us. There are a great number of frightened, angry people in the town at present and I would not care to speculate on which way their anger might turn if events were left unchecked. Put bluntly: Bridhvale is no safe place for you to remain for the time being .”
“Now, I can offer you a choice of employment for the week ahead- something which should see you far from Bridhvale and on to pastures new.”
“A number of the people here- woodcutters and their families for the most part- are planning to travel southward to the city of Goss to seek alternate means of employment until things blow over.” From the Bishop’s dour expression you doubt he quite approves of this initiative. “Word has it that the south has problems of its own and they’ve called on the Minster to provide them with protection for the trip. I’m going to need a group of capable warriors to journey southward with them through the old Massingberd barony, to make sure that they’re not attacked en route and try to ensure that they’re not robbed of all they own upon arrival.”
“Alternatively, if you’ve had enough of my townsfolk already,” there is little enough humour in Abner’s voice but the Bishop feigns a weak smile nonetheless, “the coster which funds Bridhvale has also called on the Minster to provide armed guards for one of their caravans as it journeys northward and up towards the Trollspine Mountains. There’s an old dwarven mining village up in the hills there and the merchants send some of their people up once every once in while to trade grain and other foodstuffs for the ore which the dwarves mine. As you might expect, the surrounding countryside is rife with goblins and their ilk and, while the filthy little creatures are generally seen off easily enough, rumour has it that some of the tribes there have been unusually aggressive of late.”
“In calmer times, I would simply send a patrol of templars along with either group. With the losses we’ve taken of late, however,” the Bishop frowns, running one finger along an old scar across his left cheek, “we can no longer spare the manpower for both. The people here are scared- rightly so by my wager- and every group of woodcutters who still dares set foot inside the tree-line is calling for templars to accompany them.” Casting a black look at certain of your number, Abner sinks bank into his chair. “Should you see fit to take on either task yourselves then I can offer recompense to the sum of one hundred Crowns: two if you decide to take employment with the coster.”
You make your views known and Abner rings a bell at his desk, presumably to summon another acolyte to show you out. When the door opens, however, a familiar figure stands smartly to attention in the corridor- clad in one of the Minster’s own flame-Sigelled red and white tabards over a suit of burnished mail. “No doubt you’ll remember Brother-Corporal Joshua Cayton,” the Bishop intones, a note of slight disapproval in his voice. “Joshua has requested a period of leave from his duties here to accompany you on your travels. That much has been granted. He believes that he’ll have a better chance to avenge his murdered brothers- and sisters-in-arms at your side.”
The Bishop slumps back into his chair, defeated. He does, however, have one final parting shot to pass on before you leave. “I’ve sent word southward to the Archbishop about the problems here, requesting that he send me a team of inquisitors to put paid to make the woods safe for travel once more. Word travels slowly over such distances- and no doubt a great many more innocent lives will be lost before they arrive- but, as Pelor is my witness, the matter will be resolved.”
(OOC: I’ll be handling the choice of next adventure on a straw poll. As Ginafae won’t be able to make it along for the next couple of weeks (she’ll be running a new character when she gets back) we have seven party members. Whichever gets the most votes by 10 AM GMT this Friday will be run.)
(If the party accepts his offer, Joshua will be joining the group as a henchman. It seems most appropriate for him to follow either Emmerus or Iskandel, so decide that one amongst yourselves
. Don’t worry, everyone should get at least one follower as the storyline progresses.)
Return to Charadun - Q&A
The Morphing Game
Return to Charadun - Recr
lmao...so we're playing on friday?
