Chief Dead, Tribe Broken, Quest unfinished...

[Mr. X]

... It takes nearly three days for the conflagration of Pinnacle Rock to die down. In that time, Luhix and her wargs a near multitude of refugees and potential slaves...

Burnt to ashes, the land stands prepared to rise anew under your Iron Fist.

[Bratovitch]

A finger of stone...skirting the land & the endless sea.

Cloak whipping in a furious wind, grasped by the cold winds of the sea clashing with the hot breath of the inferno, Malik the Maimblade stands at the peak of Pinnacle Rock alone...surveying his kingdom, aye...& battling his hidden shame.

Cold...endless...hungry...pain & death feared are not, yet this...this formless abyss holds terrors. Terrors against possible no victory is...

By sheer will does the War Master gird his spine. A fierce pride & passion for conquest keeps his knees from buckling like jelly. In hatred, spite, shame & rage, he bites off the tip of his tongue & spits it into the raucous waves far below...

Taste only, have of Malik you shall. Till the last day, when burned the world is.

Turning with his back on the sea Malik views the ruins of the small city & the remnants of his Iron Fist...the weight of the God's will is upon him, as he draws the statuette of Typhos from his side. Here, in this place of fire & conflict, the first temple to the Tyrant in an age shall be raised...seeing the Thralls herded by cracking whip & worg tooth, a small smile flickers across his scarred features, & a warmth spreads to his loins...

Much blood must be spilled, for the Tyrant to make his hand known. Many souls to fuel the Black Flame...

[Mr. X]

Even sitting in shadow of tainted Beluvah, your work progresses.

Thralls are rounded up by the hundreds... Blood is spilt, sacrifices are made, and the work of Typhos progresses.

But it is only your second day in holding when that night you are struck by a dream of such terrifying portent that you sit shrieking up in your bed...

... A great emptiness fills you... A great Warmaster has fallen before his time... You are struck by talons and fire, but then the boiling seas rise up to swallow and drown the whole of the world...

The portent is unmistakable, and leaping from your bed, you race onto the high tower of the stronghold, and look out over the bay of Beluvah...

... And you see the beast...

High over the city the Elder Wyrm circles... A number of the terrible Dragonspears protrude from it's scaly hide, but if they bother it, it is impossible to tell...

The creature lets out an ear piercing screech, and you see the blighted masses of goblins, scurrying terrified through the city's streets and alleyways like rats in a maze, pouring like water down the colossal Wormholes, and taking refuge wherever they think they can, as the Wyrm's shadow passes over them to alight upon the immense, cracked, golden dome of the Great Temple...

... The beast heaves a great breath, and, with an eruption of smoke and fire, proceeds to lay waste to the city...

...

... But then a figure appears upon a squat tower...

... Human, despite his Blighted affliction, bald headed, garbed in torn robes, and bound in lengths of heavy, writhing iron chains...

... He raises his hand, and the air splits with deafening thunder. The heavy clouds swirl over the city, flashing bright with webbed streaks of lightning...

... The Dragon's head snaps around, it's eyes narrowing upon the Shaman, as it takes once more to the sky and streaks towards the man, each one of its cruel talons a different death for your friend...

But at the last moment, Malthos swings his crystalline arm in a sweeping arc, and a great barrier appears before the diving beast...

... The Wyrm smashes into the barrier with such force that it drives the Shaman to his knees, and it is a wonder that the creature's neck remains unbroken...

... The earth trembles with the impact of the beast's fall, but it rises once more, pulling itself from the wreckage of the buildings beneath it to sink it's claws into Malthos' tower, and pull itself skyward once more...

... But the clouds have begun to shift... Numerous swirling cyclonic cones reach down from the sky, as a surge of power such as the world has never seen before washes off of Malthos...

You watch as his skin cracks and sloughs away under the pressure of the force, as the bases of the cyclonic clouds peal open to reveal awful, rolling eyes that peer down upon the city...

... Suddenly there is a brilliant flash of blazing purple light, so great that even you are blinded for a moment...

As your vision clears, you witness the Elder Wyrm... The divine wills of Bahumat and Tiamat made flesh...

... Reduced to a charred husk...

... It's wings torn and skeletal, it's scales ripped away, it's talons splintered and broken... It yet lives...

... In horrid agony, the carcass of the once majestic beast crawls away... Stumbling and falling, it pushes onwards, climbing over the city walls, and vanishing into the Northern forests...

Atop the tower, the man stands... Having driven off the beast, and prevented the Blight from being burnt out, and sent crawling back to the depths from which it came...

... He turns, and astonishingly, he looks directly at you...

... The intervening miles are nothing, and you feel his burning gaze piercing the depths of your black soul...

... And he smiles... Approvingly...

... He has seen your future, and seen that your every course ensures his victory...

... He turns, and is gone... Leaving you standing alone in the ripping, freezing wind.

[Bratovitch]

...

Long & longer still, Malik glares into the rising dawn. His single eye witnessing the garish & painful display of light that makes all the Mottled people hate the Morninglord.

He feels that hate now, a livid, hungry ache in his breast. Not fury, for that is the foolish way of the Orc: a cold, bitter, malevolence that guides all his steps.

Briefly, as the light of dawn crests the red-white guard hairs of his ears, he almost hears a voice...

"Hate makes a slave of him who wields it...to win over the blight, all must walk free..."

Yet the voice fails to penetrate his iron will...it's warmth cannot match the black fire in his heart.

So it is that the warmaster turns to flay yet another thrall, trading in blood, pain, & souls for the blasphemous power to prove the Blighted one gravely mistaken.

[Mr. X]

The following day passes in a flurry of blood and suffering...

Blood and souls, forged into the accoutrement of the War Master and his War Leaders.

Blood and souls, tortured and burned to sanctify the first Shrine of Typhos on this land...

Blood and souls... But through it all, the Blight-Man's smile, and the hated Morninglord's words in your ears...

...Hate makes a slave of he who wields it...

Heating your blood, and nearly casting you down the path of the Ork... Rage and fury boiling over.

But...

What shame in being a slave?

Gives purpose and direction where there would be none... From the lowliest labor thrall to the highest War Master...

... Were you not slave to Typhos, who would you be?

But the words still nag... Scratching maddeningly in the back of your head, and even more infuriatingly, they are spoken in your own voice, rather than that of the dawn-god... Heresy, that is...

... It comes as a blessing when, at evenfall on the second day, Luhix' worgs howl in the night, and the warhorn blast is picked up by those who understand...

... Dwarf blood has been scented.

[Bratovitch]

A line of spittle flies from Malik's yellowed teeth as he bellows;

ARMS! BATTLE UPON US IS!!!

As the warriors leap eagerly to their implements, an organized chaos, Malik strides purposefully among them. An eye in the storm, the War Master draws his taloned gauntlet across the stones, the screech exciting the warriors to battle.

Horns, drums, the whine of war horses, the clatter of armor, the howling of the Wargs...this, this is the crux of life as the Gods grant it.

The important Gods, anyway.

Reaching his own mount, the boy Jonah struggling to carry his falchion, the Maimblade mounts in a smooth, liquid motion.

The exultant voices of Hobgoblins rise to join the Wargs as they thunder out the gates:

Goblin:

"Ten heads to a one; the butchers work be done!
Throats cut, shields broken, skulls split:
A buggered dwarf not soon fights again!
Down the hole, in the field, across the road;
Kill their women, kill their Kin! Till none left to fight again!"

[Bratovitch]

Nothing...curse the dwarves to the black fires...

Not one to hold court, Malik sweeps into the grand hall once ruled by the Baron of Pinnacle Rock. Passing stained & broken banners taken from victories claimed thus far, his spiked talons drip fresh blood in a trail to the seat of office.

Flanked by his young War Leaders (not so older than he himself), he turns his mismatched gaze to the Oracle even now crouching beside her great beast.

What word bring you from the Wargs?

Lost the trail twould seem...

Luhix cackles uncontrollably for a long moment, doubling over to her knees as Kin-To Goblins leans against her waist. Grinning even still, she continiues;

Lost...a worker of earth, wind, & stone. Hazard him a dwarven Oracle of a sort, lost still & escaped he most like is.

Malik takes this news with even temper, only the already stained & shredded armrest of the Baron's chair betraying his thoughts...

Scout double we shall, & thralls set to twice-again shifts. A Warg punished will be, fed spiked chain till pulled from the other side. Luhix, pick a Warg for discipline you shall.

The great beast known as Kin-To-Goblins shows brindled hackles at this matter of fact decree, once again showing a keener wit than the average Warg, knowing more than a smattering of the Goblin speech. Yet it is his mistress, sleek in leather & warg fur, that laughs, now with derision, & openly defies the Warmaster.

Not one Warg punished such shall be.

The assembled warriors are still, showing nothing, yet the smell of fighting musk swiftly pervades the hall. Malik fixes the Worgmother with his glare, & after a moment speaks softly...

Thoughts you would speak, Oracle, while tongue you still have.

Luhix pushes herself up from the shoulder of her companion.

Not Goblin is the Warg heart. Understand not such things which the Warmaster speaks. Well enough for warriors, depart the whole of the Wargs would were such to happen. Oracle & Seer of the Iron Fist I am! No act taken by us will drive off wild spirits allied to our banner are.

Tension bleeds thick as all wait for the Warmaster to respond.

Malik frowns deeply, taloned hand continuing to shred the armrest. Eventually, he speaks;

See the wisdom of this course I do...spared the beasts shall be. Orders given are, carry out at once you shall.

With that, he departs back to the torture chamber...seemingly oblivious to the muttering among the assembled ranks...

Soon...soon Temple ready to receive you shall be...soon...

[Bratovitch]

In a secluded glade, Luhix Worgmother digs a small hole with her iron talon, placing a freshly plucked eyeball as if it were a planted seed.

Smoothing earth & blood stained snow over the offering, the Oracle offers a prayer to the Mother of Secrets...

Secret offer I do, in your name placed it is, Mother Night.

Her meditations are abruptly ended by the muzzle of her companion pressed heavily into her shoulder. Coming away from her trance, she sniffs the air, the scent on the wind telling her all she need know.

The flesh fires have ceased. The forging of souls has ended. The War Master will ride...

Rising from the snow swept glade, she sees the host exiting the northern gate, wearing the colors of the slaver band the Iron Fist had crushed previously...clever, clever Malik.

Kin-to-Goblins watched with interest, ears forward & tongue lolling. With difficulty, the mighty Worg speaks goblin;

Man-Flesh...hunt...will?

Time yet is not, most beloved, soon time will be...unto heart of thrall-kingdom will strike the War Master...& then...then...

A fit of cackling laughter assaults her, doubling over her frail, wrecked body...when she recovers, it is with a gleam of divine madness in her eye...

Join on four legs, with you I shall...in wildness, join we all shall...

[Bratovitch]

The attack on Silverlake

Forces: 10 Hobgoblins, 10 Human Warriors, 18 Labor Thralls, 4 Ox drawn wagons, 7 Worgs

The Hobgoblins are mounted on Heavy Warhorse. All warriors are wearing the colors of one of the slaver bands we destroyed.

Hobgoblins are split into 2 Talons. One will be lead by Korum Strongarm, the other by Gamesh Skysplitter. Korum's Talon will unveil the banner & operate as a vanguard during the assault, while Gamesh will oversee the wagons, thralls, & the raid itself.

Human Warriors & Thralls will be on the wagons. They do not have horses. There are just enough thralls in the front & back of the wagons to make it appear we are loaded with slaves. All slaves are bound & have canvas sacks over their heads. In fact, the "thralls" in the middle of the wagons are staw dummies treated with wax & parrafin: in effect, human torches.

The worgs serve a scouting function only, & will not be involved in the attack.

The plan: We will ride up in disguise, seemingly loaded with thralls. We will use this ploy to get as close as possible. If discovered or if successfully penetrating the city, we will raise the banner, with Korum's Talon raising the banner & killing indiscriminately. Gamesh will see his talon defending the wagons, while thralls will unload the torches, using them to set fire & cause chaos. After resistance has been dealt with, the city will be looted for supplies/food/gold which will be loaded in the wagons.

We have intelligence gained from our merchant contact where these supplies are located & how they are guarded. He is in the dungeon, waiting to see if his information proved true or not. Ramyll Spearbreaker is in command back at the Rock, with orders to secure himself in the temple with the remaining warriors if a slave revolt begins. In such a case, Luhix has been given free reign to loose her pets on the entire Thrall populace as she desires.

Malik will personally oversee the attack, adding his strength where necessary.

[Mr. X]

Now in the dead of winter, the road from Pinnacle Rock to Silverlake can hardly be called a road at all...

... Little more than a game trail in the best of times, it winds absently through the thick trees, and steeply up the mountainsides.

Obscured almost completely from the heavy snows, you must rely heavily upon your wargs just to keep the road in front of you, and you waste many hours each day keeping your wagons free from sinkholes and grasping roots, or even to keep them from simply sliding back down the mountain.

Three of your horses break their legs over the course, and must be slaughtered for meat.

In the bitter cold, the bare skinned manlings suffer worse than your soft pelted goblinkin. Though they work to exhaustion, urged to greater heights by your whips, you note that many of their fingers and toes are beginning to turn black...

It takes you over a week to crest the final ridge, and look down into the vale of Silverlake.

Thirty miles down the road picks its way to the shore, where sits a haggard log cabin, a rickety dock, and a wide barge.

The town of Silverlake can be seen nestled on the shore of the far side of the lake. The surface of the lake is like a wide open plane. Frozen over, and coated with a nearly completely undisturbed layer of snow.

[Bratovitch]

Pulling back the hood of his cloak in the icy wind, Malik consults the map penned by the merchant Kalim Palc for reference. Numbers, granaries, pathways...Kalim promised heartily that all would be clear...

[Mr. X]

Eyeing the merchant's steady hand, you see the barge house marked on the map, as well as a path around the lake.

He did mention that you could pay the barge-man a gold piece to take you across the lake, or you could drive the carts around the edge. He stated that the southern routes don't get much care, as Silverlake does most its business directly with Black Harbour. It is typically only the odd band of raiders that takes the route you're on.

Looking up, you can see that the forest grows thick and close to the water's edge... If that path is anything like the one you've just come up, it is doubtless both narrow and treacherous. And seeing as you will have to pass the barge-man's house regardless, you might as well just take the ride.

The barge is easily wide enough to fit your wagons. Though in this weather, you might be able to simply drive them across the frozen surface of the lake... You might need to regardless.

[Bratovitch]

Selecting one of the stouter battle thralls, Malik takes him aside to the ridge.

Yonder gateway, our path is. To the oarmaster, speak as slaver you will, taking wagons across. With you a talon of Iron Fist shall lie concealed. Do this thing, & favor you will earn...fail in this thing, favor you will beg.

Pulling a handful of glittering gold coins, he presses them into the mans hand. As he does so, a flickering black radiance envelopes the talon of the Warmaster...

Ignoring the startled struggling, Malik maintains his grasp on the coins held in the mans hand, head cocking to one side as he look into the soldiers eyes...

Casting cure minor wounds & endure cold. Can make an Intimidate check if you like.

Organizing his beleaguered forces, Malik gathers the bulk of his forces to try the ferry. He himself will take the Worgs & skirt the lake perimeter, just in case the town has been alerted & has a trap ready. When Malik gives the signal, the war party will cross on the ferry, not before.

As the Worgs set forth in single file, breaking the thick snow drifts, Malik sets off after them on his charger...none would realize that the shiver in his spine is not due the cold...

Not to be fooled, he is...not again...

[Mr. X]

The man shies from the sooty miasma, but grits his teeth and accepts the blessing.

"You shall not be disappointed, oh Lord."

----------

Alone with the wargs you cut through the forest at a prodigious pace, able to weave around and leap over obstacles that would bring the caravan to a grinding halt.

You have soon, you have nearly lost sight of the barge-house in the distance, as you approach the outskirts of the town, and climb a the embankment, and then a tree, to acquire a commanding view of the locale.

Silverlake, as Kalim Palc told you, is less named for the serene lake it sits upon, so much as it is for the rich vein of silver that runs through this secluded vale. Clearly a mining shanty town, the population is doubtless made up primarily of slaves, likely outnumbering their masters a hundred or more to one.

From your vantage, it is clear that something is amiss... Many of the buildings are burnt out husks, and large troops of soldiers bearing what you presume to be the colors of Black Harbour owners heavily patrol the streets, and the newly fortified gates and walls.

At a guess, this appears to be a recent development... Likely within the last week, and well after your conquest of Pinnacle Rock.

....

Below, a Warg howls, signaling the approach of someone on your location... A messenger from the Skysplitter.

[Bratovitch]

Curses...

Malik growls in frustrated rage, & awaits what must be more vile news...

Spit on your vision, I do, Blight Creature. Swept by fire your kind will be...ALL will be...

[Mr. X]

It is with two of the wargs now flanking him, that the messenger rides up.

"News there is, Warmaster!" He says, dismounting.

"Papers of 'license' the oar-master requested. A lie, made good, the battle-thrall did. Claimed to possess papers he did, but refused to show to any but proper slave-master. Demanded crossing under threat of maiming the battle-thrall did, and cowed the oar-master was."

He flicks his ears in the cold,

"But new rule, the oar-master claims this is. Suffered recent attack the town did... A slave uprising, instigated by a renegade, Quickblade called. Infiltrated town under guise of slaver, claims he did. Now papers needed to town enter."

He snaps his teeth,

"But new slaves need, town does. Many escaped, many killed. Mine production slowed, so slaves value high here now."

He glances back across the lake, were you can now see the barge beginning to make slow progress, cracking its path through the thin ice, and revealing wisps of steam rising of the uncovered water.

"Continue with plan, Korum does, but met by guard on dock will be. The Skysplitter yet awaits your command. What orders, Warmaster?"


The dock is well within the town's limits. The town is walled by a newly built, fire-hardened, wooden palisade, presumably with gates at variable intervals. The shoreline path eventually reaches the closest of these gates, which is well guarded.

[Bratovitch]

Malik takes this in stride...

Heh...hehe..AHHAHAH!!

Clapping the warrior's back, Malik pulls him in conspiratorially.

Favor yet with us is! Skysplitter follow this path will, assault the gates as one. Seize the ferry, we shall, then wagons & thralls shall we return for. Left behind for now, they'll be. Quickly, upon us, battle nearly is!

A feral grin splits his face, a rare & unwholesome site to his mismatched visage.

By Iron Fist or none, war & battle won...

[Mr. X]

The messenger gallops off back down the path, as you set off toward the city gate.

Near fifty yards from the palisade the forest has been cleared, no doubt to furnish materials for the palisade, as well as to deprive cover from any who would approach. You will not be able to approach the gate unseen.

The outside of the palisade is patrolled regularly by groups of ten guards, armored in exquisitely crafted fur lined breastplates and helms, and armed with shields, pikes and shortswords.

The gate stands open, and is manned by five similarly armed guards without. Two towers flank it, each manned by two armored crossbowmen, and a wooden portcullis hangs suspended in a frame over it. A brass bell hangs in each tower, and doubtless behind the gate as well.

Opening the pit in your missing eye, you are aghast at the wash of magic that surrounds the guards. Never before have you seen such a collection of enchanted items, and these upon lowly patrolmen! Their Armors, helms, weapons, jewelry, lo, even their quivers of bolts, resonate with imbued power.


Your move.

[Bratovitch]

When the ferry is close, when the Skysplitter is on the march, Malik Maimblade opens the assault.

Alone, sword as yet undrawn, he stirs his warhorse towards the gate. At a trot, pushing through the drifts...all the time in the world.

[Mr. X]

As you approach, the archers snap to attention, and their bolts train professionally onto you. One of the guards steps forward cleanly in the field of fire from the towers, and raises a hand.

"HOLD!" he shouts to you.

[Bratovitch]

Stopping in the snow, his horse chuffing plumes of steam, the hooded figure stops as commanded.

[Mr. X]

"Silverlake is currently under a state of quarantine. If are an appointed representative of a vested household, I must inspect your pass. If you are not, I must order you to depart these lands at once."

[Bratovitch]

Shaking back his cloak, Malik's lupine ears test the wind. He sniffs the air, then bellows a proclamation;

MET WELL, MAN-KIN! THRALL TRADE NORTH BRINGS WE OF CRIMSON BANNER. OF LOST BELUVAH WE OWN, IN THOUSANDS. LORD WHOM WOULD TRADE, WOULD I, OR ON TO BLACK HARBOUR RIDE WE DO!

[Mr. X]

The guard raises his eyebrows, and takes a step back.

"Just a moment, if you please sir."

Touching the ring on his finger, he whispers something inaudible, before speaking again.

"I'll need to ask you to wait for a few minutes, sir."

...

... As the moments tick by, you can feel the barge inching ever closer... Time is of the essence.


The ring is clearly enchanted (Like the rest of his gear). Perhaps something to convey a whisper upon the wind.

[Bratovitch]

Malik waits, content with all things, the terrible smile never leaving him;

Let perish the Strongarm as distraction, shame erased forever be

Looking at the pitiful slave soldiers, the Maimblade finds his maleness stiffening below his tunic...

Flames, Pain, Skinned, Burn, Butchered...look man-thing: Typhos's Iron Hand, upon you is...The God & The Maimblade...by hate alone, drive you out of this world we would

[Mr. X]

Scene Shift (Korum to the front)

The tension of pre-battle builds in you, and among the battle-Thralls as the barge crawls across the lake. The oar-master and his two oarsmen using spiked poles to break through the deceptively thin ice, and push the barge forward at a snail's pace...

"More'n one fool has drowned in this lake tryin' te drive wagonloads across the ice." the oar-master states as he works. "Ye wouldnae know it te look on it, but this whole bloody pool is born o' a great bunch o' boilin' hot springs deep below. The water cools off on the surface an' by the shores, but ev'n in weather as bitter as this, I ne're seen it freeze solid."

[Bratovitch]

Korum Strongarm nudges the human doing the talking...

Er...yes, that's all well & good elder, but I'd have words with the magistrate of this "papers" nonsense...while I am new to command after Jorah was lost, Gods rest em, the Scarred Hand is a band of honorable brigands well known from Black Harbor to Beluvah. Independent slavers such as we cannot be bothered while afield, what with the great bounty had of late...

Korum smiles behind his warmask. The words taken from the slavers tumble easily from the thrall...none hold their tongye long against Malik.

Noseblind & nightblind humans are. Even Orc tumbled the scheme, would have...fit for thralls, if that even...

Turning imperceptibly, he glances at the Warrior who will carry the Tower Shield & War Banner....

Victory here, Warlord shall Korum become...Warlord Korum Strongarm.

Half listening to the humans prattle, they carry on...